Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

Dedication

For MJ, Ellie and Richie

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER 1 Crop Idle

CHAPTER 2 By Royal Appointment

CHAPTER 3 The Ealing Project

CHAPTER 4 Read What You Sow

CHAPTER 5 iPods and Asparagus

CHAPTER 6 Chuck Berry

CHAPTER 7 Freezing in August

CHAPTER 8 Gentlemen of the Committee

CHAPTER 9 My Children and Other Pests

CHAPTER 10 Happy Bloody Christmas

CHAPTER 11 Johnny Depp at the Allotment

CHAPTER 12 Do the Mashed Potato

CHAPTER 13 Frozen Vegetables

CHAPTER 14 A Load of Shit

CHAPTER 15 Sodden, Sodding, Sod

CHAPTER 16 Here Comes the Sun

CHAPTER 17 The End is Nigh

RECIPES

Soups, Starters and Salads

Creamy Potato and Parsley Soup

Hot and Chilled Tomato Soup

French Onion Soup

Asparagus Soup

White Onion Soup with Chorizo and Herb Oil

Sweetcorn Soup

Jerusalem Artichoke Soup with Oyster Mushrooms and Truffle Oil

Toasted Goat’s Cheese Salad

Warm Tomato Tart with Rocket Salad

Asparagus Wrapped in Parma Ham with Toasted Brie

Pan-fried Goat’s Cheese with Serrano Ham, Fig and New Zealand Spinach

Chorizo and Goat’s Cheese Puff Pastry Slice with Broccoli, Mushroom and Tomato

Pan-fried Sardines with a Parsley, Lemon, Chilli and Red Onion Vinaigrette

Crispy Squid with Fennel, Tomato and Lemon Coleslaw

Couscous with Red Onion, Parsley, Courgette and Mint

Salmon Skewers with Marjoram and Red Peppercorns

MJ’s Warm Salad of Spinach, Chicken and Blue Cheese

Panzanella-style Salad with Tomato and Little Gem Lettuce

Warm Chorizo Salad with Rocket, Little Gem, Oven-dried Tomato and Parmesan

Thai-style Beef Salad

Vegetable Dishes

Broad Beans with Fried Potatoes, Garlic and Pancetta

Courgettes à la Francaise

Stir-fried Purple Sprouting Broccoli with Garlic, Ginger and Chilli

Fried Green Tomaytos (not tomaaahtoes)

