It’s been a quiet year in South Bridlington.
One of the more simple pleasures in life is digging over an allotment. You imagine it is doing you good. Much more good than weight lifting or cross country running, neither of which seems to end up with carrots and parsnips. However, on 16th February I stumbled on a series of videos by Charles Dowding of Somerset advocating No Dig horticulture. Charles Dowding is a lovely man. The sort of enthusiast you would be pleased to know at a distance. Committed beyond reason. The videos were intriguing, but not very practical. For a standard allotment (10 poles – 1/16 acre) you need to start off with about 6 tons of compost which is spread over those areas of the ground in which you are going to grow things. Into this 5” layer of compost you just plant whatever you are going to grow, and Nature (a depersonalized Good Lord) sees to it that your produce is healthy beyond belief with not even a suggestion of chemical fertilisers ruining Nature’s providence. Feed the soil, not the plants. Whatever you do, don’t dig. Weeds pull up without effort. All you then have to do is generate another 2 tons of compost each year and keep topping up. You really need adjacent stables and shredded hedge clippings to be able to run to that quantity, but the idea of covering the surface of the plot with compost caught my imagination.
Then on 18th February severe gales lashed the E Coast. In the morning you could not see Bridlington beaches. They were covered about 3’ deep in dead and alive seals, a porpoise, lobsters, fish of various kinds and seaweed. The news reached the national news reports. At low tide you had to struggle to wade over mountains to reach the sea. They had great difficulty launching the life boat.
And my light shone. The timing must have been more than a coincidence.
I took my wheelbarrow down to the beach, discarded the porpoises, seals, and lobsters and carted a load of seaweed past the house, then the mile to the allotment. The journey takes more or less 23 minutes and 18 seconds from the gate to the compost heap. Most days I would go down at 06:00 when there were just a few dog walkers to be entertained. When the tide was in, it was always possible to go down later. The general public is more inquisitive than dog walkers who live in a contented world of their own. They needed reassuring, and seemed to be content with the explanation This will be Bridlington’s best compost heap. Strangers stopped me in the street, not having been able to work out what was going on. Well, I suppose he’s harmless.
For 44 consecutive days I carted well over a ton of seaweed and lost weight. The seaweed was supplemented by home grown weeds, and general compostable vegetable growth. It was a start. Last October I had taken delivery of about 2 tons from a manure heap from a local farm, so by mixing the 2 sources of compost material was over half way there.
You may not be able to understand how much sheer pleasure the exercise generated. 9 months later 4 of the 5 raised beds are covered in compost, with more waiting to be applied once the crops are finished and the ground is clear. Meanwhile, in spite of having been dug over, the rest of the ground has been producing food prolifically. Apart from carrots which I can now confidently expect will be as big as parsnips next year.
At a more personal level, I had been much troubled about what to do with Judy’s ashes. They were kept in the drawer of my desk which I would open periodically, say Hello, sunshine and then close. Perhaps this was a bit unseemly. The Neighbours might not understand. Eventually I decided to take them down to Totnes and put them in my father’s grave on the anniversary of our getting engaged to be married on July 3rd 1964. As the day drew near it seemed a bit ridiculous. A latter day version of sending her off to be out of the way at Wharfedale Children’s hospital. And then my light shone. She would be promoted to the drawer of her own desk, at which she spent many happy hours. I would be promoted in turn to using her room. I could (and do) still greet her every so often, and then … and this is the masterpiece … Phil and Alison would be commissioned to find somewhere to put us both with those most excellent words They were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their death they were not divided. Maybe not always lovely, but generally pleasant. You will doubtless recall that the quotation goes onthey were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. It will possibly be best to leave that bit out. But where will we put you both? Don’t care as long as you smile in memory.
As the year unfolded I wanted to see Phil again. He is still hiding in Berlin. I would cycle up the Rhine and we would meet at some accessible town. Bridlington would be even quieter than usual. The Hull-Rotterdam ferry was booked and we settled on Strasburg.
In order to prepare, I spent much of the summer cycling all over the E Riding, trying to come to terms with 2 separate satnav systems that would help solve my navigational problems. This was a thoroughly good experience in itself. The Yorkshire Wolds are a world apart with plenty of hills and deserted villages, but not mountains. I could still get hopelessly lost with the aid of the satnavs, but local buses will take bikes, so as long as you can find a bus route, you can cycle without a care. During the practice rides, one day I came across a recently killed pheasant and another one a hare. They were both delicious.
A fortnight before leaving P&O sent an email saying the Dutch don’t want us, you will have to quarantine. Essential travel only. However, the French were not so fussy. Much to my surprise, Strasburg is in France. After a furious rescheduling exercise I booked a ferry crossing from Dover-Calais Through many dangers, toils and snares I reached Strasburg with days to spare and continued on to Basel. The whole enterprise is documented in Silly old fool. It was good seeing Phil again, and also good to know that there’s life in the old dog yet. Next year Vienna or Milan.
Silly old fool is available on request. It does go on, though.
jbrip 