A wet West Country Weekend might, on the face of it, have promised little in the way of gardening opportunities, but Sunday was Potato Day, the Horticultural Hajj for the gardeners of Cary.  It is that time of the year when the green fingered pilgrims make their way through the wind and rain to the car park at Caryford Hall, before entering the door to the Holy of Holies: the rectangular table of seed potatoes.  Once inside, the devotees of the tuber huddle and queue around the hallowed trugs.

And so we stood there in line, wicker baskets on arms, brown paper bags and crayons in hand, ready to pick the choicest chitters.  We shuffled along, hardly daring to look ahead in case there were not enough King Edwards or Belle de Fontenay to go round.  We were worried that, although the opening time was advertised as 10.30, it was clear that some early worshippers had stolen a march on the rest of the gardening fraternity, leaving with bags bulging as we arrived shortly after the half past. Sadly there were no B de F’s so we had to hang on for Swift instead as our First Early.  The thought of trying to go back up the line against the slow-moving mass of potato fans was not one I wished to contemplate. (In other Hajj’s there have been stampedes and mass fatalities caused by less important issues).

Of course there are other subtle differences between this pilgrimage and the Hajj which kicks off annually in Mecca.  In this particular ceremony there is a differing direction of prayer (clockwise instead of counter-clockwise), and while there is no need for the pilgrims to run back and forth between the hills of Safa and Marwah, there is a fair amount of running between car and hall door in the pouring rain.  Disciples do not need to drink from the Zamzam Well, but teas, coffees and light refreshments were on sale in aid of Macmillan Cancer Care.  The equivalent of standing vigil on the plains of Mount Arafat will come later when the potatoes are chitting – as the green-fingered check them each day or week to see those shoots growing in their little eff boxes, while spending a night in the plain of Muzalifa and throwing symbolic stones at the Devil will be mirrored in the actions of gardeners throwing projectiles at the neighbours’ cats or dogs to discourage them from doing their own digging and fertilising in the newly dug veg patch.

Happy Chitting.

No Belle de Fontenay?

Some happy Pilgrims

Voices Raised in Welcome, Hands Held in Prayer

Dark wet days post-Christmas and we all need a bit of cheering up.  Now is the time to plan for those longer summer days so I ditched the travel supplements, holiday brochures and flight planners and went and ordered my seeds for the prospective vegetable patch.

This year I decided to order locally from one of our local suppliers: Pennard Plants.  Their seeds are cheaper than the big boys which could partly be because there are fewer seeds in the packet. But since the average packet of runner bean seeds from Suttons would give you more wigwams than Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse combined, I think I should still have enough plants for the allotment.  Fewer seeds – less waste.

They had New Year 25% special offer, were delivered within a couple of days and look quirky and fun in their packaging.  The heritage and heirloom varieties are intriguingly named and should be interesting to grow.

Beatles songs have been on my radar this week with Ron Howard’s documentary of the Touring Years shown on Friday reminding me of the brilliance of their work, as if to confirm what moved Bruno Tonioli to tears on Desert Island Discs over “There are Places I Remember”.

The lyrics came to mind for me when I was refurbishing one of my mobile phones for The Old Man and I was diverted by the photos on the memory card. They dated from 2011 through to 2013.  Times when Fudgey dog had a black muzzle, VB was celebrating her 16th and a herd of heifers destroyed the Old Man’s Brussels.

It was in 2012 that we started to take on the Old Man’s garden.  But it is not pics of the lavender that we planted that evoke the strong memories: it is the pictures of VB on sports day and JB Jr being dropped off at Liverpool uni for his first year.  And most significantly the photos of Mrs B in chemotherapy, being treated for nutropenia, and undergoing autologous stem cell transplant: these are the images that drag up the strongest feelings.  But in between the bad times there was the hope that 2012 engendered when we welcomed the world to London for the olympics and Barack Obama was president of the USA.  There was a sense that the world could become a better place.

Upheavals in the past year for me could have challenged any lingering positivity, with changes of jobs, moving house and ailing parents, not to mention the idiocy of our political systems and world leaders.  But strangely the memories from 2012 of spending our silver wedding anniversary in an isolation ward in Musgrove Park, as Mrs B’s stem cells worked to re-colonise her system, remind me (if I need it) that I am a lucky man.  We have our health, and we have happiness in our new home while our two little ‘uns start out on professional careers as teacher and (in a few months’ time) doctor.

2018 promises more challenges, but we will take them in our stride, Mrs B and I, and we know there will be plenty of good times and laughs.  It will all be OK.

“And I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about themIn my life I loved you more”