Pea Purée with Chervil and Tarragon

Stir-fried Brussels Sprouts with Bacon, Carrot, Parsnip and Chestnuts

Creamy Leeks Baked with Rosemary and Goat’s Cheese

Beetroot Baked in Foil

Beetroot Sorbet

Root Vegetable Mash

Onion Purée

Root Vegetables Roasted with Garlic, Duck Fat and Thyme

Caramelised Shallots

Roast Potatoes

Vegetable Samosas

Crushed New Potatoes

Garlic Flat Bread

Oven-dried Tomatoes

Main Courses

Pumpkin and Ricotta Ravioli with Sage Butter

Roasted Pepper Stew with Red Onion, Sausage, Tomato and Courgette

Mushroom Risotto with Parsnip Purée and Parsnip Crisps

Smoked Haddock Risotto with Sweetcorn and Spring Onions

Smoked Haddock Fishcakes with Parsley Sauce and Fried Egg

Scallops Baked in the Shell with Carrot, Leek and Shallot

Grilled Cider-cured Salmon with Potato Salad

Whole Roasted Trout with Chard, Bacon and Mushrooms

Fish Pie

Grilled Sea Bass on Stir-fried Lettuce with a Coconut and Basil Broth

Tangy Grilled Chicken with Spicy Coleslaw

Sheila’s Marinated Chicken Drumsticks

Tea-smoked Chicken Breast on Vegetable and Noodle Stir Fry

One-pot Chicken and Vegetable Stew

Mum’s Pork Belly Curry

Lamb Stew with Allotment Vegetables and Spinach and Ricotta Dumplings

Spinach and Ricotta Dumplings

Dilly’s Sri Lankan Curry

Sri Lankan Curry Powder

Slow-roasted Shoulder of Lamb Studded with Garlic and Rosemary

Doug’s Prize-winning Moussaka

Braised Ox Cheek with Dauphinoise Potatoes

Preserves and Sauces

Pickled Red Cabbage

Courgette Pickle

Green Tomato Chutney

Green Tomato Salsa with Spring Onion and Green Chilli

Tomato and Chilli Jam

Aubergine, Tomato and Coriander Salsa

Red Onion Jam

Strawberry Jam

Mint Sauce

Cucumber, Green Tomato and Mint Raita

Pesto

Herb Oil

Flavoured Butter

Granny’s Vinaigrette

Beurre Blanc

Neil’s Sweet Chilli Dipping Sauce

Easy Tomato Pasta Sauce

Desserts and Sweet Things

Steamed Spiced Plum and Walnut Sponge

Roasted Plums

Mum’s Apple Snow

Emergency White Chocolate Cheesecake with Summer Berries

Berries Dipped in White Chocolate

Mum’s Meringue Cake

Crème Anglaise

Warm Baked Victoria Sponge with Red Berries and Whipped Cream

Custard Tart with Rhubarb Compote

Hot Doughnuts with a Jam Injection

Dilly’s Bakewell Tart

MJ’s Fruit Crumbles

Anton’s Pear and Almond Croustillant with Pear Crisps

Pear Crisps

Tarte Tatin

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

Photograph by Jonathan Gregson

Photograph by Jenny Heller

Chapter 1 | Crop Idle

If the manuscript for this book ever falls into the wrong hands then it may well end up as one of those dreadful reality TV shows: ‘Tonight, on the Obscurity Channel, a new, totally original show which features celebrities living off the land for a year with no supermarket back-up. Who will you vote onto the compost heap of life?’

The frustrating thing is that my children Ellie (10) and Richie (8) would probably have loved watching this show. Unfortunately for them, though, it won’t become a TV programme, which they are just required to watch. It is a family challenge and they are required to live it!

As you might expect, because I’m a professional chef, food is very high up our list of priorities at home. We spend far more money in restaurants than we do on any other form of entertainment and, at home, both my wife Mary Jane (MJ) and I devote a significant amount of time to cooking. Our weekly menus are always home-made with fresh ingredients. Despite all our good intentions, however, there is lots of room for improvement. We, like most people, buy most of our produce from the supermarket. Our children’s culinary quirks have forced seasonality off the agenda; and we have certainly made no contribution to the world of home-grown vegetables. In fact, my kids think soil is just dirt and, therefore, something to avoid. I have begun to realise that it is my job as a father (and a chef) to give my children a sound culinary education.

The children of chefs are no different to any others. When I had children, I naively assumed that the battles over food that my friends had experienced with their children would simply not happen in my home. I thought my kids would somehow be genetically programmed to yearn for stuffed breast of guinea fowl or rare grilled calves’ livers, while utterly rejecting anything in breadcrumbs that requires deep-frying. I was horribly mistaken. Ellie and Richie have both challenged my patience to the limit with their whimsical likes and, more often, dislikes, which are aired regularly at mealtimes. If one of my social duties is to give my children a love of good food, then who masterminded my own education? (Or was I just a natural?!)

The truth is that I was probably not much better. My mum is a great cook and, certainly, my more adventurous cooking is a result of her repertoire, actually the fact that her wacky cookery used to embarrass me as a child. She would never buy anything pre-prepared that required ‘20 minutes at 180 degrees’. Rather, she made everything from scratch. Worse still was the fact that she wouldn’t cook what I considered ‘normal’ food – the kind of stuff my friends were eating, like sausage and mash and burgers. Oh, no, she was busy fluffing up basmati rice or stuffing an aubergine. This simply was not very Surrey circa 1975. Nowadays, of course, this type of food is de rigeur, so I am immensely proud of her efforts and give her full credit for leading the culinary fusion revolution. I don’t often mention the humiliation my sister Ali and I felt when our friends were served up a pork belly curry …

