Dear reader...

IN THE SUMMER, I spend as much time tending my allotment as I can. Evening visits nearly always involve a confab with my fellow growers about what is eating their peas or whether or not it’s been a good year for soft fruit. Somebody always has an interesting snippet of news or a setback they are hoping for help with. Of course, a flask of tea and a packet of biscuits is always needed for such important discussions. On another day, I will arrive early to steal a quiet couple of hours by myself in the cool morning air. I can’t help but feel a little smug as I unlock the gate to find that I am the first to arrive. A haze sits over the plots, the sound of my footsteps on the gravel path amplified by the silence. My neighbour’s chickens sense my arrival and start clucking hopefully. In August, weeding is no longer the main focus of my time. Instead, watering takes the top spot. Growth has slowed but plenty of drink is needed for everything to plump and ripen to its full potential. Two cans at a time, I tread a familiar route back and forth to the troughs dotted along the edge of the plots. I plunge the cans under the surface. The cold water is relief for my dusty hands. I start at the bottom of the plot so with each journey the distance becomes less. The cutting patch is first. Dahlias and cosmos provide me with continuous vases of colour, and I reward them by flooding their beds. Working methodically, I relish the rhythm of alternate journeys of light then heavy arms. I lose count of the number of journeys I have made. I tuck the cans away in the shed, time to head home. The door sticks so I give it a sharp kick. I think my noise-making has disturbed the chickens again, but it is just my neighbour arriving with their breakfast.