Amid the sudden, startling, verdant vivacity of a Stockport Springtime, the half-square mile expanse of Brookfield Road Allotment Site bathes under clear blue skies unimaginable during the seems-like-yesterday frost-age. Successive visits to Plot Seventy One- some of them snatched before teatime or in between visits by the plumber to attend to a dripping kitchen tap, others drawn-out over the luxury of a day’s annual leave miraculously undisturbed by domestic or familial obligation- are driven by one concern: the construction and maintenance of erections designed to prop up the gangly stalks of a greengrocerstall’s worth of crops sun-shocked into vulnerable adolescence, and/or protect their juicy exposed outerparts from the mortal Maytime threat posed by ground- and air- based predators.
It’s more or less a full-time job, which should rightfully be approached with advance structured planning informed by thorough and conscientious research, but which (much like my actual fulltime job) I am instead choosing to bumble my way through quite haphazardly as I go along- winging it, basically. The results are predictably variable, but so far major calamity has been averted. A project report for my imaginary Plot Seventy-One boss would read as follows:
Peas. Reflection on my hitherto 100% record of pea-based failure dating back to the early part of the present century caused me to approach with trepidation the prospect of cultivating to anything near edibility the trayful of just-formed stringy juvenile plantlets pressed upon me back in March by the bloke-whose-name-I-can-never-remember-you-know-the-one-with-the-alsatian-and-the-moustache (TBWNICNRYKTOWTAATM). They’re holding up well, though, the hardy little blighters. Protection was initially achieved via a curved roof of netting draped over children’s pound-shop hula-hoops in pleasing primary shades. Over the past week their threat level from the allotment pigeon has been reduced from red to amber, leading to lifting of the netting and the binding of each growing stalk in open-air to whatever supportive item I could lay my hands on- so, a mixture of twigs sourced from storm-bashed neighbourhood trees, bamboo canes of varying height plundered from distant parts of the plot, and a sheet of plastic meshing found behind the old site shop under a rusty wheelbarrow. The overall aesthetic effect when viewed from above is reminiscent of a Brazilian shantytown, and I’m quite pleased by it. TBWNICNRYKTOWTAATM, who has passed the shantytown on various occasions since its erection, has so far declined to pass comment.
Rating for the PEAS regarding their prospects of surviving to the dinnerplate in respectable numbers: 3 out of 5.
Strawberries. Two healthy-looking plants were brought back from that hidden suburban gem the Chorlton Nursery a couple of weeks ago, and transported directly to Plot Seventy-One where in rare excursion into careful forward preparation a suitable receptacle awaited their arrival, in the form of a bulky wooden crate donated a year ago by the Brummie bloke with the van two plots down. This vessel has been filled with a mixture of soil dug up from a nearby bed, B and Q compost and woodchip, and the young plants snugly embedded on the top, before being overlaid with the netting liberated by the recent risk-reduction pertaining to the peas (see above). This was just a week ago, and since then the very buds of a couple of actual fruit have formed on each of the plants, with neither of these showing signs of attempted devourment by pests. So far- so good.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the STRAWBERRIES: 4 out of 5.
Courgettes. Two floppy-leaved fellows, also brought home from the homegrown M21 retail outlet, are just embarking on the growth journey that will hopefully see them by Autumn cover the entire mid-sized bed cleared for the purposes of their mazy wanderings. As of last week, they’ve grown hardy-looking enough for the removal of their erstwhile protection from frost and birdlife, hitherto afforded by a matching pair of corner-shop-display-fridge-doors, found abandoned by the toiletblock,and brought to the bed to be leant upturned-V-shape against each other forming a makeshift coldframe. Confidence is thereby inspired as to their prospects, but an overly bullish view should be balanced by this vegetable’s need for a long summer of sunshine to be assured of eventual healthy crop.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the COURGETTES: 3 out of 5.
Lettuces. Just the four of them, iceberg variety , snapped up at the site plant sale for a quid the lot on Saturday morning, possibly against my better judgement considering their famed delicacy-status among your men the slugs. Against which downcast reflection may be weighed the counter-observation that your men the slugs seem (so far this season anyway) largely conspicuous only by their absence. Protection-wise: bugger all as far as slugs are concerned (I might get a hold of some organic pellets, if the newly-restocked site shop has any, and is ever open, neither of which are exactly racing certainties). But if any pigeons were interested on the other hand, they should be adequately deterred by netting held down by bricks, and draped over a skeleton formed by a pair of rusty hinged metal frames of uncertain provenance (bar-stools, maybe?) rescued from a recent communal bonfire.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the LETTUCES: 2 out of 5
Beans. Just planted yesterday, Jack-and-his-actual-freaking-beanstalk style, at the foot of an actually-not-particularly-haphazardly-put-together wigwamesque construction fabricated using long bamboo canes and garden twine. This will give our altitude-loving ‘Blue Lakes’ the best possible sporting chance support-wise, but as for protection against the pigeons (I think it’s the pigeons we need to worry about) during the days immediately following their imminent emergence air-side of the clod- well it’s anyone’s guess, based on varying historical experience. On the plus side, I’ve got a back-up stock of plants quietly gathering strength in the comparative safety of the backyard wardrobe-greenhouse, ready to step up to the front should their cousins submit to late-Spring slaughter gruesomely reminiscent of Paschendale.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the BEANS: 3 out of 5
Sweetcorn. An entirely unknown quantity, given that I’ve never even attempted to grow this vegetable (it’s a vegetable, right?) previously, and am only doing so because the woman on the next door plot (the one behind the compost bin, with all the pretty, frilly sweet-pea trellices) shoved a score of them into my arms quite unbidden one Sunday afternoon a month or so ago. ‘Plant them in a grid, four by five’ was the advice, which I duly followed, adding- actually no protection as yet, although a careful watching brief is being adopted with a view to attaching each to a bamboo cane when they reach the height of- well, whatever height sweetcorn plants reach before looking like they might topple unaided- a foot, three foot, twelve yards? Maybe I’ll bring the stepladders down from the backyard, just in case.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the SWEETCORN. Frankly no idea. But for form’s sake we’ll go with… 2 out of 5.
Potatoes, onions, leeks. A substantial enough bedful of each, benefitting from no protection whatsoever, given their well-earned reputation for hardiness and self-sufficiency. The Irish in me says give them the odd weeding and plenty of water during the dry spells, otherwise let them run their course. And I didn’t get to where I am today by not paying heed of the Irish in me, hell no.
Dinnerplate prospect rating for the POTATOES, ONIONS, and LEEKS: 5 out of 5.
And that concludes the half-term status report for Plot Seventy-One. Hope it’s whetted the appetite for your lunch/ tea/breakfast/whatever and that your own personal dinnerplate prospects are above the seasonal average. More updates- to come, forthwith and withforth. In the meantime, it is suddenly past lunchtime on this particular long-toiled for day of annual leave, and this gardener has got to get ready for some gardening leave, in the form of a camping adventure with fellow happy-campers Frankie and Charlotte, in the windy outposts of Wales- so until this coming Sunday the crops- protected or not- will have to fend for themselves. Wish me, and us, and them luck along the way there, won’t you?
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