Two other people who had a profound effect on my culinary development were my grandparents, Dick and Marjorie (two solid grandparent names, I feel). They had a lovely cottage surrounded by a large garden, in which my sister and I would spend many happy hours. Grandpa was retired and spent nearly all his time pruning shrubs, nurturing flowers or tending to the wide variety of produce he grew each year. They were entirely self-sufficient when it came to fruit and vegetables and lived strictly by the seasons. I never once knew my granny to buy anything other than the odd bit of exotica from the greengrocer (oranges, bananas or sometimes grapefruit). Otherwise every herb, salad item, soft fruit, apple, walnut, fig and a vast array of vegetables went from Grandpa’s garden down to Grandma’s kitchen. It was here that Granny, a 1930s domestic science teacher, came into her own.

I reckon Marje spent most of her life in her kitchen. She was always pickling or baking or preserving. She knew every trick in the book about utilising a harvest, and I can still taste her simple and very English cooking now when I close my eyes. Looking back as an adult with children of my own, I can appreciate how lucky I was to have known this way of life and, above all, how living by the seasons, with all that one can grow, is the ideal way to live.

I realise that their efforts were not unique. Growing vegetables was an essential part of life in those days. The post-war years were full of memories of food shortages and rationing. People were careful about waste and made the most of the seasons. Ironically, when considering this, rather than looking back and feeling sorry for a generation for whom a pineapple was a major treat, I start to feel envious of a generation who went blackberry picking when they fancied a pudding!

Seasonal eating was not a lifestyle aspiration for my grandparents; it was a natural law that governed what ended up on the dinner table. As I cruise the aisles of our local supermarket happily buying green beans from Kenya and asparagus from Peru, it dawns on me that, despite cooking professionally for 20 years, I have rather missed or forgotten the wider issues concerning food. My obsession with winning a Michelin star had all but cancelled out any thought of food miles, animal welfare, seasonal cookery or the real joy of picking something and then very simply cooking it. I realise that I should worry far more than I ever have done about where my family’s food is coming from and how it is grown.

Photograph by Paul Merrett

While acknowledging all this as the right way forwards for our family, I would not dare to suggest that I am at the forefront of change. I have sat at many a dinner party listening to people from all walks of life ‘bang on’ about food miles and globalisation, and my standard response has been to consider them the ‘brown rice and sandals’ types, and to turn the conversation to what I considered more ‘foody’ matters, such as current restaurant trends and the latest cookbooks. There is no doubt, however, that food issues are a hot topic and I have to accept that I have some ground to make up; probably the very reason for my belated conversion is that I have spent so much time in the pampered world of fine dining.

Of course, the easy option would be to buy a few books and feast on a few culinary sound bites. There are many very good books dedicated to all aspects of the great food debate and a quick check of the average politician’s fingernails will probably reveal that their new-found food policy came from a book rather than a muddy field. Well, I want my family’s love of food to be a genuine, muddy, hands-on experience – one that we will remember all our lives.

My own family lives a very busy, urban life. Our small city garden is kept as low maintenance as possible. We have a shed for our bikes, a bit of decking and a few shrubs. It’s a lovely place to sit on a summer’s evening, but we have never considered growing anything that might contribute to a meal. In fact, because of our hectic schedules, the garden is mostly ‘laid to AstroTurf’. Our real lawn had started to resemble the penalty area at Griffin Park, the home of our beloved local football team, Brentford FC, from being used for footy training by Richie and his mates. With a good deal of guilt, we replaced it with shiny plastic grass. It now looks, from a distance, like a putting green at Wentworth, and the best we could do there, food-wise, is a bowl of plastic fruit.

The more I think about it, however, the more convinced I am that my grandparent’s generation enjoyed a relationship with food that I witnessed as a child but have conveniently forgotten as an adult. Having discussed much of this with MJ, and she agreed that we might all benefit from a bit of home-grown produce, and adds that, as a family, we aren’t particularly well placed on the ‘those doing their bit to save the planet’ list. We decide we will not only try to grow our own fruit and vegetables, but also start to live a more ethical existence all round. This meeting of minds is encouraging, particularly as MJ has, up to now, been the sort of person who jumps in the car and drives 300 metres to the nearest shop.

