“I’m Going Up the Allotment”

An evening up at the allotment. Or, at least, 15 minutes to check whether or not rodents have taken off with my garlic.

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General views of the plot: Bill has tilled the front of the plot where his chickens cleared the weeds. He has moved the birds and they are clearing next to my carpet. Despite a couple of wind-blown episodes, the carpet has done a good job killing off weeds. Another month or so and I can dig over the soil underneath.

George, the newcomer to plot 4 (and not his real name), has inherited an allotment covered in old plastic and carpets. It’s done a fine job of weed control, except, of course, on those bits uncovered. We had an introductory chat last night. He has dug a small bed and is nearly ready to throw in some spuds. But, on the advice of an old lag, is waiting a week or so until the “usual” time for Easter.

Given the dire, winter-like forecast for Sunday, that is probably good advice. Yet, my chitted spuds are past ready to kiss the soil.
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Garlic: two rows of garlic (Solent Wight) doing nicely, thank you. It looks like all but one of the cloves has survived. Also lost one or two to rot before planting.

Under the netting sits the first planting of yellow onions (Sturon). These are doing slightly better than those planted at the same time under protection in the raised bed at home.

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I have a comfrey plant, courtesy of allotment buddy, Barry. He did say it was good for something. But, with all the advice I’ve been receiving, I cannot remember what he said.

A women up the road ambushed me Sunday evening as I was strolling home. Well, not so much physically ambushed. But, verbally ambushed. The nuggets of her advice:

  • potatoes do well, mound them up well (despite me being told by others that blight is rampant)
  • grow pumpkins (I’m intolerant) and swede (yuck)
  • brassicas do well (er, not on the list this year)
  • get a pile of poo (if only) and grow comfrey (yeas, but why?)
  • someone called Richard (real name) is a real whizz (and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t have an allotment any more)

There was more, but, y’know, I can’t remember.

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Mr Cock was strutting his stuff this evening.

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