A Glass of Shiraz Mangetout Anyone?

‘Why are your peas looking sick?’ asks Robin whilst he watches me water the plot. He sits there perched on top of the brassica netted frame as if he is directing all operations whilst secretly watching and listening for grubs.

‘I don’t know. It must be the hot weather, but I haven’t planted them down there before and Freddie Fox used that area as his private toilet last year.

‘But what has grown is a funny colour’ Robin says eyeing up the odd purple pod.

‘They are mangetout, not peas, and supposed to be purple. They are called Shiraz’ I reply.

“Trust you to pick an alcoholic veg’ Robin says as he pops down to wrestle with a small worm. The tug of war is short, and Robin soon flies off with his wriggling prize.

I look at the miserable plants clinging on for their last rights against the twigs they were supposed cover. I give them some water but there is no reaction.

Everything else is blooming and although some vegetables have come early, others are quickly catching up and if the slugs and snails can keep themselves to themselves everything should be ok.

I turn my attention to the two grape vines on the top section. There were a gift along with two others from Caroline, a good friend of Annie’s who live in deepest Kent. She still has six vines and I wondered if she had a drinking problem or secretly ran a pub.

The vines on the top took straight away, were cut back and everything looked well. They flowered and have little bunches of grapes but are still subdued and probably wondering where their mates are and what the are doing in London. Their mates I planted in my reclaimed bank and they didn’t take kindly to the move but now are in their element with shoots all over and big developing bunches of grapes. Perhaps the others need to live on the bank too?

The challenge is that until the grapes develop, I don’t know which is white, which is red, and that will teach me for losing the labels on transfer. I wonder if the mangetout Shiraz up top is jealous and it is a Shiraz below on the bank that is stealing the show?

The sunflowers turn their heads, watching and waiting to be given a drink. Now they don’t need any help and pop up in spring, get moved into position and only require a tall cane to stand proud and shine all summer. Mind you Sidney and his gang of squirrels fight the bees and birds for the seed heads as soon as they start to turn. It’s amusing to watch them scurrying up the stork and biting off the heads of the flowers, watching them drop to the ground. They start back down, pick up the flower head, and then they are off the hide it somewhere they will probably soon forget. They sow seeds on their journey and it’s rather funny to see them running away down the path with a flower head bigger than them and often still with a bee after the last drink.

Lottie hates squirrels so she is very annoyed I haven’t put trip wires around the sunflowers and mined the area under them. She just barks at them which probably encourages them to come back, knowing she is tied up and can’t chase them.

Back to today’s watering.

The other new plant this year is the kiwi vine. It’s not mine but my neighbour’s whose plot I am looking after whilst she is self-isolating with her shielded husband. The vine looks great as it straggles the arbor but has done little until this year. Happily, it’s  it had masses of little delicate buttercup style flowers all over. Apparently it has never flowered before and maybe it is going to give me a special reward of fruit this year.

Alas there doesn’t appear to be any fruit setting and not being a kiwi expert or having grown it before, I don’t know what the baby fruit should look like at this stage. I’ve searched the internet and got lots of advice on everything except what I should be looking for. Robin even told me off, thinking I was looking at a bird’s nest. I bet birds around here have never seen a kiwi fruit, let alone flower.

Back to the more traditional watering, the Patti pans and courgettes. Now if this was wine not water, they would be permanently drunk with the amount they consume. I wonder if they’d like some Shiraz?

Climate Chaos at the Plot

‘I think this is my last season on the plot’ says Robin.

He looks genuinely concerned. He sits perched opposite my bench and is looking at me and ignoring Lottie who is fast asleep next to me.

‘Have we upset you? Done something to offend you? Has someone promised you more grubs and feeding sessions?’ I ask not wishing to lose my red breasted feathered companion.

‘No, it’s not you or Lottie, but I have been reading what the ‘Birdman’ wrote about Climate change on the allotments’ replies Robin.

‘Climate change? Why will that affect you?’ I ask wondering what our friend and committee member Chris has written that has filled Robin’s tiny head with concern. Chris is referred to affectionately by our feathered friends as the ‘Birdman’ because he religiously feeds half the birds in Docklands. The ring-necked parakeets even fly North over the river just to eat at his bird table! I think they have awarded him a 5-star rating.