MJ suggests we start by growing a few carrots, tomatoes and beans so that our fussy children can start to understand where their vegetables come from, how natural they are and, thus, why they are so healthy. Great point, I agree, but I indicate our lack of green space. Where will we grow them?

What we need is an allotment. We talk this through and become excited at the prospect of sowing cabbages, plucking apples from our own trees and digging up armfuls of new potatoes, marking each harvest with seasonal eating. An allotment will allow me to recreate those dishes of my childhood as well as to create some new ones of my own.

It will not just be about fancy finished dishes, however. Seasonal cookery will mean dealing with an excess of produce at times, so we will also make the most of preserving, jamming, freezing and batch-cooking our bounty, as my granny did. This way we can enjoy raspberries in December or green beans in January. We will cook our food as it finds us. We are two working parents with all the commitments that go with a busy life but, rather than buy out-of-season, vitamin-deficient vegetables from the supermarket, we shall get a cheap, local allotment and grow the real version ourselves.

Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

Chapter 2 | By Royal Appointment

Anyone who has taken the life-changing decision to get an allotment will know that, in the last ten years, demand for allotments has escalated beyond belief. Gone are the days when allotments were the exclusive domain of old men, in oversized trousers held up with twine, growing vast amounts of root vegetables. Allotments are in demand from all areas of society: very trendy media types, posh people, very poor people, the arty farty set … and old men in oversized trousers held up with twine. They all want a patch of land to call their own. Perhaps, if someone can find a way of making serious money out of allotments, it won’t be long before supermarkets are knocked down and replaced with more plots of land and rickety sheds.

MJ and I both feel that, with an allotment, the kids will enjoy watching things grow and, as a result, will be more adventurous at mealtimes; we will all spend time together with a common purpose; and we can turn our backs on the devil of the day – the supermarket. This will not be because we are doing something amazing, just the opposite. We are a very normal family, with all the normal hassles of life, and we are just trying to get back in touch with one of life’s most enjoyable and important aspects, food.

So, we register online with our local allotment association and soon we receive details of all the local sites. MJ chooses the three nearest ones and we call all three to check availability. Two have nothing available and a waiting list as long as a ball of garden twine, but the third call is rather more hopeful. A few days later we get up early for our first visit to Blondin Allotments.

It’s a wet and chilly Sunday morning in November. Although the allotments are only about half a mile from our house, MJ and Ellie decide to drive down, which I feel is hardly in the spirit of things; Richie and I go on our bikes.

Our appointment is with Keith, who is the Chairman of the Blondin Allotments committee. Keith has got a beard. This makes him look like an outdoor sort of bloke. I am hoping, however, that I can avoid the facial hair and just settle for a pair of wellies.

We are shown our proposed allotment and told to think about it. It costs £27.50 a year and an (optional) extra £5 gives us access to the association’s lock-up shed, where there is a variety of equipment for general use; it also gives us use of the allotments’ snazzy composting toilet.

Along with these benefits, inevitably there come certain obligations and any new plot holder has to agree to the allotment rules. We ask Keith what the rules are and he replies that he doesn’t have them on him. But, in brief, he tells us they are:

1 The gates must be kept locked at all times

2 Garden waste (from one’s home garden) must not be dumped on the communal compost heap

3 A hosepipe can only be used if it is manned – there must be no tying it to a fork handle and nipping home for tea

4 There will be immediate eviction by the committee if one’s plot is not suitably maintained

We are quite comfortable with points one to three – we will be fine locking the gate, we don’t have any garden waste back home and, in a fit of greenness, we have recently given our hosepipe to my sister – but rule four has a sinister ring to it.

