Early morning. Standing on the plot eating Basque tear peas from the pod. Sharing them with Howard, keeping back a few to take home. Almost everything at the allotment is back on track.
The tagetes Ildkongen have recovered. Now a luxuriant bank of velvety flowers, in reds and golds like bishops’ robes.
The nasturtiums, too, are cascading along the borders, with enough left over to fulfil chef Florence Knight’s emergency call for flowers for her menu at Sessions Arts Club.
The sweet peas are failing now, but old-school ‘Grandpa Ott’ morning glory is clambering fast behind. The extravagant chard is churning out. The Italian chicories are colouring up. The Mexican cosmos is coming into vivid bloom.
We pull more of the dominant red orache to make a window through to the amaranth. As ever, I’ve underestimated the effectiveness of seed. I should have learned by now.
The tall dill and coriander are maybe the best they have ever been. Exotic scents of summer. Both are blanketed in flower. I pick some for the kitchen table.
The climbing beans have conquered the hazel tent. I’m training the top shoots along the apex. I’ll stop them soon, but I’m impressed with their recovery.
Howard suddenly says he may have gone off eating beans. So I’ll research recipe books. There is a Fuchsia Dunlop Sichuan dish I’ve long had an eye on.
The rescued verbena has taken and promises to spread, standing tall next to the red poppies. The same for the still-small wild Greek fennel. We will nurse them through.
Sometimes, I think my gardening is almost all about attention. Tied in with caring. I’d even call it companionship. The constant flowers and food are of course a bonus but I think it’s about the ‘being there’. Zen and the art of plant maintenance. An active meditation. I sow, I grow, I remember my brother.
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