CAROLE MATTHEWS THE PATCH OF PEACE

Is an allotment too much to take on? Or do I just need a hand?

It’s probably not the best time to tell you that I don’t know one end of a carrot from another. Especially when they come out of the ground. My only prior knowledge of them has been in a plastic bag from a supermarket.

I stare at my new allotment, wondering what I’ve taken on. It seemed like a good idea when the world was in lockdown and I’d not so much as a window box to tend. I longed to get my fingers in soil and imagined an abundance of produce, grown by my own fair hands that I’d bestow on my grateful neighbours, forging friendships that would last a lifetime. Maybe that’s expecting too much from a few vegetables.

When I clutched the letter in my hand telling me that I’d scored my own patch of land, I felt like I’d won the lottery. Now I look at the plot, a tangle of weeds and a ramshackle shed that seems to be made entirely of old doors and don’t experience the golden glow that comes with connecting with the land that I imagined – the feeling is more akin to terror.

Still, I hold onto the thought that my dad had an allotment for years and I loved spending time with him there. He’d tend his veg, have a brew sitting at the door of his shed and watch the frogs in his little pond. Idyllic, I think you’ll agree – and the perfect antidote to all the woes life can throw at you. Well, maybe that and some chilled Prosecco too.

The Shed of Many Doors has its one functioning door barely hanging onto its hinges and I open it tentatively. Inside – as well as the world population of huge spiders – there’s an array of ancient tools that I’m sure will come in handy, I’m just not sure for what. They look as if they were left here by a medieval torturer rather than a gardener. There’s a bit of a potting bench, a sturdy wooden chair and – treasure! – two fold-up deckchairs that look in reasonable condition, though I’d have to run the gauntlet of the spiders to check them out.

I can’t stand here all day as this allotment clearly isn’t going to tend itself, so I put on my floral cotton gardening gloves – newly purchased with matching wellies – and arm myself with my equally new, industrial-strength secateurs. Though I think a JCB and a flame-thrower might be more useful. With one steadying deep breath, I’m going in. Well-hidden beneath the brambles, there are some raised beds. That has to be a good thing, right?

Before I can make my very first snip, a voice behind me says, “Hi there.”

I take the opportunity to turn away from the task not quite in hand.

He holds up a hand in greeting.

“New to the allotments?”

“First day,” I admit.

The man surveys my plot and nods sagely. “You’ve got your work cut out.” I had, perhaps, already realised that. “That couch grass has taken hold and it’s the work of the devil. The Captain had this before you, for years. We haven’t seen him for a while. It got too much work for him.” “The Captain? Of what?”

“I don’t know,” he concedes. “We tend to operate on nicknames here. Next door, you’ve got Lady V, Fortnight and Wendy White Wine. I’m Digger.”

I laugh. “Digger?”

He shrugs. “I help people out with their digging.”

I should tell you that he looks built for digging. Tall, broad, arms that are all muscles. It’s a warm spring day and he’s got a T-shirt on, what can I say? He’s got curly hair, kind eyes and a tanned face that speaks of many hours spent outdoors, but that’s all irrelevant. He’s a spade for hire, so I love him already.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admit. “I’ve planted my potatoes out – my job for today,” Digger says. “I’ve got an hour or so to spare. Happy to give you a sociallydistanced hand.”

“That would be great.”

“You’ve got a few plants to start you off.” He points at something that looks like the rest of the weeds. “Rhubarb. Those clumps there? That”ll be ready to pull before you know it.”

So, that’s rhubarb? Who knew? I would have probably dug that up.

“You’ve got strawberries too. Though they’ll need some weeding round them.” He looks round. “I can’t remember what the Captain grew, but I’m sure you’ll have some other bits and bobs lurking in here. Once people know you’re here, you’ll get plenty of gifts to get you going. We all share seeds and cuttings. You’ll be inundated with courgette plants. You’ll also get a lot of advice – whether you need it or not.”

“I’ll definitely need it.”

I’m slightly perturbed that I couldn’t tell a strawberry plant from a weed.

“The old boys here rule the roost and like to tell us youngsters where we’re going wrong.” I’m in my forties and I’d say that Digger is too. There are not many places where I’m considered a youngster, so that’s a win too. “There’s a myth for every plant going – garlic should be planted on the shortest day of the year, and tomato seeds on Valentine’s Day.”

