Titanarum

I sneaked down the allotment just before dusk completely darkened the site. That way nothing would be too apparent and therefore upsetting. But everything was fine. Absolutely fine.

I picked a few of the autumn raspberries. Not much flavour left so late in the year but good for morale. Who needs flown in berries? And the little cabbage plants are growing away as is the purple sprouting broccoli. I’ve had to use chicken wire to keep them protected from butterfly larvae and pigeons. So far so good. No strawberries though. A few of the perpetual plants in flower but I think it’s too late to expect fruit. The bees aren’t exactly buzzing this time of year. The blueberry plants deserve a mention because their leaves have suddenly turned crimson. Amazing.

My good friend K has a plot opposite mine. I never got round to planting chard this year, or beet so I’ve been relying on hers. You only need a handful of plants to produce a steady supply of green leaves with rainbow coloured stems. She also grows soft fruit and her blackberries are out of this world for flavour, size and abundance. I pick a few. Like my raspberries they are on their last leg flavour wise but at least I’ve had some vitamin C today. I love my allotment.

Who knows what’s going on down at the plot? I live less than a hundred yards away from it, the weather is nothing short of marvellous for autumn preps and tidy ups so I really have no excuses. But I haven’t been down there for almost two weeks. Yesterday I bought flat-leaved parsley, probably more than a week old and flown in from Kenya, from the supermarket rather than pick it fresh from my own patch. Maybe I should rephrase the question and ask what’s going on in my head? Well, if you must know, I reckon it is a case of ‘do the right thing fatigue’. I tire easily. And meanwhile Monty, Carol and Charlie and all the other media gardeners are spouting advice on what to do in week 4 of October. Even one of the Guardian’s TV reviewers, had to bang on about Titchmarsh, his voice rather than the plants, but still. I don’t know about you but I am sick of it. I wonder if gardens and allotments are not a little like a hearty stew best left to simmer in its own juices. I find that image soothing and guilt relieving. The unpicked autumn raspberries, parsley and whatnot decaying and then dropping onto the soil, slowly leaching their goodness back to the plants from whence they came.

What do you get if you mix cabbage leaves, egg shells, cardboard, potato peel, apple cores, citrus peel and whatever else uncooked material you want rid of and leave it for six months? Brown, moist, nutritious compost is what you get. And hundreds of slithering red worms who have munched through whatever you threw at them and bred hundredfold.

I am new to all this recycling and composting lark. My previous lack of committed, regular effort may well have notched the global average temperature up a degree or two. But I am a changed person and feel duty bound to spread the knowledge. Thanks to London Community Recycling Network and their volunteers I have been educated (less than an hour, it took) and given my very own composting bin. Free of charge. I don’t know about you non-composting people out there, but I say, give it a chance. Bring compost into your lives. Anybody with a strip of garden out the back can do it. Anybody with an allotment can do it. Anybody with a dark cupboard and a plant in need of re-potting can do it.

And why bother? (Apart from saving the planet)? Because plants we grow love it and need it. Different plants prefer different kinds of compost but more of that another time. And what about the (completely un-slimy) red wiggler worms, a k a earthworms? Well, they aerate the roots, thus enhancing the absorption of nutrients, they dramatically improve the soil structure and they increase the yield enormously for many crops. Composting is a beautiful thing in itself, but if that won’t sway you, think of the planet. I’m serious. As only a newly converted composter can be.

P.S. These websites could change your life: www.lcrn.org.uk/projects/compost,
www.communitycompost, www.earthworm.org

Isn’t it gorgeous, the weather? Mild and sunny for the foreseeable future we can expect the leaves to stay on the trees and bushes for ages turning redder and redder. I love it. But the noises are getting me down. The deer rut, for starters (when the stags fight to see who is the biggest and strongest and therefore most deserving nooky partner for the females), I can’t hear myself think for their primeval bellowing. Lately I’ve been deafening their roars with full volume techno. It’s the only thing that works. Believe me. I’m not keen on starlings either. These black birdies with their purply blue iridescent plumage want to nest under my eaves. And even though EVERY orifice has been covered with fine mesh earlier this year ago they still try it on. It’s all to do with their habits. Monogamous in nature they return up to three times a year to the nest with shrieks so ear piercing and persistent I have no option but to call it torture. Suffice it to say I prefer plants. Yes, they too can unsettle even the sturdiest of souls with their habits, not least that of invasive growth, but at least they have the decency to stay quiet about it.

Titan Arum here. Or Corpse flower if you want to use the vernacular. The name came to me and who am I to argue? My claim to fame is a 3 metre high phallic bloom which stinks to high heaven of rotting meat, hence the reference to corpses. But hey, what’s in a name? What really matters is that we all have to live together. Show each other respect. Yeah?

The area I live in teems with creepy crawlies and wildlife and litter throwing people. On my doorstep is Richmond Park, London’s largest green area, as well as a small forest leading to Ham Common. My allotment is around the corner and, after 7 years, offers a reliable yield of seasonal fruit and vegetables. Allotments are all the rage these days, what with the planet going into meltdown and everybody wanting to eat antioxidants organically and be skinny and live forever and never wrinkle. I’m all for live and let live. Absolutely. But it goes both ways. The slug that ate my basil paid no heed to that philosophy. No wonder it fell victim to a turquoise pellet. I buy top of the range poison as they offer the most dignified death. Lured to the pellet by its perfume the slug eats it then retreats into a dark place to meet its maker. Perfect. Talk about the sweet smell of success.