Spring!

There’s one day in the year when you suddenly realise that Spring has arrived. That day was today. And not before time. It’s been a long, cold winter and it’s about time we saw some sunshine. Although we’ve had a few sunny days lately, it’s been jolly cold, but this morning was appreciably warmer, birds sang louder, people were out and about without their coats and as the day wore on I became distinctly aware of that emblematic sound of approaching summer: the distant – and not quite so distant – hum of lawnmowers. Even though the clocks haven’t yet gone back, already the evenings seem lighter. I’m not sure it’s time to put the potatoes in just yet, though.

* * *

We’ve had a weird series of unfortunate – and apparently unrelated – events with our plumbing over the past week. What started with a small leak in the shower quickly turned into a burst radiator on the landing, then the water softener started to make a strange roaring sound – so much so, I had to turn the water off at the mains every time I wanted to make a phone call. On Thursday morning I came downstairs to a distinct damp patch on the kitchen ceiling, and an ominous dripping sound outside. This week I’ve seen more of Erik the plumber than I have of my own husband. It doesn’t look good.

“I can’t ring Erik again,” I said to Paul as he disappeared off to work, “he’s going to start thinking I’m stalking him.”

Thankfully, I was on Erik’s list of house calls, and he disappeared up into the loft to sort out the pipework, reappearing again to sort out another problem with the shower and fix another radiator valve that had inexplicably gone wrong, probably wishing he hadn’t popped round in the first place. It seems we’re not the only people in the village to be suffering an unexplained rash of plumbing problems at the moment – another symptom of the relentlessy long, harsh winter – and Erik’s services are much in demand.

Erik is tirelessly cheerful and efficient (and thankfully he doesn’t whistle, unlike the plumber we had at our last house. Whenever Tony came round to fix something or other, this eerie whistling sound would echo and reverberate spookily around the house through the copper pipes. I used to think to myself that, if the plumbing work dried up he would always be able to find work providing soundtracks for Spaghetti Westerns). Still, every cloud has a silver lining – even plumbing-related ones. I’ve now learnt how to fix recalcitrant radiator valves (you give them a swift tap with a hammer) and get stubborn limescale stains off a shower cartridge (boil it up in a pan of Sarson’s White Vinegar), and I can now find my way confidently around the plumbing section of the Screwfix catalogue. But that’s probably enough about me and my plumbing…

* * *

The allotment is beckoning. At the moment, it looks a bit bleak and sparse. I’ve given up trying to dig all the weed roots out, but I went out for some more seed potatoes from Nurden’s Garden Centre in Malmesbury (excellent cafe there, too, if you ever find yourself feeling peckish on the A429) – if you haven’t already got yours, I suggest you nip down there pretty sharpish, they’re nearly all gone – and I’m ready to go with my onion sets if I get a chance amid all the doubless lavish Mothers’ Day activity my family has doubtless got in store for me tomorrow…

And it’s the annual Allotment Inspection on Tuesday, April 6th – a time-honoured tradition enshrined in Great Somerford's Enclosure Act of 1806, when it was laid down that the allotments should be allocated Yearly and every Year on the Tuesday in Easter Week.

I’d better get my spade out, then.

And some more good news – I’m going to be a Compost Ambassador for Wiltshire Wildlife Trust. Well, let’s face it – it’s probably the only kind of ambassador anyone will ever ask me to be. The allotment holders are probably finding it difficult to contain their excitement at the thought of the Ambassador spoiling them with news of new and improved compost containers, ways of avoiding embarrassing ‘compost slime’ and getting tiptop compost out of even the least promising bits of garden rubbish.

Don’t ever say there are no perks to having an allotment in Great Somerford.

* * *

PS I’m afraid it seems I was misinformed about the would-be shop robbers – it turns out the Police didn’t catch them after all, but at least they didn’t get away with anything, and I guess it’s unlikely they’ll be back in a hurry.