I’m slightly perturbed that I couldn’t tell a strawberry plant from a weed

“How romantic,” I quip, then blush. “I’ll get my gloves,” he says. “I’ll bring some for you too. The thorns will go straight through those.”

First mistake. Buy gloves that do more than have a pretty pattern on them.

When Digger’s back, we get stuck in to the brambles and work away quietly for an hour or so, snipping, yanking, clearing, piling high. My mind has been a whirling mass of anxiety and it’s the first time in a long while that I feel a sense of calm settle on me.

When we can see a raised bed appear beneath the weeds, Digger goes off to get his spade and then does some digging. He does seem to be very good at it.

“There are two trains of thought,” he says as he heels the spade into the soil in a well-practised manner. “Those who prefer to double-dig and the no-dig method. Never the twain shall meet.”

“I’m liking the sound of no-dig,” I confess. Though I feel quite excited by the thought of wafting about with a lovely basket of home-grown, soil-dusted jewels, I’m also slightly overwhelmed by the amount of work that’s going to involve. “What do you think you’ll plant?”

“What do you suggest? I thought I’d start with something easy. Tomatoes? Some herbs? Runner beans? Potatoes?

Are they fairly easy?”

Digger stands back to admire his handiwork. “I can make us a brew while we work out a plan for the rest of the year. How does that sound?”

We go to Digger’s plot. This is straight out of an allotment gardening handbook. Everywhere you look there are luscious crops growing in abundance. He has raised beds overflowing with greenery and, at the back of the plot, a sizeable greenhouse.

“I grow courgettes – obligatory – peas, potatoes, carrots and beans. More exotic stuff too with mixed results.” He shows me inside the greenhouse. “This will be full of tomatoes soon, and here are my chilli plants. You can never have enough chillies.”

He also has not one, but two sheds. Digger must see my envious gaze, as he says, “This is my working shed.” He wipes down his spade and puts it inside – so tidy. “And this is my party shed.”

As he pushes the door open, I can see that this shed is, indeed, kitted out with a little bar with optics and a range of glasses. Next to it is a large Thermos and mugs.

“I have biscuits too,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

He digs and has great biscuits. What more can you want in a man?

“I could do this with my shed if you don’t mind me shamelessly pinching ideas.”

“I noticed your door needed the hinges fixing. I can do that for you, if you like?”

I really hope he’s not married.

There are already two deckchairs placed by the party shed in among some runner beans, and we sit in them with our hot tea and chocolate Hobnobs.

“You’ll find everyone very sociable,” he says. “We all share our produce and there are some communal fruit trees. We have a barbecue on a Friday night when the powers that be allow it. This place has been a godsend during the last year. I could come here and forget about all the terrible things that were going on.”

“I’ve been working from home cooped up in a tiny flat. I needed to do something.”

I daren’t tell him – or anyone – what a struggle it has sometimes been. I try to tell myself that many have had it much worse, but there are some days when that doesn’t seem to be enough to keep me sane.

I luxuriate in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying the gentle touch of it on my face.

“You leave the real world at the gate,” Digger tells me. “This here is my patch of peace and tranquillity.”

“I can see why. I hope mine will be the same. One day. I’m doing it by myself, so it will take some time. A journey.”

“You’ll get as much help as you want. I’m here virtually every day.”

Overhead a large bird wheels and soars on the currents in the cloudless blue sky.

“A red kite.” Digger points up at the bird. “We see a lot of them here. When they get close enough – and they do – their colouring is beautiful. There’s a friendly robin too that will eat out of your hand if you bring seed. We get badgers too and the occasional Muntjac deer, mainly over the other side, but it’s a good idea to grow everything in raised beds. It’s best to net everything too, otherwise you’ll just be feeding the mice, pigeons and snails.”

I live in hope that soon everything will return to normal and all I’ll have to worry about is stopping the wildlife having a free veg buffet. I feel at home already and I’ve needed this more than I could know. It’s good to be reminded that there’s still kindness and community outside my four walls and I look forward to being here with the birds, a few weeds and a strong brew.

I smile across at my new friend – and maybe a good digger too.