From my allotment…
You can see the sea. Or, at least the Bristol Channel.
On a clear day, Exmoor is visible to the east. Pop your head over the hedge and there’s a view of Dartmoor.
It’s a peaceful place. Many days, I’m a lone allotmenteer. My accompaniment is singing blackbirds, swooping swallows, the odd pheasant and occasional high flying buzzard.
Sometimes, there is the interruption of tractors, motorcycles or cars. But, we’re without the constant drone of traffic.
More disruptive are strimmers and other lazy people’s tools.
Me? I’m hardcore. All done by hand. Digging, weeding and cutting: all back, shoulders and ibuprofen.
And, when I have company it’s great to down tools for ten minutes or so to discuss your uncooperative onions, composting tips or whatever’s going on in the village.
For a couple of months, frozen ground or Atlantic storms mean Sunday is spent on the sofa rather then hacking away at clay. Come spring, whenever Mother Nature decides that might be, my crooked wheelbarrow can be heard rumbling through the village up to my plot.
The fresh veg is nice. But, the time to think, the fresh air, the gossip. In equal measure these mean I heart my allotment.