I look at Lottie, but she is either pretending to be asleep and guilty or just unconcerned and dreaming of chasing squirrels.

“Where will you go?’ I ask.

‘West, away from London and the South East. He says here it’s going to be like Barcelona and the swifts and swallows have told me all about the heat and dry conditions there and frankly it’s not for me. It’s bad enough not knowing from one month to the next what the weather is going to be like, but Barcelona I don’t want.’ Robin’s concerned face has turned to one which looks firm and determined. ‘You know I am known all over as the Christmas bird and have my photo taken in the snow for those cards and calendars.’

‘What snow?’ I reply with my tongue firmly against my cheek.

‘Exactly!’ Robin says with a firm nod of the head.  

I remind myself about Chris’s article and the genuine concerns he expressed about what he called Climate Chaos, human induced change, where the seasons and weather had become less predictable and increasing extremes of weather often depended on where you live. London and the South East was becoming progressively hotter and drier than the rest of the UK and the impact that has on what, when and how you grow produce on the plot. Did we now have all year-round growing seasons where the milder ‘winter’ enables us to still produce much of what we would have not thought possible a few decades ago albeit more slowly?

Your gardening calendar is often established where and when you start to garden. Mine was in Sheffield and in an area that experienced clear seasons and conformed with those sowing and growing charts. I then moved to Aberdeen which was very different and had one very short but productive season but a weird summer phenomena called the ‘har’ where sea mist would often envelop the coastal area for much of the day but the nights were very short. Then in Hampshire a more normal garden calendar but with mild winters. London is very different again and because the allotments are in the heart of the City where the winters are very mild and I rarely get a frost and you could describe the seasons as Early Spring, Late Spring , Summer, Late summer, Autumn and a very short Winter.  

Succession sowing, growing, and harvesting is possible, but it has to be thought through a lot more than in the wetter West, the colder North or even the more exposed rural areas. When folk say, ‘Is it too late to sow, or too early to put out?’ I find myself wishing it was that simple and just the same as those gardening calendars and bibles we want to follow. When the magazines tell you what jobs need doing this month or Monty Don tells you jobs to do this weekend, are they seriously saying we are all the same? I often sow later and harvest sooner and any mistakes can soon be rectified whereas some areas have one shot. I can sow some vegetables late and they will grow slowly all winter and can be picked throughout the winter. I find that plants which would require protection or bringing indoors over the cold, damp and frosty winter can survive outdoors. 

Mediterranean plants like Geraniums happily survive winter as they do in the natural habitat. The only killer is snow and that is so rare in London and when it does, it’s a few flakes and gone as fast as it came. This again changes what and how you grow. My neighbours’ Kiwi plant has been laden with flowers this year and hopefully fruit later and sits on top of a bank and over an arbour and has no protection over winter.

Chris says he has a new second spring in September when he is busy planting all his winter veg: onions, garlic, spinach, chard, winter lettuce, rocket, lambs lettuce, winter radish, land cress, pak choi and other oriental winter veg. And this is also the beginning of the season for him to start picking the earlier planted leeks, beetroot, turnip, daikon, kale, chard etc. In late winter and early Spring, he has wonderful crops of early veg at a time when most gardeners are barely sowing seeds, let alone picking harvests.

At our allotment we have a large local Chinese and Vietnamese community who grow crops all year round, covering their rows of vegetables in rows of small ‘tunnels’. This market garden style is very productive, and the produce grown can be very exotic but demonstrates how they have adapted their skills and knowledge to the new environment.

Our site is also surrounded semi wild urban farmland which itself supports a huge biodiversity often missing in urban areas. However, ensuring the land keeps giving and can produce for longer and variable seasons is both an educational and practical challenge. Soil must be enriched, and the nutrients taken out put back. Its balance of life it supports must be maintained and maybe we must live with some foes to do this. You cannot work the same piece of land year after year, season after season without replenishing what has been taken out. It was the Agricultural Revolution of the 18th century which introduced the move in crop rotation, the principles of which we all follow today on our plots. But perhaps the current Climate Chaos is making us rethink and adapt this to the new environment we find ourselves growing in.

