John has bestowed some rather fine little gardening gifts from his busy shed. A huge steel Victorian spike which his father used for carrots. He too had heavy clay soil. And to make sure that he could get a good crop he used the following technique: he would push the spike into the soil where the carrots would grow, and wind it around to make a good sized hole. He would then mix equal quantities of coarse sand and compost and pour it into the hole. He would then drop a carrot seed on top. He guaranteed that the carrots that appeared would be of a meaty size. ‘A meal in themselves.’ I also have a wooden dibber and a nifty piece of wood that will tamp down seed trays. Off to the allotment today.

And back after just three hours work (predicated on the fact that I forgot to pack any lunch). But I have achieved what I set out to do this month – I have cleared the plot. And my god it looks like the Somme. All turned earth and very bleak indeed. Eleven metres are still under cover, but I have 13 metres to work with. And as is my hideously symmetrical wont, that means four six metre long beds, two metres wide. The plot narrows a bit more towards the shed end, and the paths in the middle are a tad wonky, but it looks darn neat. Poor David will be appalled. Naturally I want to do the paths at once before the weeds push through. That will mean more plastic and some sort of bark chipping. Is that madly suburban? The pictures of allotments in the papers on the weekends showed wild abandon (the story was about how allotments are being taken over by young women, much to the consternation of the older men. But that’s okay, because I’m not young). But our plot is just is too small and located in a very neat area of the site. So it’s straight lines all the way.

I did dig out more bindweed roots today. And hauled up on something massive that was about the length of my leg and about as thick as a broom handle. God only knows what it was. That’s the problem with being impatient to start. Perhaps it’s the most wonderful plant just waiting to burst forth. But alas, it’s smack bang in the middle of where I want to plant garlic, so out it goes. The rhubarb roots are a gorgeous crimson pink (or is that another exotic weed?) and very fat and juicy. I tried not to kill those. But the plant isn’t ideally placed.

Back home incident free in the car (that’s half the adventure as I am hopeless at driving a geared car) and now it’s on with the paper, ruler and notes to try and draw up a decent plan. It was such a gorgeous sunny day that I couldn’t resist having a little pot up. Using my whiz jiffys (peat pellets that come like little disks – you pour water on them and they fluff up and become the perfect potting containers) I potted up two tomato seeds (Gardener’s Delight), two celeriacs (monarch) and two Dwarf French beans (maxi). They are bound to come up way too early, get leggy and suffer. But the urge was too great to resist. We have had no rain here in London for three weeks, so I did water the plants up on the soon to be neglected roof terrace. The purple sprouting broccoli is still going strong. And I do have plans to do runner beans and broad beans again this year.

Vegetable: Tomato Gardener’s Delight
How many?: 2
How planted?: Jiffy 7s
Notes: In warm heated room

Vegetable: Dwarf French Bean Maxi
How many?: 2
How planted?: Jiffy 7s
Notes: In warm heated room

Vegetable: Celeriac Monarch
How many?: 2
How planted?: Jiffy 7s
Notes: In warm heated room

It’s that precise pain right between the shoulder blades that finally made me stop. That, plus the oncoming darkness: I had no desire to navigate the tricky roundabout at Hendon Way and the North Circular in the dark.  Especially as this is my first day driving instead of getting the tube. But what a day of progress. The entire plot is now in some state of ‘garden-ness’. Half of it dug over and just waiting for more compost, and the worst bits covered in plastic and weed-proof membrane.  It took five hours, but they passed so quickly I didn’t even remember to have lunch.  My day was rather sociable as well. Met Susie who has a large plot in the middle of the site, Louis, or Luis who is Portuguese and has a plot nearby.

Luis didn’t seem a very happy man – he is from Portugal and is yearning to return. I have decided to try and get some gardening hints from everyone I meet. And Luis was helpful in identifying the bindweed roots I was carefully uncovering in my forking over task. There promises to be quite a crop of them in spring. I also met John, the allotment President, who was busy bagging up the seed potatoes and onion sets, but he took the time to recommend chicken pellets as the ideal manure for my soon to be potato beds as I struggled past the shop with my tools.

