lost in music

I often have a song in my head as I work on my land, but today I had two totally possessing my brain.  Jimi Hendrix's Castles Made of Sand pirouetted around my brain with the Black Eyed Peas' Where is the Love? the whole time I was there.  I think I'll have to get a ghetto blaster so I can exorcise songs when they become too persistent. 

Perhaps it was to do with the repetitive nature of the task in hand, which is currently moving a large pile of clods of earth and grass from the surface of an expanse of black plastic, which is acting as a floating mulch over a large overgrown bed which I hadn't had time to deal with in the Spring when all green things were taking over.  There were too many clods to put on the compost heap, and anyway there was a large amount of couche grass and bindweed in them which I didn't want to recycle.  I hoped that by spreading them over the plastic the sun would dry the weeds to crisps.  It didn't quite happen that way.  The weeds just took root and carried on regardless. 

This month I had more or less got through all the top soil in the top soil bin, so it was the right time to transfer the clods there.  As I began to work though, I realised that in fact rather a lot of decomposition had taken place in clodworld.  There was now much more topsoil there than weeds, and on closer inspection quite a bit of it seemed to be rather good compost.  So I began the task of sifting through it all, placing all the humous and still green stuff on the compost heap, and all the topsoil on the topsoil heap.  It reminded me of those moralistic fairy tales in which a girl has to do painstaking and repetitive tasks in order to be transformed into a golden haired princess or suchlike.  Not quite like that in real life, but the end result was nevertheless very rewarding.  I have now almost finished, and I have two piles of very useful growing aids. 

I took care to layer the heap with green and brown matter alternately with the humousy clod matter as the heap took shape.  I had enough green matter, but didn't have any spare brown.  The only candidates being the teasels, and I like to preserve their structural beauty in situ until I need to use them as firelighters.

My heap is a very learned erudite one, and does like some good reading material when he is busy digesting himself.  I like to provide him with only the best literature printed with vegetable ink.  A great favourite is Lush Times.  I know I stored one in the shack for just such an occasion as this, when I had run out of brown matter.  I looked everywhere but it certainly wasn't in the shack any more.  I wondered if the heap had sneaked in during the night and taken it.  So I had to look elsewhere, and suddenly I realised that there was in fact brown matter right next door in my neighbours' allotments.  Neither of them spends very much time in them at all, so they are totally overgrown and neglected.  My good fortune though, as I was able to gather a plentiful supply of old brown stalks of cow parsley and tall daisies and create lovely aerating layers with it on my heap. 

It now looks like a layer cake, but for plants to eat not humans.  A bit like the pets' cakes on Blue Peter.  Looks weirdly edible, but you know it would be a mistake to try.

Pickle me beetroots

One of my more successful crops this year has been the beetroot.  The seeds were a donation from my Dad, and we both thought they were probably past it as they were two years old, but I had more seedlings than I knew what to do with, and unfortunately had to sacrifice a fair few in the thinning out process.  

The remaining plants developed well, and I watered them diligently, until I was called away for a while.  Unfortunately my absence coincided with the most dry period of the summer, and when I returned I noticed how the leaves were yellowed, and the tops of the roots were all brown and woody in appearance.  I got them out of the ground as quickly as possible.  I recycled their leaves on the Heap, which was very satisfying.  The compost heap is developing very nicely now, from being nothing but a pile of old nettles and grassy clods in March. 

Then I realised what I had done.  I had an enormous quantity of beetroot to somehow consume before it went all soft if left in its raw state, even in the fridge, in a few days time.  I knew I had to get pickling, fast.  I went home in the manner of an established allotmenteer, carrying a lumpy plastic carrier bag.  I felt rather pround of myself. 

I found a recipe on an allotoments website for pickled beetroots, and for spiced vinegar:
http://www.allotment.org.uk/recipe/356/pickled-beetroot-recipe/
http://www.allotment.org.uk/recipe/157/quick-spiced-vinegar-recipe/
They both seemed really easy, and I was inspired to create my own flavour combination - ginger and chilli, with a bit of cinnamon.  I hurried to the storecupboard ingredients, but there was no vinegar!  Well, only a small bottle of table vinegar.  I needed a good litre of it. 

That meant a fair old trip in Charis the Yaris to the nearest supermarket, which luckily had a wonderful range of vinegars.  So many in fact that I was spoilt for choice, and I crouched in the isle dithering for some time, until I decided on the Sarson's pickling vinegar, mainly because it was a huge bottle and the cheapest.  I think next time I'll experiment with organic vinegars, maybe cider vinegar or red wine, but this time was an emergency and I had to get them in the jars in the most reliable manner. 

There was a little girl there who was wondering in a loud voice what to do with her hair at nighttime when she was staying with her Dad, as her hair was curly.  I think she had noticed my large quantity of unruly curly hair.  I would have liked to have told her the best way I have discovered to tame curls at nighttime, which is by plaiting them.  I was a little shy of making contact though, as I was a stranger after all.  So, if you're reading this blog little girl, that's what you do. 

The actual pickling went very smoothly.  I was pleased to discover that the woodiness was only skin deep.  Beetroots have a lovely earthy smell when cooking, and the juice is a most gorgeous vibrant magenta.  No wonder people use it as a natural dye.  Shame it is so fugitive though.  I had a good old time staining my hands magenta and watching the beautiful magenta patterns swirling round the glass bowl I drained the beetroots in.  So I suppose if magenta had a taste, it would be the taste of beetroot, a kind of fruity earthiness.  Or perhaps that is just its taste in savory form. 