MJ asks Keith to what level they expect each plot to be maintained. She points out that we are new to this gardening game and may require a little leniency. Keith, sensing our apprehension, quickly explains that, if any plot is left completely unworked for more than three months, the plot holder receives written notice in the form of an improvement order. Failure to comply leads automatically to eviction. This all sounds a little overbearing to me, but, as MJ points out, with so many people wanting to rent an allotment, it would be wrong to leave a plot in disrepair. And, anyway, this shouldn’t bother us at all because we are so up for the challenge that we can’t imagine a day passing without a quick visit to our allotment.

Keith explains that we will meet many people on the allotments who have been ‘at it’ for twenty years or more so we shouldn’t worry too much. He goes on to tell us that we can expect to find good soil here and that, with dedication and commitment, we will soon be reaping the benefits.

It feels strange to be standing in the middle of a huge field, in which so much produce is growing in the heart of west London. Overhead the planes are lining up to land at Heathrow Airport and, in the distance, I can see cars driving over the M4 flyover. Yet, here we are, in a small part of rural farmland Britain!

The allotments themselves are fascinating: some are beautifully laid out with rows of cabbages, beetroot, onions, potatoes; others appear to be totally neglected. Unfortunately, our plot is in the latter category. It is completely overgrown with brambles and something called cooch (or couch) grass, which I realise I shall have to find out about because Keith seems to feel its effect on growing is only marginally better than a nuclear winter. There is, however, a strip down the centre of our plot that has been cleared and covered with a plastic sheet. Keith tells us this was done the previous year by three Lithuanian students. I am not sure why this small strip among the forest of brambles and weeds was cleared or why the clearers were Lithuanian, but it does seem obvious that the reason we have been offered a plot at all is because it is not a plot at all. It will require serious attention before we start to grow anything. I had assumed that we would be offered a previously cultivated plot which would be ‘good to go’, so this is a bit of a shock. What’s even more of a shock is that MJ doesn’t mind in the least that we are about to accept a jungle of weeds that would be flattered by the term ‘wasteland’. She is chomping at the bit to get digging, which I suppose I should find encouraging.

We agree to let Keith know our decision and he suggests that we look around the whole site to get an idea of what can be achieved. As we walk around we see quite a few people who are already working their plots, despite it being early on a Sunday morning. I reckon there are at least fifteen different nationalities and all age groups represented.

On our way out of the site we meet Sheila who, by all accounts, has one of the best allotments. She is a lovely lady, and she immediately offers us a glass of white wine. As it is only half past nine in the morning and we have not yet had breakfast, however, we decline this generous offer. Sheila is about sixty years old with bleached hair. She is great with our kids, and invites them to look around at what she has grown; she even gamely chuckles as Ellie and Richie pull up most of her carrots and trample through her spinach. In one lovely moment she comes out of her shed and says, ‘Look at my melons’, at which MJ shoots me a glance. Sure enough, however, Sheila has grown melons during the summer, the seeds of which are drying ready for next year. She also has chillies growing, which is a big relief for me as it means we should be able to have spicy food over the next year.

We eventually get home full of enthusiasm. Having initially had reservations about the plot, I am now ready to write to Tony Tesco immediately and tell him that I will no longer be visiting his store. It takes MJ to remind me that our plot is one big, very overgrown patch that may be some time off supporting the family.

Instead, we spend time strolling through our ‘fantasy allotment’ full of all the things I want to cook. Seasonal asparagus, winter kale, hot and spicy radishes (how they used to taste from my grandpa’s garden), strawberries warm from the sun, and fresh green beans. I can picture our plot in the months to come being the envy of all Ealing as we happily harvest our bounty of vegetables. MJ is equally upbeat, and explains to Ellie and Richie the fun that can be had from just being outdoors and at one with nature.

It’s funny how such moments of family harmony can be so quickly shattered by a simple comment, this time from Ellie: ‘But it’s full of weeds and stinging nettles, Mum. When will they clear it up so we can start?’

‘We will clear it up, of course,’ is my happy response to this witty enquiry. But she is not happy and complains that chopping down stinging nettles is not how she intends to spend her weekends. MJ quickly rescues the situation by saying that Daddy will make a start on it while they are at school. I presume that this, also, must be a joke.

