An ode to allotments: the profound joy and solace of a communal patch of earth

I asked for an allotment for my eleventh birthday present. I had been a flat-dwelling Londoner for the vast majority of my childhood and had deeply unrealistic dreams of creating something along the lines of Mr McGregor’s garden. We lived in an area with an unusually high density of allotments and so, miraculously by today’s standards, my mother had put us on a waiting list and within a matter of weeks I was granted my dream. I was to have my own pocket of land! I still remember being shown to my first half plot and my glee as I surveyed the densely packed nettles entwined with bindweed.

I was soon to learn that clearing an allotment which has been untended for quite some time is a laborious and deeply satisfying process. A shape to the plot must be reestablished, beds created or unearthed. Soil must be cultivated and the matted roots of weeds unpicked. The more unkempt an allotment is to begin with the more surprises you can expect. Rows of raspberry canes which had been choked by grass, great big gnarled peony tubers lurking beneath the surface. My current allotment sits on what was once a Victorian dump and so digging is even more compulsive. The soil gives up treasures like bone buttons, marbles, tiny glass bottles and endless shards of blue and white china. There is something about the process of digging that I find profoundly comforting. I am a practical sort, calmed by purposeful exertion. I have dug my way through anguish, grief and heartbreak, knowing that I am clearing the way for something new and fearlessly tender.

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Unlike other gardens, an allotment lends itself to yearly reinvention. After the promise of spring, the bounty of summer and the inevitable jungle of autumn I always look forward to the moment when great chunks of my plot can be dug over, a blank canvas for another year of growing. I don my wellies and muckiest sweater and work until I ache before returning home to a cup of tea and seed catalogues. Seed catalogues are to me one of winter’s great solaces, compendiums of hope. On the dreariest rainy day the thought of rearing a field of airy jewel-coloured cosmos or a line of earthy beetroot from something so tiny as a thimbleful of seeds is hugely cheering. Thomas Etty’s catalogue reads like poetry - they sell heritage varieties packed in beautiful brown paper envelopes - who would not fall for a a carrot named ‘Blanche de Vosges’ or a cabbage called ‘Mr Wheeler’s Imperial’? The Chiltern Seeds catalogue is also a particular delight, tempting one with an excellent range of interesting flowers and vegetables.

Allotments are a world without borders, an ever-changing tangled patchwork shaped by the varied cultures of those who tend them. I have always been fascinated by my fellow allotmenteers, their frugal ingenuity and what it is that they are growing. I love taking a wander to marvel at Heath Robinson-style anti-badger fortresses around sweetcorn, hand-painted plot signs, massive pumpkins and towering sunflowers. On my first plot I was greeted by Keith, the ultimate Mr McGregor, who I’m pretty sure measured the placement of his lettuces to within the millimetre. He could grow and bind onions of such beauty that they looked like they should top a Russian Orthodox church. Then there was Lina whose haphazard plot yielded wonderful Chinese vegetables. I have her to thank for an enduring love of bok choi. My current plot adjoins that of Elsie and Charles who are both in their eighties. Elsie firmly imparts both gardening and dating advice – ‘Don’t start your runner beans too early’ and ‘No heavy petting, my dear!’. Charles comes to pick flowers wearing tweed three-piece suits, reinforced with leather where the cuffs have frayed and accessorised with a gold watch chain. My wonderful friend Freddie, a calligrapher and glass engraver, grows flowers for her elaborate church displays and occasionally posts packets of unusual seeds through my door, with names and instructions written out in her delicate italic hand. I have come to appreciate my allotment neighbours more than ever during the age of the Coronavirus. We are all naturally distanced on our plots but our effort seems reassuringly communal. I rarely stagger home without a basket piled high with not only my produce but that of my beneficent neighbours.