‘So when are you leaving did you say?’ I ask Robin.

‘Not sure, maybe I’ll stay a bit longer but I will need a supply of sun cream and sunglasses and some new photos without the snow’ Robin replies as he hops down to examine a patch of soil for his lunch.

We all must learn, adapt and adopt to what is clearly a changing growing ecosystem.  

I am indebted to Chris Parrish for his article ‘Urban Gardening in the Anthropocene’

‘Would you like Coffee on the Allotments?'

‘Pfff.’

‘What’s that noise?’ asks Lottie sitting up and alert after her little nap on the allotment bench.

‘What noise?’ I reply.

‘Pfff.’

‘That noise. Sounds like someone spitting out something they don’t like, or a cat with a fur ball.’ Lottie says staring over towards the back of the plot.

‘Pfff.’

‘There it is again!’

I get up off my kneeling pad and stand and stretch. One must stretch after being on one’s hands and knees with a trusted trowel weeding between the rows of lettuce and rocket. I never did enjoy hoeing and rather selectively eject the weeds from the plot.

Lottie has now decided that she has my attention and I will investigate for her. She drops back down onto her pillows and day bed on the bench satisfied that she has performed her warden duties. It’s hard being a faithful whippet at the allotments, as it involves disturbing one’s sleep and being ever alert to keeping strange and unwanted guests off the plots, and that is mainly Sidney Squirrel and that moggy cat with no name. She stretches as all whippets do, closes her eyes and curls up and goes back to her nap.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble to myself as I walk over to the back of the plot. There between the compost bins is our good friend Robin. He is clearly unhappy and hops up to the top of the open bin and stares down into the abyss.

‘I am very grateful you left the lid off after topping it up but...’ The look in his eyes clearly indicates something in there is not to his taste.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, adopting my caring voice. I was thinking he probably didn’t like the orange peelings, or maybe the cabbage leaves were….

‘Do I look like a café bird?’ he asks puffing up his red breast to make the point.

‘Do you look…’ I could hardly get my sentence out before he burst into a tirade about coffee, its foul tastes, and why I wanted to spoil his fine dining with the stuff.

‘Sorry, we got three tons of coffee grounds from Canary Wharf and I like to sprinkle some and mix it into the compost to help break it down,’ I responded.

‘Even the slugs don’t like it!’ he exclaimed.

‘That’s the point’ I said.

‘Apparently cat’s don’t like it either’ I offered, wondering what his reaction would be to it being a deterrent to his nemesis the moggy from the farm.

He stood thinking with his head cocked to one side. It’s a thoughtful look he has before he finally offers ‘Well it has to have some good points but Lottie is the best cat deterrent you have here.’

Lottie looks up at the mention of her name. Dog’s hearing is very good, and you don’t see any with hearing aids now do you? She gets off the bench, shakes herself and goes to now have a nap under the bench. She does this sometimes when she gets too hot on top, but sometimes just for a change.  

Robin and I return our attention to the coffee grounds.

‘You’ll be sprinkling all over the plot next,’ with a questioning look which begged a negative response.

‘Yes, I was going to…’

‘Do you want me as a friend and fellow labourer, or not?’ Robin asked now, clearly demanding a coffee ground ceasefire.

‘I can’t put it near the seedlings as it can kill them off.’ Coffee grounds contain allelopathic properties which attack young seedlings vying for space. You could argue that could help suppress weed seedlings, but Ii doubt that Robin will accept that as a positive.

‘Surprise, surprise, someone’s has got the message,’ Robin casually stated hopping down to the floor to wipe his beak clean and take a sip on water from a bowl I leave for the birds.

I was going to tell him about the Civet and how he makes the most expensive coffee in the world but thought as he would never see one around here it would be a wasted story. Also it might upset his sensitive feelings if he knew exactly how the process of making the coffee involved collecting the Civet’s poo.

‘I tell you what. I will only put it around the fruit in the fruit cage for now and maybe dig some in in autumn before I put the plot to bed.’ I thought this was a reasonable compromise and looked at him for approval. I don’t have blueberries and high acid loving plants so I don’t need to give plants a caffeine boost.