And the most sociable person was the allotment secretary’s assistant, Janet, who spent her day clearing the fence next to my plot. It actually looked like a task I should attend to. Eventually. There are straggling brambles, ivy and other odd mystery vines that are creeping over from the neighbouring fences.  Plus a few rather sorry flower beds that she is keen to revive. They seem to be growing on termite nests and promise to be garish. But there are iris in there apparently, so we shall see.

Janet is the happy owner of the half Burmese cat Misty who is a joy and a constant companion (she has a cat basket on the front of her bicycle handle bars). Misty is full of play with the plastic sheeting, keen to be patted and hugged – particularly when you are full of tools, muddy gloves and mess.

But my main task of the day, socialising aside, was death. I bought a jumbo sized amount of glyphosate at Homebase before coming up to the garden. And I couldn’t resist blowing the rest of my allotment budget by buying shears, secateurs, a watering can, a soil testing kit (will wait until David and I can do that one together), twine and heavy sticks.  I did resist eight foot high canes which I want to use for the sweet peas and beans. Too early for that. I don’t even have the paths sorted out yet.  But of poisons there were a plenty, and I have just too much thigh high grass to try and get rid of by hand. There was luckily less ice in the water trough today, so I was able to do loads and loads of trips to get water for the weed killer bucket.  I must invest in a water butt to save the walk.

But first I had to haul carpet. So much of it had rotted into the soil that it was like picking gravel out of a wound – delicate and fiddly but necessary.  Some carpets came up in long thin strips, but most of it was well anchored with weeds that had crept under it or through it – I stopped wondering at the tenacity of the rotters.  I cleared it eventually and have sprayed like mad. So keen was my watering of the weed killer that I think I zapped the few strawberry plants that were lurking underneath the grass. We shall see. At least I managed to avoid getting anything on the nascent rhubarb patch. It is in the middle of where I want the peas to grow; but I am confidently told that I can lift and move them next year.  Actually I’m not a fan of rhubarb – especially as everyone always seems to have a glut and is keen to give the stuff away.  But it will be mighty green and leafy in an otherwise bare spot.

Next trip will have to be Monday or Tuesday as we are off to Scotland.  I want to get my trusty Victorian measuring twine (a gift from John) and steels and plot out the paths. That way I can also calculate just what crops will grow where. I don’t think the weedy beds will be ready in time for the April planting.

Back from my second trip to the plot. Aching back, covered in mud, looking like an country bumpkin tramping about with a garden fork sticking out of my bag among the suits and briefcases of the Northern Line, but tired and happy. In one sense I have made great progress – half the plot is now cleared and turned over. Thank god for carpets is all I can say. The bits of ground that the departing allotmenteers didn’t cover in thick carpet are a carpet themselves. Of weeds. I’m baffled as to how I can tackle them. But that may just be fuddled brain from too much fork work. Looks like it is going to be a serious session with the glyphosate. But not with a prissy nozzle spray as I did today. It may be time to wield hefty watering cans of the stuff. Mind you, there is no water in the pipes at the moment, and when I went to try and wash some of the worst of the mud (hah!) off the fork I had to break the ice on the watering trough first.

Must remember to take the camera on the next visit so I can cheer myself up with the work. But it is a patchwork. The top six metres of the site are covered in huge swathes of weed and old wood from the raised beds, not to mention shreds of carpet and the rhubarb that is pushing up In The Wrong Place in the middle of all this mess. And then at the bottom of the site closest to the shed there are about four metres of solid weed. We have hauled the carpet there but I think it calls for weed killer plus black plastic sheets. Naturally as soon as I came back I wanted to have a shower, drink tea and then go back again. But tomorrow is marmalade day and making food for the long weekend in Scotland with David’s parents. Already I am chafing at being away.

Had a try at pruning the apple trees. The smaller one is in a very sorry state, I noticed that it rocks a bit and needs proper staking and, well, quite frankly, chopping down. But there were plenty of evidence of rotting fruit at the base so I will no doubt be reminded of this uncharitable thought in October when I am cooking up buckets of the stuff.

