I spotted a wonderful quote recently – “I can’t believe I used to have sex 20 times a week. But now I’m a bloody good gardener” – and whilst I’m sure I never managed 20 times a week, even in my adolescent dreams, the transition to gardening was most unexpected if equally strewn with many early failings and resultant angst. Growing up the last thing I thought I would ever end up doing was making sure I had “Gardener’s World” on series link so I could hang on to every word from dear old Monty Don. And if anybody had suggested I would be storing pee in empty milk bottles behind the garage for future use…well more of that later.
The gardening bug – growing vegetables to be precise – crept up on me very slowly, indeed the prime requisites for choosing my first two houses were that neither had a garden to waste hours of toil over and divert me from the cricket field. Such was my apathy towards all things horticultural – apart from the wicket – that the small rockery adjacent to my second house became a mini rain forest and wildlife prospered unchecked. Neither did it seem that gardening suited me as one autumn afternoon, presumably a slow day at the office, I decided to plant some spring flowering bulbs to brighten up the entrance; only for British Gas to turn up the next day and dig the whole lot up in search of some mystery leak. Needless to say, few survived.
And then I got into cooking realising that there was actually more to life than chilli con carne and oven chips. As every aspiring chef soon learns, you have in an instant also solved the eternal dilemma of “what to get him for a birthday/Christmas present” and soon you are the confused owner of a whole library of unopened cooking books, numerous shiny utensils resembling an operating theatre and enough aprons for the cast of Calendar Girls. It seems the art of writing any cookery book is akin to cooking itself by skilfully rehashing the old into the new, year after year. Small wonder that Jamie Oliver rivals J K Rowling as the biggest seller of books in the UK and that he has probably earned more from books than cooking.
Cooking is highly addictive and as long as you are not put off by early failures – a bit like sex I suppose – you strive to be more adventurous – sex again – and soon the desire to spice it all up – need I say more – is obsessive. Recipes always seem to include ingredients you have never have heard of – and will never use again – but fresh herbs were what started my obsession. Go to any supermarket and they will charge you a small fortune for a few twigs sweating in polythene that will die the instant fresh air hits them. Or you can buy the extortionately priced powdered versions that look and smell like your Gran’s coloured talcum powder that she used to dry her bunions with. Grow your own and you will have an aromatic and bountiful supply all year round…with a bit of luck.
So I started growing herbs, modestly, with a corresponding amount of initial success. When I moved house, my aversion to gardening remained and soon, a large part of the back lawn was converted to a patio. Yet the bug refused to go away and only a few years later I hopped out of bed one bright summer’s morning and started to dig up what remained of the back garden like a manic human JCB. With sweat pouring out of me, throat parched and limbs aching I was spurred on by the pure conviction that this was a great new adventure; I was lost to the Earth. Soon the entire back garden resembled a mini allotment with heaps of upturned soil and neighbours peering anxiously over adjoining walls.
Next it was time to play demolition man as an old brick outhouse occupied the intended site of my new greenhouse where I would clearly spend the rest of my days in a wicker chair listening to Neil Diamond. Two days of brutal toil with a sledgehammer that seemed to weigh more than me and, with all bones miraculously still in tact, it was reduced to rubble and I had a space. Researching greenhouses on the internet it became clear that there are almost as many options as there are variants of cars; the choice is bewildering.
In the end I think I chose poorly opting for the budget self build option probably convinced that gardening would last as long as my teenage desire to learn the guitar; a couple of twangs on my new guitar were enough to consign it to the back bedroom in an instant and Jimi Hendrix could rest peacefully. Given that I had also failed my 11+ Airfix Modelling exam, consigning many a replica fighter plane to the knackers yard well before its maiden flight, I concede it was a touch naïve to attempt a self-build greenhouse.
I had, sensibly, engaged help from my good friend and local Mr DIY, Patch, who had volunteered to help me once I had erected the outer frame. This I did and, beaming with self-satisfaction I awaited the verdict from Patch.
