
Little shelves and tool racks
Back in June, when my 87-year-old Dad got his allotment, we were already at the fag end of the growing season.
By the time letters about cutting down trees had been sent and answered; by the time the shed was up and customised with little shelves and toolracks, it was even later.
Neighbouring newbie allotmenteers decided it was too late, and restricted themselves to clearance.
Others went at it like crazy and got their plots geometrically planted up inside a few weeks.
Our approach fell somewhere in between, not that we’d planned that. Some might say it was characterised by indecision and disorganization. I prefer the word ‘organic’.

Clearance
I’d feared from the outset that progress would be hampered by Dad’s and my ‘artistic differences’. We did agree on one thing, though: keeping the fruit bushes.
We kept them because we liked redcurrants and blackcurrants. But we also liked the fact that they took up a third of the allotment. The shed is another winner in this respect, as is the tree, the tree stump and the bench. We’re planning a compost heap and water butt and it seems reasonable to leave a ring of grass and weeds around the bushes, because it’s a bit like a path.
But that still leaves a heck of a lot of space for growing things.
And this is where our tricky moments have come in. Just when we’d agreed (or so I thought) to clear methodically and plant up cleared areas as we went along, Dad slipped down with 30 seed potatoes and planted them any which way along the back fence. ‘I thought it would be good to get something into the ground. I mean, what have we got to lose?’
Armed with friends, I dug over a neat side strip. We pulled out miles of gnarled nettle root, like unravelling a vast underground yellow jumper. We levelled a big mound the size and shape of a grave. I planted onion, spinach, cabbage, kale and turnip (as the time of year dictated) and fenced each crop in, in little prisoner-of-war camps.
The allotment began to make sense. Then Dad went down on another seed potato sortie and planted 60 in ‘a big area near the front.’
One thing I’m beginning to realise though: it doesn’t matter. Planting areas don’t have to be rectangular. They can be oval or kidney shaped. Or blob-shaped with bits sticking out the side. Because allotments are massive things. There is room on them, even for two people related to each other.

The Terminator
And sometimes, an area no bigger than a grave yields more produce than three people can reasonably be expected to eat. I’m talking about spinach.
Onions may fail to thrive (I put them in too late), cabbage seedlings may disappear overnight (did I dream them?), pinpricks of light like stars may decorate turnip leaves, but spinach goes on and on like the Terminator. Picking it is like a task in a fairy tale: the more you take, the more there is next time.
Mr Mandy Sutter and I ate greens all August. Dad doesn’t care for spinach. ‘It all goes into a mulch, doesn’t it?’ Nor curly kale, which ‘you can’t get out of your mouth.’ Kale is our second most successful crop, though way behind spinach. Think Scunthorpe United compared to Man United (sorry, Mr MS).
So Dad hasn’t eaten much yet, though his services will be called in big-time when the vast potato crop comes in, as neither Mr MS nor I are big potato eaters (‘bad carbs’, don’t you know).
But produce isn’t the main draw of the allotment. ‘Reckon I’ve spent two hundred quid on the bloody thing now,’ says Dad. ‘And what have we had back: a few quids’ worth of greens? But then, that’s not the point, is it?”
So what is the point?
Perhaps it’s the resident robin who sits on a spade handle, carefully eyeing the scene.