Three hours at the allotment today. My first official day of toil. It was only 4 degrees, and overcast, but I trotted over to Brent Cross (looking like an idiot with a garden fork in my swag) and went through the gates. There were only two others working – one of whom hailed me with such enthusiasm I feared for my facial muscles, and the other, near our plot, who ignored me. Off with the clean fleece, on with the scruffy one. It didn’t take more than five minutes work before that came off rather smartly. Digging on heavy clay is hot work. I started on the easiest bit for two hours – turning the soil that had been protected by the carpet. And then venturing into the wilder zones when my back was screaming for a break. There are plenty of rotting timbers and random bits of concrete to move. They were holding down the old carpets which now seem to have anchored themselves to the soil on their own. Held down by weeds I reckon. But I have made good progress. To cheer myself up, I paced out the site and marked the three ‘beds’ I am planning for the crop rotation. Luckily the easy part of the site is where I intend to grow the potatoes; and they are the ones going in first. The serious work is where the legumes are going to be. There are old raised beds and heaps of thigh high weeds covering the site. What do I do? Hire a strimmer and try and reduce the levels I suppose. But I don’t know what to do with the mat of grass on the ground. I did zap discretely with roundup on some of the larger clumps of couch grass (think pampas clumps) but don’t know how to clear the rest. I will ponder than one in the bath tonight. My body is definitely not up to another round of heavy digging so soon. Hopefully the cold frost predicted tonight will go some way to breaking down some of that heavy soil.

I walked back up the site and just gazed and gazed lovingly at the perfect plots. They look, as David described them, like chocolate swimming pools. The soil perfectly manured and positively fluffy.

Oh yes, and I have christened the shed. But only had a zip lock bag as I had forgotten to bring the bucket.

So what of the mystery fruit trees at the end? Evidence of one rotten apple at the base gives the game away. One of the trees is quite well pruned and healthy. The other leans rakishly as though it lost a battle with a beefy wheelbarrow, and looks weak. I may try to prune them later this week. But actually have radical plans. To chop one of the trees down. But these violent things must wait. I also want to dismantle the compost bins which are frankly hideous and falling to bits. But that too must be earned after a year of good gardening.

We do have one little crop already. There are three crowns (or possibly four if I can pull back the weeds) of rhubarb. There are a few bright pink buds peeping out of the soil. I can’t remember if they are located in the middle of the legume bed – but will look later this week. They aren’t going to be moved of course as Jana has told me they are her favourite crop (ie requires no work) so will have to plant around them.

You can see the first draft of the plot here. I had planned to plant my rows lengthwise. But every other plot on the site seems to have them this way. And I’d hate to do battle with all the allotmenteers before I even get started. I think the sweet pea wigwams are going to be radical enough. So I will meekly follow suit. And no doubt they are right. The site faces north-east, so this way there is probably going to be a better distribution of light across the rows. But that’s the fun of this garden. There are no real rules. I may go diagonally next year. Or even lengthwise and wavy. What about hoeing I hear John (my father in law) cry. And he is right. Hoeing is going to be the major task of this plot. Something I can’t imagine right now as there is only clay, mud and clods. Not to mention waist high weeds.

Woke up this morning and realised that I didn’t need to turn the earth where the central path is going to go. Must remember to pace it out and make little wooden markers next visit. Which I think is tomorrow morning – mind you it is only 2C today, so twill be chill.

Received my root trainers and cloves of ‘printanor’ garlic cloves today. I have planted up 20 broad bean seeds and placed them upstairs in a propagator. Will study the form on the spring planted garlic and see when is the best time to plant.