“Great job mate, next time try not to build it inside out!” Once again I was not going to graduate to Airfix College and we set about dismantling what had taken me almost a day to build..
Eventually, having picked the coldest day of the year to do so, we finally got the thing in situ with most of the bits in the right place. A word of advice now follows; if you live in a windy area and choose a polycarbonate greenhouse…it will fly away! And so it did, each time the wind blew, various panels would go flying off in all directions, like the Space Shuttle. Amazingly, I managed to recoup most parts each time the winds blew, albeit I think that word spread that there was only one idiot daft enough to have bought a toy greenhouse in Windy Corner; so neighbours knew where the debris had come from and kindly lobbed it back over the wall. This winter I am confident that there is more sealant holding the thing together than they used on the Titanic
Once you start gardening you can be sure of yet another new influx of presents – gardening books! Spending cuts that threaten local libraries will have no effect as all us would be cooks and gardeners can open our own to compensate. Most of these are totally useless as there are so many combinations of climatic conditions, soil types, seeds, sun or shade, warm rain or cold rain, fat slugs and thin slugs…you get my point? In short you learn slowly and painfully simply through your endless mistakes which you often have to wait an entire year to correct. Minor victories though are more than sufficient to soothe major disappointments; Geldof may have raged on about feeding the world but, sadly, you will do well to put an edible meal on the table. However, this is not the point.
There is nothing as calming nor as soothing as spending time in the garden conversing with your plants like a new mother with a baby and if you do happen to grow something remotely edible then even better. Of course there are those that take it to obsessive levels with competitions to grow the biggest and best and, although I have had one or two successes (its a beetroot not a soggy cricket ball), generally the biggest and best “in show” are the slugs that have slaughtered my crops annually. Obesity in the local slug population may well be largely my fault. Were there one to show off the shrivelled and worst then I could probably enter although this misses the point; but back to those milk bottles.
A few years ago Gardener’s World were discussing compost and the benefits of making your own. Toby, the presenter, brightly asked the following.
“Ever share that feeling of being caught short and not wanting to shed the boots to go inside?” Yes, nodded most of the nation in agreement, crossing legs in shared sympathy, knowing full well the rampaging effects of endless pots of tea in the garden. “Well did you know that good old pee is one of the staple ingredients of home made compost? So next time you feel the urge, just grab a milk bottle and fill it to your heart’s content!”
What a bloody great idea I thought, doubtless in unison with the rest of the nation and so I started saving my plastic milk bottles, storing them behind the garage, awaiting the call of nature to go crouch behind the garage, let the waters flow whilst carefully maintaining a watching brief for peering heads over the wall. Milk seemed to make a good partner and soon I had enough bottles of this bright orange stuff to constitute a mini brewery; had anybody peered over the wall – hopefully without me simultaneously crouched down with that inimitable serene look on my face – they may have pondered whether this was hooch or possibly a terrorist cell.
And then one of my Godsons visited one day and naturally seemed fascinated with my new allotment with all manner of things now growing. Being an inquisitive youngster of course he had to ask what all these giant bottles of orange stuff were.
“Pick one up, have a look mate” And of course he did, carefully unscrewing the top and sniffing the contents.
“What is it Uncle Steve?” he enquired suspiciously.
When I told him he almost dropped the lot in shock, gave me the most withering of looks any seven-year old could and walked off dismissively muttering “you are so gross for a Godfather!” Who said the BBC was a good influence on kids?
So whilst this summer has been a disaster all round, as gardeners we will not be deterred. The groundwork starts now and planning is crucial. Compost heaps need to be turned, pee supplies built up over the winter and lessons learnt from this year’s failures taken on board. Come spring hopes will rise again for a bountiful summer and anticipation will rise ahead of the first new crops to taste. Every picture tells a story maybe so no more cooking and gardening books please; a new pair of socks might be a good idea!
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