I had been secretly wanting an allotment for a while, not very rock and roll I know, due to the retired old man wearing a flat cap stigma attached to it, but itās something I really hoped would become a reality one day and now I donāt care who knows or what people think.
We moved to a lovely Victorian house about 4 years ago. Itās on your average suburban town road, not a huge garden but with the added bonus of a big allotment situated about a 20 second walk away from the front door. I had no idea who to speak to about renting a plot and just presumed that there wouldnāt be one available. After numerous failed searches on the internet, I gave up, deciding to put my eager green thumbs to good use in the garden we did have, filling it with terracotta pots with as many scented geraniums and herbs as we could fit in it.
It was December 2015 when I thought, what the hell, lām going to see how I can go about getting an allotment plot. After lots of searching on the local council website, I found a name and address of someone who might be able to help, so with the old adage, ānothing ventured, nothing gainedā, I did a very British thing and I wrote a letter, took it straight to the post office and hoped for the best.
Christmas and New Year came and went with no response or acknowledgement to my letter. January was a complete blur, weeks passing by so quickly, but it was the beginning of February I got āThe Phone Callā. As I listened to my voice mail message from John, asking if I was free to come and meet him at the allotments the next day, I could feel a big grin starting to grow across my face. I called him straight back and arranged to meet him at 9am the next morning to have a chat and to see my plot. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, what has happened to me, Iām 35 and getting excited about having my very own allotment?! Ā That evening, I took straight to the internet and with iPad in hand, I did some research into what I had let myself in for and to make a start on my all important, āTo Do Listā.
The next morning, I got up, had a coffee and started out on my 20 second commute to the allotment. I had walked and driven passed this place more times than I can remember but this time, Iām one of the lucky few who gets to open the big wooden gate and go in.
John came to meet me at the gate. He looked like your stereotypical allotment going man, retirement age, grey hair and with the look of someone who was born with the knowledge of exactly how to grow his own fruit and vegetables programmed genetically into his DNA. John was really friendly, welcoming and encouraging, we chatted as we made our way through the site, walking passed lovely, well kept, established, freshly dug over plots. We ended up at a huge, over grown plot, with tree stumps, over grown bushes with what seemed to be hundreds of Bluebells growing, it looked like it hadnāt been used for years. I donāt really know how big I thought it might be in my head. To be honest, I tried not to imagine it to be too big so I wasnāt really disappointed when I finally got to see it and it was the size of a postage stamp!
John reliably informs me the size of the plot is ā10 sticksā, (something I nod along to pretending I know what he means and that I normally measure everything in āsticksā). Ā The cost of it, John continues, is Ā£30, (as I start working out in my head how much that works out a year at Ā£30 a month, breaking it down into how much that would be weekly and daily, trying to convince myself the price isnāt too bad really is it?!). John continues, āso, thatās Ā£30 for the year if thatās ok?ā. I couldnāt believe how cheap it was! I gave John all my details, was given the secret code to the combination lock on entrance gate and we said our good byes.
That was that, my allotment adventure had begun and I couldnāt wait to get started.
Books on growing vegetables and fruit ordered and my gardening tools taken out of storage.
Let the back breaking work beginā¦ā¦ā¦ā¦..!