Eyeing the scene
Perhaps it’s the satisfaction when a nettle root finally comes up and sends you staggering back into brambles.
Perhaps it’s the narcotic scent of the soil as you kneel pricking out turnip seedlings.
Perhaps it’s the fear in friends’ eyes as you press yet another bag of spinach into their hands.
I don’t really know. But whatever it is, we’re up to our necks in it.
I LOVE spinach, Mandy – so u can always offload plenty onto me… and potatoes!
Great descrip of the nettle roots as unravelled yellow jumper – ACE!
Love, Char x
For me, it’s not gifts of spinach, but gifts of jam that I fear. You always have to look so impressed, grateful and enthusiastic. More than the actual pleasure of jam calls for, in my book. But refusing home-made jam is probably just about the rudest thing you can do to a jam-maker-and-giver. Now there’s a thought for some sport…
Aah, ‘organic’ … yep, a very handy euphemistic word, useful for all sorts of situations.
Thanks as ever for an entertaining blog, Mandy. I’ve just read it during a break from knitting my latest strange creation, which is – quite eerily – in a spinachy-kinda shade of green. I think you should bring all your various long unravelled roots along to the festival – who knows what we might rustle up between events? natty turnip tablecloths for the Playhouse cafe … could be a niche market.
Or not.
Mandy, it’s probably best that you don’t try to emulate those straight-row, square-lot gardening types. I’ve always suspected them of something sinister. Perhaps if you watch closely, you’ll figure out what. Another great blog!
Delicious – in every way!
Potatoes – nothing wrong with them! Wish I was closer – I would take a few off your hands!
Hey Mandy, I ADORE spinach too! I’ll be knocking on your door very soon…
The point is….(and Mr MS will have something to say on this I’m sure..) the point is….life..very messy and jumbled it is,unravelling like a whole snaggle of stinging sweaters and prickly blackberry shirts…it’s those twinkly turnip pinpricks of light tho, which keep us digging against the marauding rabbits and slugs and leaf gnawing creatures, and so what if curly cale tastes rubbery and potatoes are bad carbs(it’s day one of my amazing new diet, by the way!!) life has pushed through and (drum roll)your creations have survived!(clash of cymbals!) Hooray for reluctant gardeners!
lotsa love,Liz x
Hi Mandy. What your Dad does is called “Irish gardening” in my clan. What that means is hey, there’s stuff everywhere!
Oh… and further… potatoes – just can’t classify them as bad carbs. In fact they are of the genus Tuberi Virtuosi… having as they do three times the potassium of your banana.
Of course, in defense of the banana, it is generally not heaped with butter or sour cream or such things — with the exception of Bananas Foster, which amounts to sauteeing the suckers in brown sugar and butter and rum, flaming them, and topping it off with Zillion Percent Cream Ice Cream. Never mind.
Makes a potato look pretty modest by comparison, I think. But perhaps we digress to apples and oranges wayyy to quickly, hey?
Kale likewise is among the Virtue Foods (snip it in fine strips and stir fry it with almonds and chicken (or tofu) and sesame oil and Middle Eastern spices, or just float the strips in homemade chicken soup with some egg flower for texture.
Oh, never mind. Just bring some produce over and I’ll cook some up for you. Object in fry pan much tastier than it appears.
In any case, fear not. You have many winter days with a can of sterno, tea, and a rum bottle to look forward to, there in the shed.
And in closing, remember… that spinach might have been Nasty Turtiums. (Delicious with arugula and blueberries, BTW).
Happy Garden Catalog Season. K
I don’t understand how spinach ever became something you cooked. It’s delicious raw, but it makes as little sense to boil it as it does to boil bread.
I like the pink watering cans – very camp!
Char, I may take you up on that. Tamsin, you did make me laugh re the jam. And wonder if I’d ever given you any. I think there was some chutney, once… Glynis, I didn’t know you were a knitter. If the green jumper goes wrong, there’s a scarecrow waiting (green is just her colour). Cindy and Ange, thank you! Rebecca, Liz and Kathy, you rightly upbraid me for being a potato-knocker. I’m sure it’s different with home grown ones anyway. That soup sounds gorgeous.
I’ll swap you some spinach for some beetroot .
Only grew it in tubs / troughs & seem to have a glut. Co-op had pickling vinegar on ” buy one get one free ” so going to spend a jolly weekend doing something I’ve never done before ( or probably again ) + have NO idea how to actually do it to then present a variety of friends & family with said wondrous condiment. If ANY of the ungrateful b…..s look scared or not eternally grateful they may find themselves wearing it .
Thanks for yet another great blog – hilarious as ever.
Hi Mandy
love the nettle roots unravelling like an underground yellow jumper and the narcotic smell of the soil – really takes me there. If your Dad would eat 2 or 3 leaves of raw spinach a day it could be a fantastic tonic. Apparently green leaves and especially spinach help prevent macular degeneration of the eyes + boost other rejuvenating stuff. I keep meaning to practice what I preach and eat some myself but the supermarket stuff has had the life knocked out of it.
Love
Gail
Hi Mandy,
love your blog. I’m a big spud lover and thank goodness because I have got a diet/fight depression book entitled “Potatoes not Prozac.” It’s an interesting read and nearly as fummy as your blog, but not supposed to be.
love jo
Looby, boiled bread – now you’re talking. Charmaine, good luck. Mind the splashes! Gail, your tale of spinach and eyesight puts me in mind of the rumour the Brits put about during WWII about carrots. But I have to admit Popeye was pretty ripped. Jo, what a great book title: it says it all. Almost unneccessary to read the book, after that.
Mandy – I’m sure you’re very right about the therapeutic value of gardening. I thought the Scunthorpe United reference was seamlessly introduced. Can we have more of this kind of thing? – I wonder whether you are inspiring a whole trend of vegetable planting?
“Because allotments are massive things. There is room on them, even for two people related to each other.”
Ha ha – nice x
Hi Pete and Caroline! Thanks for your comments.
As it happens, Scunthorpe Utd are actually playing Man Utd tonight (Kale vs Spinach).
It’s strange how therapeutic gardening is, when in theory it’s also very frustrating. I really do wonder if there’s some feel-good hormone in the soil, like the ones that make us fall in love, enjoy food and adore babies, hamsters etc.
Hi Mandy, Glad you are enjoying Steeleye, I’ve discovered Tam Lin which I don’t think I’ve ever played before.
Sorry for digressing, your blog reminded me of our family allotment my dad took on when he retired. It was de rigeur to grow stuff in straight lines in those days or the old geezers used to nag you. I remember death by green beans. We had to buy a new freezer to put them all in. I also remember happy hours picking elderberries and damsons for wine, and unhappy hours recovering from the vilest of hangovers!
Happy days, now I’m confined to my small patch where everything is crammed in together. One rogue kale plant came up which I didn’t plant and I fried it to a crisp with some salt like chinese seaweed. Fantastically unhealthy but balanced out by the virtuous eating of spinach.
Jenny x
Hi Jenny, great to hear from you. That’s really interesting to hear about the straight lines of yore. I wonder what the thinking behind that was? And the kale fried with salt sounds absolutely divine! We have some black kale which looks even more like seaweed than the curly kale, so I’ll try it with that.
Enough room ‘even for two people related to each other’ – great! C x
🙂