‘We’ll see. I am not bothered about the fruit cage as it is netted to keep out that squadron of pigeons and frankly the fruit is a bit tart for me.’ He was certainly more relaxed now and hopping around searching for some fresh food.

‘Mind you keep to that, though. I don’t want my dinner spoiled’ he said looking over his shoulder. 

‘Otherwise you’ll be looking for a new plot-mate.’

He flies over to where I had been weeding to examine the turned soil for some decaffeinated food.

Well, it looks like there will be no espresso on the plot this year.

I wonder what he thinks to peppermint tea leaves?    

    

It’s a Dog’s Life at the Allotments

This article was written before the sad news of the passing of Monty Don's Golden Retriever Nigel this week but i hope reflects the true bond between man and dog.

Clap!

I turn and see Lottie trying to catch a bee in her mouth.

Clap! She misses again as her jaws snap empty and the bee goes off grinning, bored and in search of his forage.

‘I’ll get one, one day,’ mutters Lottie to herself as she flops down onto her pillows on the allotment bench.

Lottie is my seven-year-old whippet and like Monty Don’s two faithful Golden Retrievers Nigel and Nellie, she comes with me every time I go to the allotment. But unlike Monty’s two, Lottie does not wish to follow me aimlessly around the plot and is satisfied snoozing on her bench and quietly keeping watch over me and occasionally waking up to snap at the odd low-flying bee, out stare Freddie fox and his friends or bark to clear off that farm cat.

Unlike Golden Retrievers, whippets and other sight hounds require a good fast run out once a day then sleep, eat, demand love and generally nap. They are like cats in many ways except they don’t have attitude and don’t go out in the dark.

‘If you ever catch a bee it will be painful,’ I suggest.

She ignores my advice, stretches as if practicing some new yoga position which usually involves exposing herself in an un-lady like pose and then starts another nap.

My red breasted friend Robin perches himself on the back of the bench and looks down on Lottie. ‘I bet she isn’t aware that Sidney Squirrel is on the plot,’ he says cocking his tiny head to one side.

‘Leave her be,’ I reply turning to look at the pair of them taking over the bench. ‘She’s already had a lot of excitement to day chasing squirrels on her way here.’

I look over the back of the plot to see Sidney poking around under the climbing rose.

‘Now where did I hide that stash of sunflower seeds?’ he asks himself as he continues to search. He took enough sunflower heads to seed half the Island and already self-seeding sunflowers are coming up all over my plot, next door’s plot and half the plots on the site.

‘I bet she didn’t catch any squirrels,’ offers Robin looking at Lottie.

‘No. I am glad to say she didn’t, but she did come close. There was a Mexican standoff with one and they were some six feet apart and they both froze. They tried to out stared each other. It was if they had never been here before and wondered what to actually do. The squirrel blinked first and scurried left and up a tree before Lottie could get her running shoes back on.’

‘Was she wearing her red coat?’ asked Robin.

‘Of course, that’s why she has it on so they can see her coming,’ I respond, trying to whisper so Lottie can’t hear.

‘I can hear every word you are saying,’ pipes up Lottie hardly stirring and wondering if there is something in what I have said.

‘I could have caught her, but I only chase those that run away,’ Lottie says with a somewhat proud expression now across her face.

‘It’s just a game to you, but what about the squirrel?’ asks Robin.

‘Did you say Sidney is here?’ Lottie asks raising her head off her pillow, quickly changing the subject and looking straight at Robin and then attentively around the plot.

‘Was here,’ responds Robin and with a broad grin and with a wave of his wings flies off.

At this Lottie looks at me, then at her pillows and decides its time for a nap.

‘Tell me when its time to go home. I am hungry,’ she says Lottie shifting both the subject. 

A short while later Lottie adopts a new pose which mimics the ‘downward dog’ yoga pose. She then looks over to me and has a wake up shake. This is like a wake up call to her body and I know I am being to told allotment time is up. I dutifully obey Lottie's request and start to put away my tools and finish my daily allotment chores.

‘Pillows,’ she reminds me as she promptly jumps off her bench.

I pick up the two pillows which are warm to the touch where she has been sleeping and deposit them back in the shed.