So now I am the proud owner of two kilner jars full of beetroot.  I've yet to taste them, as I have to leave them at least a week, for the flavours to infuse. 

I love split bamboo

Fencing! Loads of fencing.  That is my aim.  My allotment borders an area of public land.  It is very pleasant with a maze and a sundial, but it can also be rather noisy at the end of the school day, and I am on full view through the wide mesh. 


I like to consider myself a sociable kind of person, but my time in the allotment is a private time, to relax and reflect away from the hubub of daily life.  Tending my land there is a peaceful active meditation.  When in the middle of this very different kind of world, I find it disconcerting to look up and see someone watching me from the other side of the fence. 


I seem somehow to become on these occasions a kind of therapist.  I suppose I am a stranger and people find it easy to tell their troubles to me, but the harsh truth is I don't really want to hear about them.  So fencing is the solution, even if it makes me look a miserable antisocial allotmenteer.  It also has a sound horticultural function of protecting the crops from the frosts that drift down from the nearby hills, and will reflect and contain the sunlight and heat from the south.


Luckily split bamboo fencing is relatively inexpensive, even full price.  I've been able to source it half price, so now have several cumbersome rolls of it loitering along the hedge in my Dad's beautiful garden.


The problem is they will have to loiter for a while yet, as access by car to the allotments is at the moment impossible. The gasmen are laying a huge yellow pipe all the way down the lane.  This has had its exciting moments.  The other day for example, I heard a manly exclamation of surprise, followed by the words 'Did you see the size of that one?', leaving me wondering what it was that had caused such a hearty reaction.  The image of a huge rat persisted in my mind. 

Lady of the Land

I sometimes find myself drawn inside the second hand shops in my village.  I usually try to resist, as I invariably come out with something old and glittery that I don't really need.  I have occasionally however found some real beauties, and today was such a day. 

She called me inside and there she was, in all her turquoise and opalescent glory.  I like to think of her as folk art, but everyone else seems to think she is gaudy tat, which both she and I find most offensive. 

I tried to resist, as I thought she was rather overpriced, and walked out of the shop once, only to be drawn back again.  You see, I knew she would be perfect as a wall ornament on Psychadelic Shack.  Immediately, I recognised her as the angelic personification of my Land.  Not only that, she has also generously gathered up the folds of her gown into a most useful bird waterer.  The trouble is, it doesn't actually hold water at the moment. All she needs is an interior waterproof coating, with which I can easily provide her.

I love the way the artist has styled the garment around her arms to suggest the presence of a heavenly zephyr.  How wonderful to be bourne up by nothing more than your spiritual grace.  She has no need to worry about her carbon footprint at all. 

I am still slightly puzzled over what deity she is supposed to represent.  She has the appearance of a Catholic finger dipper thing, but is certainly not the Virgin Mary.  She reminds me of Botticelli's Venus, which made me wonder if she was a Theosophical representation of some kind. I did some research, but she doesn't resemble the traditional Theosophical depiction of Lady Venus. 

I am still in two minds about whether to plant viola heartsease in her gown instead of waterproofing it.  I can imagine they would look very pretty trailing down around her.  I know how earth stains porous ceramic though, so if I did that there would be no going back. 

My parents' expressions of horror when I unwrapped her from her modest brown paper packaging reminded me of the stylised and exaggerated mannerisms favoured in the performance of Greek tragedies.  It's all good - if that is the average response, she will certainly act as a deterrant to intruders. 

Should I buy a scythe?

Unfortunately the allotment doesn't look its best at the moment.  Due to circumstances beyond my control I wasn't able to tend it for a whole month.  When I returned, the grass was like an ocean, and the beds were full of weeds.  I have a small push mower which I usually find adequate, but the grassy waves were calling for powered machinery.  I couldn't afford a petrol strimmer, so today I decided to take my petrol mower on a little trip.  Her name is Jenny and she is an Atco.  She tackles all reasonable work without complaint, but this time I'd pushed her too far.  Too many stones for her blades, and then the petrol ran out.  I think she was trying to tell me something.  So I reverted to Quentin the Qualcast.  I must admit I was glad to hear the gentle whirring of his hand powered blades, but I'm going to have to sharpen them for this job.

Frog in the bath!

I consider myself very lucky to have a bath on my allotment.  It's connected to a central pump which is powered by a lawnmower engine.  I've never been brave enough to start it myself, so whenever I hear the pump start to cough into life I run to the tap to take advantage of somebody else's muscle power. 

By chance I have planted my pumpkins in the ideal location, in the bed nearest the bath.  They're always thirsty, and they enjoy it immensely when the bath overflows.

When I took on the allotment in the spring, the bath was full of fowl smelling green water, so I emptied it and took great pride in scrubbing it clean so it totally changed its colour from yellow to white.  However, now in midsummer the water is an opaque brown, covered with leaves and the sad corpses of ladybirds, butterflies and bumblebees.

The pump hadn't been used for a while, so the water level in the bath was getting low.  I filled my watering can and observed the unmistakable movement of a live creature in the water. It was both a joyful and perplexing sensation.  Was it a fish? or a snake?  I filled my can again and this time it was unmistakable - a frog.  It couldn't cling to the smooth walls of the bath, so was trapped.  I searched for something it could climb on to put in the bath. I found some green plastic mesh, which made an ideal climbing frame for a frog.  I watched it climbing slowly and carefully out of the murky water.  It rested on the rim of the bath for a while.  I could see how beautiful it was. Its skin was shades of green and brown with a kind of white opalescence to them.  I could see the white sunlight pulsing on its body where its lungs were overworking with the shock of it all. 

I've left the mesh in place so it doesn't happen again.