Michelmas

Sorry it's been a while - I've had a lot going on: the rest of the potatoes to dig, several barrowloads of fruit and vegetables to deal with, a visit from my mother, a christening, and a Very Big Wedding Indeed. It's a good job I managed to pick some blackberries yesterday, as after Michelmas the Devil is supposed to spit on them. Or worse.

Lovely John D showed me my new allotment yesterday. At least I think there was an allotment there somewhere beneath all the weeds.

"How much to you want?" he asked me.

I tried to plump for an amount somewhere between a size that wouldn't be too daunting, yet wouldn't seem ungrateful. It wasn't easy. Anyway, John in his kindness has offered to dig it over for me. Just this once. But after that, all that mares' tail will be mine, all mine.

The new landlords moved into the Volly last week (although I'm not sure Arkells has got round to updating the website yet). Francois is French and used to be a chef on the QE2, so I have high hopes for the food. Olives and dipping oil have been mentioned... Mike comes from just over the border in Gloucestershire, but I don't think we should hold that against him. He has a working cocker spaniel called Eddie with a full tail, so he must be all right. Actually, it probably means he's a bit mad.

Alex, who's not quite eleven, spotted Adam walking down there on Friday evening to check it out, and grabbed his bike.

"I'm just popping down to the pub with Adam, Mum."

I've made Mike promise not to serve him for seven more years. Which may well be an improvement on previous service.

Phew!

Dispite the gloomy forecast, the weather was actually fine for the big allotments birthday-party picnic this weekend, and everything went - well, better actually - than expected. That morning, under a glowering September sky, Sid, John, Jackie and I had hoisted up a couple of gazebos in case of the odd shower, and later that afternoon, over a hundred allotment-holders and villagers turned out bringing hampers, rugs, bags, rucksacks - and in one case, a picnic in a wheelbarrow - to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the oldest allotments in the country.

The birthday itself had actually been a couple of weeks earlier - an even gloomier day, as it turned out. I didn't even go down to the allotments that day, but managed a blustery walk with Brown Dog past the old rectory, where the reverend Stephen Demainbray would have arrived back hot and tired, no doubt, after his long ride from the Angel Hotel in Chippenham where he'd signed the papers which assigned over eight acres of land over in perpetuity to those poor cottagers, parishioners of and residing in Great Somerford otherwise Broad Somerford, due regard being had for the number in family of such poor exactly 200 years ago.



It was a lovely afternoon, and all the better for being quite informal, without any speeches or ceremony, and we ate and drank and talked among the waving trees and fat cabbages until the sun went down.



Cake was shared, sandwiches passed round, someone found some cricket stumps, old friends were remembered and in one case, a friendship of over 30 years was renewed...



I think Stephen Demainbray would have approved.

Feeling smug as a slug in a spud

It’s almost been like Spring Watch at our place this week, although admittedly it’s the wrong time of year and we haven’t got Bill Oddie in a hide down the bottom of the garden. Alex’s friend has got a hedgehog in his garden, and she’s just produced a couple of tiny, prickly babies. As far as we can see, there’s at least two, although we don’t want to get too close.

And as I walked over to Little Somerford to pick up my car from Richard on Friday, I noticed a pair of velvety ears poking up through a sea of barley in one of the fields by the railway line. A young faun, which could only have been a couple of meters away, suddenly noticed he was not alone and turned tail, bouncing gracefully away towards cover. The dog, at silly mid-off, gave chase, but he wasn’t nearly quick or tall enough – his wildly flailing ears bounced ridiculously through the long grass before he reluctantly gave up the ghost.

Later that day, Alex found what looked like a very fat tube-web spider under the sofa. We spooned it up into his magnifying bug viewer where it obligingly laid an enormous egg, which it wrapped up into a parcel. I’m not sure how the baby spiders are supposed to get out when they do eventually emerge – it says in our spider book that spiderweb is stronger than steel rope, once it’s had a chance to harden. Still, I suppose it must know what it’s doing. We’ll keep you posted.

