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| Compiled by Dr. Beth Gott of the School of Biological Sciences, Monash University. |
Basically what I do is take note of the Seasons, and then haphazardly do stuff that is based around them. Crazy stuff. Like sing around old trees (oh alright, maybe only in the spring and summer.... when the weather is nice ;-)
When I was a child, it was either good weather or bad weather. I grew up in Melbourne, Australia, and Crowded House have written a song about living there called 4 Seasons in One Day. Melbourne can seriously manifest these crazy weather patterns in a single day. So I never really took note of the seasons at all. As it turns out, this was probably a relatively sensible thing to do. Everyone was trying to tell me that Melbourne has four seasons, but the native population documented at least six.
Now that I've moved to the Northern Hemisphere, apart from recognising all the flora and fauna from my childhood fairy tales suddenly popping up in the backyard, I have also noted the onset of the seasons. And in particular, the pagan calendar wheel which celebrates 8 distinct periods over event year.
This can be loads and loads of fun - many major religions base their festivals around these calendrical points too, but i tend to take the whole religious aspect with a pinch of salt (although if I spill some I throw it over my left shoulder whilst reciting random snippets from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings...;-)
So Beltane approaches us, May 1, and this is one of the first years where I've honestly felt like I've slipped back to Medieval England with regard to the weather patterns. Spring normally arrived at the end of February but this year it has taken absolute ages to come. Fianlly, the daffodils have ended their blooming and the bluebells are budding. Time to get to the allotment!
David and I have now had an allotment for about 3 years. Our local council wants to build a series of flats over the top of them and claims that this will somehow benefit the building of a new hospital (erm... they'll be flats.... not hospital wards... come again?). Our Mayor, Dorothy Thornhill, is a Liberal Democrat cum Autocrat and I have ceased to have any desire to vote for her party as a result. I mean, David and I have only had our plot for a few years, but some people have been cultivating their patch for over 25 years!! Nothing can ever compensate them if the plots are taken away!
Don't even get me started on how important the allotments are with regard to being a haven for the local wildlife in the area! David and I found a species of endangered bumble bees nesting in our compost a couple of years back. Bet THAT isn't ever taken into consideration when they parcel off our "derelict" land. Derelict INDEED Dorothy. Go back to Kansas, we don't want you here no more (but we'll keep Toto, coz he's a blameless cute puppy).
It's funny, because I love gardening, but only once I am doing it. In the wintery months leading up to spring I am often wondering if I will do any gardening this year. Seriously, I cannot even get motivated until the earth defrosts and the daffodils start to bloom. And then some time in August/September, I completely lose interest again. All my careful organising flies out the window. I can't be bothered to wash pots anymore, and those that need washing are instead stacked haphazardly in plastic bins to await the following year.
What I really need is hired help, but this incarnation of my little soul is not intended to have such a life of privilege. Actually, compared to many my life is incredibly privileged and I try to remember that whenever I wish I had more. It's always a desire for more. If only I had..... yeah, yeah, and pretty soon we'll be needing that yacht, I mean, it'll be a necessity. I try to be reasonable with my dreams. A plot of land big enough to sustain David and myself, and enough cash to visit my friends and family from time to time (or enough space to put them up should they come to visit us!).
So we went to our allotment, and not having been since September last year meant I was dreading the overgrown jungle that would greet us, but, perhaps not so surprisingly considering the weather of late, it was really rather ordered. Perhaps it's because every year we dig up the grasses and throw the roots into the compost heap - most people just cut the grass (and then wonder why it keeps growing back stronger). We did tackle the blackberry's and, well, they put up a bit of a fight. I often anthropomorphise plants when they sting me or tear at my flesh. Then I cut them. Clearly I'm a closet psychopath, but see the photo as to how they treated me before you judge me too harshly. One must be ruthless, they take no prisoners.
We have created a blackberry fence, and I hope that the vines will sprout into a gorgeous produce that we will make jam. Jam that will be coloured much like the blood that it drew from my scalp. What goes around clearly comes around.
