Allotment Diary: 29 and 30 June

Saturday 29 June

A record continent-wide heatwave has closed schools across France, set great swathes of Catalonia ablaze, and caused a man in Brandenburg, Northern Germany, to be arrested for riding his moped naked along the Autobahn. In Stockport, Northern England, the vegetables are looking thirsty. I head down to Plot Seventy-One after breakfast, for a marathon watering session.

I’m half an hour in when the big Scouse builder-type bloke from the far corner plots away by the semidetached houses lurches into the communal tap area, an empty watering can in each hand.

‘You want to use two, mate’.

‘What’s that?

‘Use two cans, mate. Cut down your journey times. Unless you want the exercise, that is’

‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Got two arms after all. Might as well use them, eh?’

Shooting me a quizzical glance in response to what he clearly considers an unnecessary outbreak of anatomy-based repartee on my part, the big Scouse builder- type bloke turns on his hobnailed boots and lumbers back towards the far corner plots away by the semi-detached houses, a newly-filled plastic vessel swaying under each of his tattooed builder-grade girder-arms. I head to the general shed area and get myself an additional bucket. As soon as he’s out of sight though, I’m straight back to the one-watering-can system. If he shoots me another of those quizzical glances when we next coincide, I tell myself, I’ll say the exercise is doing me good, and/or that two containers are heavy to carry (what with my skinny non-builder-grade arms). The truth is though, I just like the mindless back-and-forth rhythm the session has easily fallen into, and could quite happily remain in its cloudless embrace until teatime. Plot to tap. Fill the can. Tap to plot. Empty the can. Repeat.

On the way out, I happen across Pat-or-Chris, whichever of those the male component of Pat-and-Chris-from-Plot-8A is called (plotholder opinion being divided on the matter, I have found). He’s been on the gin and tonics on his shed-front patio all afternoon, and is, as usual, half-pissed.

‘Four hours of bloody watering those plants, I’m knackered. Might call into the Jolly and water myself now. With a pint’.

‘You won’t. It’s closed’

‘What?’

‘Indian Wedding. All day, all night. Got a double-decker bus hired, and all sorts. Seen them coming in’.

‘Bloody hell. They’ve only just refurbished it, and all. Must be the ones who drink, or it’d cost them a fortune to close up.’

‘Hell aye. I went to a Sikh wedding myself one time. In Nottingham. Bloody carnage, it was. Went on for four days. I got bladdered on vodka the first afternoon and woke up by the canal’.

Presently, I peer through the front windows of the Jolly Sailor. It’s a wedding all right, but about the least Indian scene you could imagine, even in Stockport: wall to wall bleached-blond/blonde estate agent-types knocking back prosecco out of flute glasses to an 80s disco backbeat. Later on, I find out from a more reliable source (Charlotte) that the bride is the daughter of the Jolly’s new landlord- hence the possibly non-financially-justifiable temporary closure to the public of the public house. Which does make a lot more sense (economically, socioculturally) than a bus-load of guys in turbans swigging 40%-proof spirits straight from the bottle. Certainly in that particular beergarden.

Sunday 30 June

The heatwave has subsided, slightly. Arriving at Plot Seventy-One with the intention of a light spell of weeding, I end up spending three hours energetically harvesting the nearest-to-the-compost-bin end of the Iberian Pensinsula-shaped potato patch. On the way back home, I see The Jolly is open again. I consider popping in for a swift pre-teatime sharpener, but think better of it. It’s a bit on the early side, even if I have got Monday off. And while there might not actually be a sign on the door expressly forbidding entrance to shambolic-looking Geordies in ragged, mud-spattered jeans, carting rusty wheelbarrows full of newly-unearthed Duke of Yorks, I’m fairly sure eyebrows would be raised at the bar. I might just come back later on for one, I tell myself. After dinner. When I’ve got a shirt on.