Temporarily in charge of little heaven on Earth

ISOMETIMES think my life’s mission is simply to stay on top of the mess I make. Mess means mental stress. I dream of streamlining, straight lines and order.

And yet this year I’ve stepped into a new world where nothing is neat, perpendicular or particularly clean – and it’s absolutely perfect and has done nothing but good for my wellbeing and health.

Yes, I’m now the proud steward of an allotment and in love with its shaggy splendour.

I inherited it from a chap called Steve who’d had it for 60 years. I’d love to shake his strong, weathered hand for all his toil and working of the soil, work which resulted in at least three giant worms in every forkful. Just think, when he first stepped on this soil, Armstrong hadn’t even stepped on to the Moon.

Steve’s legacy includes chicken wire, assorted metal and bamboo poles, cloches, buckets, scythes, piping and four invaluable water butts. The centrepiece is a sturdy shed.

It’s become my favourite place, the shed my haven. When I need a rest, I sit on Steve’s old plastic chair, drink from my flask, gaze at the skies, listen to birdsong and let my mind wander.

I wonder at the feeling of continuity in it all – the seasons, each with their challenges, including the predictable unpredictability of the weather. It occurs to me I’m proudly following in the muddy footsteps of my Mum’s Dad. He tended an allotment in Basford during the war and Mum loves telling me how, as a child, she enjoyed a fun ride home in his wheelbarrow on Sundays. He handed out cabbages to his neighbours.

My plot is not much different to grandad’s. Mine, with its well and brook, is run by a charitable trust that’s been there for 150 years. The rent goes to Ruddington’s James Peacock Bread Charity, set up in 1641 to give loaves to the poor. Allotment holders still give produce to those in need, some via Ruddington Pantry. When it’s dry, I turn the soil. When it’s wet, I turn to Youtube or other allotment holders to see what I should be doing, like tidying up my blackberry bush. Nicky from the next-door allotment gave me some redcurrant bushes and four rhubarb plants. She’s been free with her kind advice too.

In between digging, I find myself looking up a lot to catch a sight of long-tailed tits. Birds are a blessing and a curse. The mistle thrush is a delight in full song but blackbirds will happily eat all your raspberries. I spotted a rare yellow Brimstone butterfly. Ladybirds eat pests.

I disturbed an overwintering peacock butterfly which flew out of his hiding place when I swept the shed. I found a hen’s egg, probably half-hidden by a fox – and are those muntjac deer prints in the soil?

I’m loving the physical challenge and the camaraderie. And, yes, the mess. And just like Steve, I appreciate I’m only looking after things until it’s time to hand it on.

I’m the steward of an allotment. I’m loving the physical challenge and the camaraderie. And, yes, the mess