Oh no! Not giant cauliflower for tea AGAIN?
Many men have exasperating hobbies. Spare a thought for the wife of Britain’s top grower of veg as big as armchairs . . .
make them heavier. Carrots’ tops left longer than the requisite inch.
‘People will try and stretch the rules as far as they can, but you don’t want people saying: “He didn’t trim his carrot properly.” Oh no! It would ruin your reputation,’ says Mary.
And what about reports of sabotage? ‘You hear tales,’ is all Peter will say. He spends at least 12 hours a day with his veg and every evening he sits at the kitchen table listening to the weather forecast and writing up his notes — he has a separate folder for each vegetable.
He insists he uses no gimmicks, no unusual methods or tricks — just science (he is forever studying and researching), good seeds, patience, experience, enormous electricity bills and hard work.
‘ It’s not luck. Nobody plants a field of cauliflowers and just happens to get a massive cauli. You’ve got to set out to win.’
Indeed, there’s always work to do but Peter says ‘it eases up a bit in June’. Will he put his feet up and have a break?
‘Oh, no!’ he looks horrified. ‘But maybe we’ll have a day out.’
‘Maybe,’ says Mary, who doesn’t sound very hopeful.
There are no weekends, no days or nights away, no diversions for the duration of the growing year, which starts in November — ‘when the leeks go in’ — and runs until the last competitive show in mid-October.’
‘So we’ve got just a week,’ says Mary. ‘We go somewhere in the Mediterranean. Somewhere warm.’
With the benefit of hindsight, it’s hard to imagine how Peter could possibly have spent more time playing golf.
Back in (what’s left of) the garden, we amble into the cabbage house — and straight into a crisis.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ mutters Peter. ‘We’ve got a problem here. Something’s been chewing them. I didn’t notice it last time I came in.’
He’s right. The outer leaves of his beautiful brassicas are laced with nibble marks. Peter looks physically pained. Disease and pestilence are his biggest fears — worse than frosts (‘very worrying’) or hot dry spells (‘bad for onion growth’).
He and Mary both go quiet and pale when they talk of 2006 — their annus horribilus vegetalis.
‘ I got a dreaded leaf disease, Cladosporium leaf blotch, or something like that. I sent a sample off to be analysed, but it was too late. There was no effective treatment. So that was it. I didn’t show a leek that year. Not one . . .’ He peters out.
‘He was digging pits and burying everything. It was terrible. Dreadful,’ whispers Mary.
Since then, they have been vigilant, verging on obsessive, in their crusade against infection — religiously using sterilised compost, deploying expensive sachets of insect predators which protect against thrip and spider mites (which attack onions and leeks).
After a couple of hours, I can feel Peter itching to get back to his veggies, so lovely Mary and I talk recipes in the kitchen.
Because, presumably, with 60lb of cauliflower to get though and no freezer, she must have come up with some interesting dishes. How do they like it best — curried, spiced, smothered in cheese sauce?
‘Oh no. We just like it boiled — though sometimes I might pop in some carrots with it, to save on pans.’
The whole endeavour is extraordinary and all-consuming. Though they both look amazingly happy and healthy on it — must be all that fresh air and cauliflower.
But does Mary ever just think, ‘No Peter, that’s enough with the giant vegetables’?
‘No. Not yet. Not yet. But please, no more polytunnels.’
But presumably the prize money they win at giant vegetable competitions compensates for the sacrifices they make in other areas of their lives?
‘It’s about £60, and that’s only if you win first prize,’ says Peter. ‘So it’s a good thing it’s only a hobby.’