Afternoon:
15°c
It's just a week since I heard my Fulham plot had been shortlisted for the local London Allotment Competition. The final judging by a Royal Horticultural Society rep is taking place as I write and I'm proud to be among the chosen few out of a field of 410.
Four months ago I took on a barren piece of land and, with help from family, friends and fellow allotmenteers, it's now a showpiece and may win a cup.
This is my Chelsea Flower Show moment. I'm very cool, of course. But I'm there all weekend studying it through new eyes. The gone-to-seed red and green lettuces are statuesque but may lose me points. They show poor forecasting and bad gardening practice. Will the discreetly placed birdbath be noticed and valued as environmentally friendly? Will the truss of 22 shining Berry tomatoes last?
I discuss it all with an old allotment pro. “Listed all your plants?” he asks, suspecting that I haven't. “Don't worry,” he smiles and strides back to his also short-listed plot. “You, Joanna. You've been shortlisted,” says another. “We haven't.” I know the plot in question. It is beautiful and established but I am not to question the whys. I feel an arm on mine and through it the disappointment. “Your plot is special,” I reassure.
I know the hurdles I've got through. Plus points for this, minus for the other. The vegetable count is vital. General upkeep noted.
Horticultural snakes and ladders played havoc with my chart as I double-checked before submitting. Pride is at stake as we are judged and judge each other.
But there's been trouble too. Currently, cucumber thieving is rife. Only days ago and just two plots away from mine lettuces vanished, a courgette plant was stripped bare. One year, water tanks were slashed during a dry spell.
Water flooded a plot. A week later, I saw the victim. He just shrugged his shoulders. We move on.
Now it's the eve of the final judging and I rush down to put finishing touches to my plot. At first glance it looks lush and colourful against the fading light. I walk the boundaries. It seems odd that a vanilla marigold, strategically planted to keep aphids off the beans, has lost a head. I cradle the fallen flower, cursing vermin. My Portuguese neighbour gave me onion sets earlier in the year. “Bigger, better,” he assured me. “My mother, she sends them from Portugal.” The bulbs are squashed lopsidedly into the ground, the leaves smashed. A tell-tale footmark either side sends a fearful shiver down my spine.
Feeling sick, I see a Black Beauty dahlia uprooted and on its side. My only flowering lavateria lies limp and horizontal inches from the hole it flourished in earlier. A still flowering courgette is snapped off its stem. I try to think fox or squirrel but it's the eve of the judging and the footprint is there.
Stunned, I text my allotment friends. I threaten to give everything up. “Who needs this?” I shout to the darkening skies. Texts flood back. “Your plot's the most beautiful,” I read. “Come and see me when you're next down,” writes another and I know I'll soon be sitting on a bench discussing the latest “beat the slug” theory, joking about the cucumber thief and planning a watchguard sleepover.
It can be tough down at the plots but we're there for each other. We win through.
The Three-Year Allotment Notebook by Joanna Cruddas, photographs by Edwina Sassoon, is published by Frances Lincoln at £12.99