Vegetable: Broad Bean Aquadulce
How many?: 12
How planted?: Rootrainers
Notes: In warm heated room, then on top floor

Vegetable: Broad Bean The Sutton
How many?: 4
How planted?: Rootrainers
Notes: In warm heated room, then on top floor

It’s official. We are allotment holders. Had our first ceremonial turning of the first sod today. Or is it the first turf? Anyway. Felt great. Yesterday was spent purchasing a gleaming fork from Camden Garden Centre (plus fripperies such as Nicola potatoes). Naturally I didn’t have my master list of ‘recommended varieties’ with me, and chose badly. But there were only 10 tubers, so even if they are bland, they won’t swamp the site. This morning we had the 11am meeting with the real allotment holder – a friendly but fey lady named Jana. She only managed to work about ten feet of the whole site last year and was feeling a bit fragile. Naturally our bright eyed and bushy tailed demeanour wasn’t well received. But she is keen to help out and gave us a key to the immaculate little shed on the site. The lock has already been forced by vandals, so you can actually prise it open using the screws attached to the lock, but never mind. I’m just relieved there will be somewhere for me to have a discrete pee. Into a bucket and onto the compost heap someone helpfully told me in my question as to whether the site had public loos.

We have unearthed a third of the site today. It was covered with a massive carpet. Obviously the previous owners had redone their wall to wall carpeting in their home, as the amount of stuff on the ground is phenomenal. And phenomenally heavy. Thank goodness David was there to haul on the other end of the sodden material. I couldn’t have budged it. But we have unearthed a clean part of the garden, and moved the carpet to strangle some weeds down ‘David’s end’. He has to have his own patch or There Will Be Words. My ideas on raised beds are still being met with excoriating comment. Sigh. Tomorrow I shall head out there on the tube to Brent Cross with my shiny, shiny fork, and lots of protective clothing. We positively clayed up our climbing trousers today with our brief work. I want to dig over the exposed site and then have a look at the next third.
Shall go to sleep dreaming of chitting potatoes. Funny how such an active word actually just applies to popping potato tubers into egg boxes and keeping them on the kitchen window sill. Why then is forking over the plot more akin to heavy lifting and bench pressing huge weights when it actually sounds like forking pasta onto a serving platter?

Well I am very, very close to becoming a gardener. I have paid my 75 pence and become a member of the Golders Green Allotment Association. Miss Sinclair is a paid up member and one week away from getting my plot.

Went up this morning to meet the Allotment Secretary so he could show us where the garden would be and turned left at the shop. What a plot. 25 metres long and five metres wide. Chock full of weeds, but there has been protective layer of carpet and plastic over most. Some couch grass surging through of course. But it looks promising. The shed is a political issue. Of course, and I do have to share with the current owner Jana, who has worked a third of the plot already. What I hadn’t bargained on was having to share with my husband. He has become more enthused than I am. And I feel engulfed. He has strong opinions on raised beds, what to grow and how to weed. And like a fragile flower I have crumpled under his strong opinions. This is my idea I squeak. I have worked on this for months, and years. And just knowing that someone is going to object to my designs has felled me. Tears already.

But to be positive. The plot is long and very well positioned. It has two large fruit trees (wait unit summer and you will find out what sort) two dilapidated compost bins, lots of thistles, couch grass and a threat of bindweed. The last ten metres at the end belongs to the current owner, Jana, plus her shed.

There is evidence of raised beds on a quarter of the plot. So if I can lift those planks I may be able to salvage them. No idea what the soil is like – but I found a fat juicy worm under one corner of the carpet that I dared to lift when David Braeburn was showing us around. Naturally a soil testing kit is something else to be added to the list of Things To Buy at the Garden Centre. I’m going to try and keep to a budget for this wonderful hobby. But naturally expensive tools are something that one can’t avoid.

We went to the little shop at the entrance to the site (what a cornucopia of products) to fill in the form to join the association. And it was so solemn that I felt like I should have been dubbed with a branch of couch grass to induct me into the world of gardening. One week to wait and it may be mine.

David is so fired up about ‘our’ allotment that he even consented to watch a gardening programme over dinner. He managed about fifteen minutes before Alan Titchmarsh’s antics really put him off. We turned over to Big Brother instead. I guess you have to get used to the man. Not going at him cold like poor David did. I get the feeling he will prefer the austere and dictatorial tone of Monty Don. But I don’t think I can get him to fall for another programme for a while.

