Mandy Sutter, Writer

I find fresh mounds of finely churned soil every time I visit our allotment, as if a tiny phantom rotovator is on the loose.

Composting is a complex business. When we whipped the plastic tarp off our heap this Spring, the whole thing was as dry as a crust. To worms and beetles visiting for their winter holidays, it must have been a bitter disappointment, like arriving at a half-built hotel.

When I mention the allotment to friends, they often say ‘how rewarding, eating your own veg! And all that fresh air you get.’

These friends aren’t allotment-holders. The ones that are raise their eyebrows and silently clasp my shoulder to express their sympathy at this difficult time of year.

Regular readers may remember the story of thwarted allotment lovers Harry and the Lady of Shallot.

Imagine my horror when, visiting the allotments yesterday, I discovered that the star-cross’d lovers have suffered yet another cruel setback.

A post from 2017 in memory of my Dad… Wanting an allotment bench, I enrol on a woodwork course. Making furniture is in my blood of course. Dad and his Dad before him made all the tables, chairs and monstrous sideboards in their respective homes. On the first day of the course I’m alarmed to […]