Down on the allotments this evening, several dusky black swifts were skimming the veg patches while I dug up the last of my early potatoes. Swifts are only here for a few short months and apparently never land on the earth – if they did, they wouldn’t be able to take off again, they even sleep on the wing. I’ve been growing veg for a little while now, but I still never cease to find it amazing how just four little seed potatoes tucked away in a corner of Adam and Cheryl’s allotment can somehow manage to produce all this. I really didn’t do an awful lot – just popped down whenever I remembered and raked up the soil a couple of times.

I pedalled back home, feeling slightly smug and wobbling slightly under the weight of all my spuds, where I rustled up a courgette quiche (thanks Cheryl for the courgettes and Suzy for the eggs). I popped some of my freshly dug potatoes on to boil with a couple of sprigs of mint, marvelling at how clever I’d been to rustle up such a quick, delicious meal with just about everything sourced from less than a mile away (ok, the flour and the butter did come from Somerfield). This, surely, was what the good life was all about. It was only towards the end of supper when the rude awakening came. I’ll give you a clue – what’s the one thing that’s possibly worse than finding a slug in your dinner? That’s right: finding half a slug.

I take a little comfort from Dr Mark Porter’s comments on Case Notes earlier this week to the effect that stomach acid is actually stronger than car-battery acid, and therefore better at dissolving things. However, I’ve suddenly gone right off home-grown veg.

The permissive society...

No, no – the Naked Rambler hasn’t yet reached these parts – at least, if he has, he hasn’t been spotted by me – I’m talking about permissive footpaths and the excellent news that we now have a new permissive footpath leading from the entrance to the Show Ground to the Red Hatches footbridge along the banks of the River Avon.



One of the very best things about living here is the impressive number of footpaths that wander lazily through some of the area’s loveliest scenery. There may not be many hills, or dramatic cliffs or prehistoric monuments as in other parts of the county, but there’s something very English about the tussocky rolling meadows that flank the meandering Bristol Avon as it wends its gentle way through the Somerfords, and the abundance of wildlife – both flora and fauna – to be found here. This time of year, the countryside is at its best: the Old Rectory's mighty candle-bedecked horse chestnuts dipping into the shallow river; hedgerows lined with frothy blackthorn, may and cow parsley, and if you’re lucky you might catch a glimpse of a young deer or two darting back into the cover by the old railway line, the turquoise flash of a kingfisher or a little owl flitting from a gnarled old hawthorn to the safety of the trees of Peter’s Wood.

* * *

View from the allotments
Well, strictly speaking, this isn’t exactly a view FROM the allotments, so much as from the footpath THROUGH the allotments. Peering enviously over the serried ranks of runner bean poles, usually in the direction of Bernard’s asparagus, which is coming along nicely, and – thanks to Bernard’s generosity (well either that, or his uncanny ability to recognise a heavily dropped hint when he sees one) – I can also personally vouch for its exceptional deliciousness.



There I was thinking a seat on the Parish Council would be a passport directly to allotment heaven, but No Siree. No nepotism in this village (well, if there is, I haven’t managed to sniff it out yet. although be warned – no stone will be left unturned, no gatepost left unsniffed, appropriate measures taken and legs cocked accordingly). The trouble is, I’m being a bit fussy. I’ve asked for a plot up by the shop – well, you never know when you might feel the need for a packet of Bombay Mix or a Farmer’s Weekly, and when the urge strikes, it has to be addressed quickly – and the only free one seems to be smothered in weeds, which will need dousing thoroughly with John’s weedkilling apparatus (come on, John – chop chop, I haven’t got all year…)

But thanks to the kindness of strangers (well, not exactly strangers – I have to confess to a passing acquaintance with Adam and Cheryl over the occasional half of Moonlight in the Volly, not to mention many episodes of cat-sitting and the generous loan of a chainsaw and several hundred culinary items. Ok, ok - I know them quite well...) I’ve managed to find a temporary home for a couple of rows of early potatoes and a very small tomato plant. No takers for the rambling squash plants yet, which are currently bursting out of their seedling containers in our wood store, but I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time… They are organic, you know…