Rob received notification that his name had come up for an allotment. We’d been dreaming about our own little piece of tilled earth for a long time. Time enough for dreams to get carried away and out of hand, and so contact from the local allotment association came when we had our imaginary allotment fully stocked and best in show. The reality of the matter was a little different. We had a choice from three plots. All had been abandoned, were submerged in brambles and were prone to flooding. One was notably less brambley than the others. Naturally we bickered our way through the decision like the adults that we are. More brambles offered more seclusion which is great for the socially shy and would allow us to build our kingdom without having to interact with other humans. The plot’s location at the furthest point from the site entrance would mean I could only garden at night to fully realise my dream of social isolation. Rob argued that the plot with less brambles meant there’d be less work digging said brambles. And there was something about social interaction being good for me. Apparently sense won in the end, much to my annoyance, and we cordially hung our plot number on our new fencepost.
A fuller inspection of our new plot revealed a plethora of teasels, brambles, nettles, dock, moss and tufts of soft rushes. The ground is spongy with the ghost outlines of old beds and walkways. We have our own well as the previous tenants discovered they didn’t have to dig too far before they hit the water table.
So we spent a glorious couple of hours in sun and rain clearing the most obvious weeds and making the place look a little neater. Day one of owning an allotment wasn’t too overwhelming for our novice brains.