On leaving the plot Lottie has a little ritual. First, she nibbles some goose grass as I lock the gate then 20 yards or so later in the same spot as yesterday and the day before, she relieves herself. A further short distance and it’s time for a poo and that means a poo bag collection. It’s as if she knows the dog litter bin is only five yards away and wants to save me having to carry a bag to the next bin or all the way home.

Strange, Lottie can be on the plot all day and never relives herself once, but as soon as she is outside the gate it's time to go. I think I have Lottie ‘Lottie Trained’, or is it she that has me trained? 

The BIrds

The one thing that we have gained temporarily from the current lockdown is the sound of silence. Gone is the everyday background noise that constantly invades our lives. Here in the heart of London we can enjoy the birds singing in the late Spring sunshine.

The early morning walk across to the allotments is now filled with the sounds of the many songbirds that live on the Mudchute Park and Farm. We may not be able to distinguish all the various songs and their singers, but Britain certainly has got talent.

The bench on the plot is under a fir tree and today you can hear the pinecones cracking open in the sun. At first you wonder what the noise is as you will have never hear it normally. Then the Goldfinch who is sitting on top breaks into a song. He misses a few notes and does an excellent key change, but it’s a bit on the rock style for me. Robin sits in the middle of the bed with his wings over his ears complaining about the racket and as if he were on the panel of judges he proclaims in his black and red fronted tee shirt and LA tan, ’That’s not singing. Next!’

I never thought of the bird songs competing like some X Factor contest, but many are similar and distinguishing them and naming that artist and the song can be tricky.

We are blessed with Robin, a Song Thrush and Wren. I am sure I can detect the Nightingales distinctive and mixed notes and hammering percussive sounds but it is hard to pin them down when, like an orchestra warming up, they sing at the same time.

Not all birds are blessed with ‘The Voice’. The button is not always pressed, and chairs don’t always turn around. Some birds do not even make the auditions and their talents lay elsewhere. Take the Magpie; his plumage is both distinctive and attractive, but he cannot sing. Like his carrion brothers he rarely ventures onto the plots as they have more business on the farm since we do not service their dietary needs. So thankfully we are sparred their macho squawks.

There are of course the Pigeons. They just waddle around pecking and pretending not to be there but can’t stop cooing on and chattering to each other. A bit like Les Dawson and Roy Barraclough’s Cissy and Ada chattering clutching their handbags, they talk a lot and saying nothing and here there are no punch lines. Their eyes are for ever searching out the next meal and they love their veg and can strip a bed in no time at all. Fortunately, they don’t like performing in front of crowds so if the plots are being worked, they go and find another spot to have their natter.

The Farm has many working birds and occasionally you hear a cockerel making his morning cry. You look at your watch and realise it’s 11am and wonder if he has had a long lay in or missed the early morning alarm call. Hang on, he is the early morning alarm call! Some obviously work harder than others!

‘The Birdman of the Mudchute’ works on the upper plots and like Burt Lancaster in the film he is devoted to feeding the flying minstrels. He probably, unlike me, knows them all by their first names and like Gareth Malone has his own choir and practice times. Now, what will that TV show be called?

Among his choir are the latest new band to hit the streets with their new sounds. They are like the punks of the 70s, the new wave of the 80s or the hip hop rap stars and introduce their sound with aplomb. It’s not some much singing but a continual chorus of grating high-pitched caws. Enter left stage The Ring-Necked Parakeets. They even dress differently and have gone for a kind of glam rock bright green outfit. If you cannot hear them you can certainly see them. Apparently, they are making it big south of the river but still to have a big hit up here. Fortunately, they haven’t taken up residence on the Mudchute and are busy taking over nearby neighbourhood estates and residence in their large Plane trees.

Walking down some streets is quite an experience as you hear them cawing above you. You see their massive communal housing squat at the highest point of the tree, step over the rejected nest twigs and guano and try to avoid flying deposits. The roofs and bonnets of the cars on these streets resemble a paintball target. Now it may be fertilizer to some but we don’t want that on the veg at the allotment do we! 

So, after the auditions, the semi-finals and the final, can we promote the songbird choir and celebrate their songs and singing and look forward to their Christmas number one.  

