My enthusiasm for our small garden has waxed and waned over the years. At its height there was an attempt to join the Hugh Fearnly Whittenstall brigade, starting as many have done with getting an allotment. Many plans were dreamt, perhaps to one-day buy that small holding, have chickens, even a pig or Dexter short horn cattle. Dreams of good life like self-sufficiency evaporated with the reality of a poor plot, most of the soil had been pinched by the previous occupant as topsoil and replaced with building rubble. Growing plants on broken brick was beyond my meagre horticultural skills. The rest of the ground was so full of glass that the potatoes I planted came up as chips. The few successful vegetables I did manage to grow had cost me something in the region of £100 and had taken several hundred man hours to produce and so I admitted defeat.
YOU ARE READING
The Inconsistant Gardener
HumorThe cultivation of an urban garden in the time of Covid . One man's struggles against scarcity of compost , slugs and procastination while the world goes to heck in a hand basket
