Paulclem
A Spring Walk to the Allotment
by , 05-27-2010 at 07:31 PM (2463 Views)
Two weeks ago on Friday evening, I was riding home on my bike ready for another couple of days of rest when I heard the tell tale shuffle of rubber on metal. Glancing down I noticed that the back wheel, rather than rotating smoothly, was jerking from side to side as it went round. There was no doubt about it: it was buckled.
My second best bike had, the previous year, had the same problem, and, with my third best bike - which I was and still am getting rid of – also buckled – I had three bikes all with buckled back wheels. My local bike shop doesn’t take repairs on a Friday and Saturday, and so, there was no doubt about it, I was walking to my allotment come Saturday.
Allotments were set up in WW2 by local authorities to allow local people to cheaply rent a small piece of land upon which to grow vegetables. They are dotted around towns and cities these days, and had declined in use in the 70’s and 80’s. Now, with the push for more locally grown produce, organic gardening and awareness of the benefits of eating more fruit and vegetables, they are very popular again. So on Saturday, armed with a pot full of young leeks to plant out, I set off to the allotment.
This winter was the worst it has been for 30 years, and this was followed by a surprisingly cold spring. As a consequence, all the flowers were delayed. As I set off, early May still held a glorious display of my Wife’s tulips, daffodils and forget-me-nots in the front garden. The cold, dry spell seemed to have preserved them all together, as it did my neighbour's apple blossom.
Turning onto the stretch of green belt, I passed the elegant cherry with its lush crop of blossom still snowing from the branches. Beyond that the stretch of field, which hadn’t been cut yet, hosted a multitude of dandelions, daisies and speedwell which seemed to mimic the near perfect weave of a Turkish carpet. Beyond these, the prominent spikes of the horse chestnut in flower could clearly be seen.
I passed the small stream bordered by various trees, but the fragrance of the Mayflower is what lingered in the sultry air. This year, the Mayflower, or Hawthorne, was much later than its April arrival last year. Small tight buds were clustered next to variously opened flowers in a stunning display, and beneath these the pretty white umbellifers of Hemlock belied their pungent, mouse urine smell by seeming to hover above the undergrowth of the hedges.
As I left the green belt for the road to the allotment gates, I was struck by how beautiful the trees and bushes had turned out in the neat gardens along the way.
The track into the allotment once again took me away from the grumble of vehicles outside and into the tranquillity of the out of the way by-ways in which many allotments are located.
Of course I always knew it was a wonderful walk to the allotment, often walking there for the 20 or so minutes it takes me with my wife. But this day I was almost pleased that had buckled yet another back wheel, and, if it hadn’t been for the cost of repairs, I would have said that I was delighted by the misfortune.
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