Its Not a Clew of Worms its Bindweed?

‘Can you hear that noise?’ my little feathered Robin asks with his head tilted as he listens to the soil beneath him.

‘What noise?’ I ask, knowing full well it’s a dumb question and I will only now be lectured on the remarkable hearing and sensory perceptions of birds such as Robins.

‘I don’t know what you would do without us,’ he proudly boasts, puffing up his chest to show off his red plumage.

‘Get a lot work done on the plot,’ I reply in jest.

‘Listen, there it is again’ he says cocking his head to the left. ‘It’s drowning out the worm noises and disturbing my digging.’

‘What are you on about?’ I ask, completely at a loss as to what my little friend is trying to tell me.

‘They’re digging those bloody tunnels again and they can shift earth faster than a clew of worms.’

‘A clew of worms?’

‘Didn’t they teach you nowt at that school up North?’ he asks accentuating his take on a northern accent. ‘You can call it a bed, or bunch, but I like clew.’

Robin then in one sharp stab jabs the soil and retrieves a piece of bindweed, white and stringy and faintly resembling a very large worm.

‘I told you that you have to dig this stuff out! It’s disturbing my foraging and I bet the worms don’t like it either.’ Robin says spitting the offensive string of bindweed to the ground. ‘It’s like spaghetti junction down there. Over by the path it’s surfacing!’ he proclaims pointing with his little wing to the corner of the plot where the path and bushes meet.

I get up off my bench and go the shed. Moments later I return with my fork. Robin has flown off probably thinking I was ignoring him and in search of some easier pickings.   

I set about digging over the area he had been picking over. I quickly expose what could be best described as a bowl of spaghetti. I realise this isn’t going to be a five-minute challenge, but more likely a full half hour one and retreat to get my waste bucket so I can collect this exposed motorway from hell.

Bindweed can be dealt with by chemicals. These travel back through the roots and kill the plant, but I am wary of spraying other plants and it has to be ideally done as they surface and then taken in through their leaves. You can treat the area to a good dose of diluted vinegar or Epsom Salts and even boiling water also does the trick. Better still, why not mix them all together? But again, all these mixes may not help all the others who occupy the soil.

When I first got my plot, or should I say overgrown wasteland, I spotted the tentacles and unmistakable leaves of this old foe.

‘We can rotovate the soil over once the top is cleared,’ was the offer made by the Site Manager who obvious was keen to use his rotovator on anything he could.

‘No, it’s fine I can dig it all out,’ I replied.

The thought of the roots being chopped into hundreds of individual bindweed plants filled me with horror. Bindweed has this defence mechanism inherent within all bad weeds which are deep rooted or invasively spread their roots - they don’t want to come out easily. As soon as you give bindweed a tug it snaps, says goodbye to the piece left behind, and asks it to carry on the fight and keep tunnelling.

The only way to have any chance is to dig it out, and keep digging it out, and keep digging it out.

Does bindweed offer us anything? Not really, as its seeds are toxic and alkaloids are present throughout the plant.

Bindweed is one allotment challenge faced by many plot holders. Like the Forth Road Bridge it needs constant attention and maintenance. Turn your back for a few weeks and it spreads its roots and once it surfaces it binds itself to anything and everything vertical in its sprint and quest to reach the sky. The basic difference between it and Japanese Knotweed is that it must be supported in its upward quest. If left for a season it can create a blanket over whatever it found to climb and unravelling it often becomes impossible. It does have attractive white bell-shaped flowers but these merely hide the sinister weaving tentacles behind. It is said that its flowers can be made into a cold tea and when drunk it can act as a laxative, well that is somewhat appropriate!

‘Lovely climbing flower over there,’ say the novice gardener.

‘That’s bindweed!’ comes the voice of gardening experience.

Finally, there is the problem of disposing of the dug-up bowl of spaghetti. There are many alternatives with some advocating burning, but that’s not altogether acceptable today. Some advocate bagging it for green waste, but that’s hoping that the refuse collectors can treat it. Some bag it and then apply the chemical killers. However, the one thing is certain, it doesn’t go on the compost heap.  