Flush with my swag of Christmas gifts – two sets of trowels and forks; Sarah Raven’s Garden Diary, The Great Vegetable Plot and an obscene number of back issues of Grow Your Own, and Kitchen Garden monthly it was natural that I was fretting on the phone call from the Allotment Secretary. He has mentioned that I would find out how far up the waiting list I had leapt in the New Year. But January 8th was as late as I could manage.

Called. He couldn’t promise any news until March. But then rang back and suggested I might be able to share a plot with someone who had taken on a large allotment and couldn’t cope. I must have sounded lukewarm in my response as I had visions of bickering over space with someone. But I agreed to speak to the mystery woman named Jana – a Czech woman from Swiss Cottage (another Camden long wait list resident).

She agreed in theory over the phone and I whooped for joy. As did David who had crept down the stairs to listen in to my nervous phone call.  He knew that if I missed out this year there would be Bleatings For Us To Move. So he was hoping that I would be assuaged by this bit of garden. Sadly not outside the French windows, but a 30 minute commute out into the hinterland. That’s Brent Cross to you.  The allotment site (officially called Hospital Fields) is massive. Over 180 allotment holders have their assorted cages, glasshouses, sheds, and crops in varying degrees of disorder up there. I had already gone on a site visit in October to meet the genial Secretary and try and position my plight closer to the top of the waiting list.  I had no hope of getting a full plot; and just wished for something away from the heaving traffic of the North Circular highway just outside the gates. It was a lottery but I felt keen for any patch of soil.

Another phone call to Jana who has agreed in a formal admittance that the plot is too much and she won’t want more than the quarter she managed to cultivate last year. And since then I have been walking around in a daze, stupid grin on my face and full of plans. Naturally I haven’t even seen the plot yet – we go next Sunday morning – but I’m planning raised beds, investigating damp proof membrane options, thinking about whom I can borrow a cordless drill, and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

Naturally I’m terrified that I will lose interest and let everyone down. My father in law is as excited as I am right now.  And I am naturally behaving oddly. How else can you explain ordering tons of seeds over the internet (click of a button and you are the proud owner of 10 kilos of seed potatoes), and lugging 25 litres of compost all the way from Kentish Town to home just because it was reduced in price.  Those flat packs of compost are deliciously deceptive. It says 25 litres (mental picture of how many kettles of water that weighs), but it looks so tidy and flat. Surely it won’t weigh a ton. But oh yes it does. First few minutes you lug it with confidence and awkward gait, but then the pack starts to go floppy in your arms and feels like 25 kilos instead. You start to curse the fact that your current garden is on the roof of a house four storeys high. And a further 15 minutes walk away.  Finally home. The cursed compost is sitting in the living room on the first floor. And won’t make its journey to the much needed and half empty Tasmanian snow gum eucalyptus tree until it stops raining and my arms stop aching.

As part of my investigation to see about treated wood planks and those elusive jiffy cells up at Homebase, Finchley Road, (the big DIY and garden store) I naturally find about 15 packets of seeds reduced to 50p in a huge jumble of a bin. Exactly the same varieties as the ones I paid almost £2 over the internet for that very morning. Grrr.

Elli took one look at my box of seeds and asked me ‘Are you planning a garden or a farm?’

Bliss; I have the whole afternoon ahead of me to study the books and get the information (a surfeit) into one place. I have found my old Mulberry filofax diary – gorgeous battered brown leather, and will use that. Sections for Vegetables, Monthly Tasks, Planting Schemes and Notes.  So far I am mining all the tips from Sarah Raven’s books, but will have a look at Joy Larkcom, Pippa Greenwood, and perhaps Monty Don as well. Needless to say I have become a pathetic devourer of Kitchen Garden magazine and Grow Your Own. All I’m growing at the moment are mountains of notes and post it notes in between the pages of learned texts. Perhaps if all goes well on Sunday I shall be doing my manuring and digging and raised beds soon.

David has come up with the name for my allotment. Sq Gardens. Very sweet.