  

Mind you, we gardeners do like a good challenge.

The Allotment Vacuum

This time of year you get the plot ready for the season ahead. This involves lifting the tarpaulin which has suppressed the weeds and kept the plot warm over winter and in doing so discover the host of little critters who have made it their home and shelter from those storms over Winter.

Worms, snails, slugs, some woodlice and the odd earwig all race for cover as the tarpaulin comes off and they are exposed to the bright Spring sunshine and blinded by the light. As they scurry off and dig for shade, they shout obscenities and curse you and your family.

I am a ‘dig the plot’ person and although I understand the ‘no dig’ approach it’s not for me. It was just how one is brought up to support one side of the city and not the other. Few cross the line from United to City, from Liverpool to Everton or Wednesday to United and the same applies to dig versus no dig.

The new stainless-steel fork prongs soon get stuck into the soil which was dug over in late autumn so now is relatively easy to work. I tend to get bored working from side to side or back to front, so after a quick stop to admire the dug earth, it’s often a change of direction and fresh impetus to the dig.

‘Can you quit stopping and changing direction and just get a move on!’ comes a cry from behind.

I turn and there sitting on the wheelbarrow sits Robin with his wings folded and tapping his right foot with obvious impatience. He has a half devoured little worm hanging like a piece of spaghetti from his beak and which is about to be sucked fully into his mouth.

‘Aren’t you supposed to leave the little ones and throw them back so they can grow a bit bigger?’ I ask, concerned for the worm who is now trying to wriggle free. ‘After all, the soil needs them too.’

I can’t repeat the response Robin gave me but I didn’t know where he picked up that sort of language. Perhaps it was when my neighbour was having difficulty putting up the bean supports last year. I remember he was sitting inspecting the work and was not impressed. I seem to recollect expletives clouded the air as the supports collapsed under the weight of the words screamed in frustration.

‘Can you take some of the snails and those wood lice?’ I ask pointing to a cluster of snails trying to hide within their houses and lice making a rush towards a scaffold plank.

‘Snails have a home on their little backs and a mortgage to pay on it, so that wouldn’t be nice,’ he replies.

‘What about the woodlice?’ I ask.

‘Have you ever tried eating those beasts? They are hard and take a long time to soften up enough for my little brood to be able to eat,’ he responds almost spitting out his words in disgust at the thought.

‘Fair point,’ I reply as I turn and start digging again. I do hope the little worms can make it, but fear Robin is like as good as any Dyson vacuum and can suck them out with little effort before they can dive down into the safe depths of the soil.  

I can feel those little eyes burning a hole in my back and can hear his little hops from one little morsel to another. A quick flight into the depths of climbing rose and back again to resume food patrol.

After a while I join my ever-faithful whippet Lottie on the bench for a hard earned rest.

‘Only a bit more to dig over’, I comment with an admiring glance over the dug plot.

Lottie has been lying on her pillows watching me with little interest but is quick to offer advice and keep me on my toes. She loves the pillows which she puffs up and sinks into every time she attends the plot. She will not go onto the bench without them and always waits patiently while I get them from the shed.

‘There’s a bit at the back I think you may need to do again’, she suggests pointing to where I had just stopped.

‘Forget that, I was thinking of packing in for today and going home’, I respond.

‘I agree, it’s my teatime and I am getting cold watching you and your mate over there.’

‘You mean Robin?’ I ask.

Yes, the thing thinks he shares the plot with you, and you are here just to feed him in worms. But he does very little in return.’

‘But he is cute,’ I responded.

‘You told me I was cute, but you had better not try and fob me off with worms! Come on, it’s time for my tea.’ She clearly was making a move and without being told had jumped off her pillows and the bench and was standing waiting and looking at the pillows and pointing her paws towards the shed.

I glance over to where I left my fork standing upright in the soil. There on top sits Robin eyeing the ground from his new perch. Failing to spy any new prey he turns his head towards me.

‘Ok, I get the message. You’re off and I’ve had my fill for today,’ Robin states. ‘Just make sure you are back early tomorrow. I’ve got a brood to feed.’

I pack up and I am a bit embarrassed to tell him I am not coming tomorrow. Do you think he will forgive me?