Keith had told us that our plot is ‘ten poles’ in size; at the time, I had presumed that MJ knew what this meant, so I had kept my ignorance to myself. Now we are home and discussing the allotment I ask her what a ‘pole’ is exactly. Unfortunately she had presumed I knew what Keith meant and so had decided to keep her ignorance to herself. We look it up in the dictionary. There, under ‘the end of an axis’ and ‘a native of Poland’, is the explanation we are looking for: a pole is a measurement of five and a half yards (about five metres). For some unknown reason this is how allotment folk choose to measure their given space. Ten poles is, therefore, actually damned big – about twenty-five square metres – so MJ suggests we split it down the middle with our friends Dilly and Doug. They have previously expressed a similar gardening urge and we will still have more than enough space to grow what we need as well as having some neighbourly encouragement if we start to flag. Our kids are also far more likely to see the allotment as a good place to go if they might run into Dilly and Doug’s children up there.

As far as encouragement goes I realise we will also need help and advice in the coming months on what to plant, where, and when. MJ suggests that she rings her mum and I ring my dad, both of whom are keen gardeners. I also promise to ring Chris Williams, an old friend who is a gardener by profession. My relationship with Chris is primarily based around drunken afternoons at Lord’s watching England lose cricket matches so, when I speak to him, he is a bit surprised by my horticultural awakening, but he promises to come over to Blondin to give his considered opinion on the best plan of attack.

Just as we are saying goodbye he casually mentions that I should write up my vegetable-growing experience in the form of a cookery book. When I put the phone down I am struck by the simple brilliance of this suggestion. I have always been the sort of bloke who likes to immerse himself fully in a project. I can envisage sunny days spent toiling on the land and evenings spent writing up recipes cunningly concocted from an array of fruit and vegetables. The more I consider this idea the bigger the project gets. My proposal of avoiding supermarkets, for instance, becomes less about avoidance and more about a total ban: WE WILL LIVE BY THE SEASON AND WE WILL NEVER GO TO THE SUPERMARKET AGAIN.

Later in the day I explain to MJ that it has occurred to me that I could write a book (no need to mention it wasn’t my idea) on our experiences, including a selection of recipes, and that there should be a total ban on supermarkets. She immediately rounds on me saying that the whole allotment idea was a family decision and not one that I can hijack and turn into one of my doomed projects.

She is referring, of course, to my previous mission in life, which was to sell our house and move to Zanzibar (a small island in the Indian Ocean). I had researched the whole thing over a couple of weeks on the Internet and realised that, with the proceeds of the house in London, we could afford a crash course in Swahili, standard class flights and still have enough left over to buy a restaurant with some guest rooms once we were there. MJ could educate the children at home, as well as give English lessons to the island’s adults. My big mistake on that occasion was to say nothing to MJ during the planning stage and then get caught at home with an estate agent valuing the house. I had even costed up the shipping of our furniture before I had said a word about my idea to her.

This time, though, I promise things will be different. MJ may feel right now that she wants an allotment ‘just like everyone else’ but, when we get started, she will soon come round.

Despite our differing opinions on the allotment project we are both itching to get started. MJ gives Dilly and Doug a call and the plan to divide the plot in two is agreed.

A few days after accepting the plot we are sent the keys that open the main gates. I presume the gates are needed to keep the local youths from ducking in, when no one is looking, to steal shovels and trowels; it could, of course, be to keep the allotment folk in lest they start sowing broad beans and Swiss chard in the local park.

The very next morning, at 7am, I am at the allotment to meet Chris Williams. As a gardener, Chris knows lots about plants and, to prove this, he, like Keith, has a beard. As he pulls up in his truck, I walk over and swing open the gates for my first visit as an official paid-up allotmenteer. As we walk down the path towards my patch, Chris points out various plants, to which he knows not only the English names, but also the Latin. We pass plots full of cabbages and sprouts and kale and I can see that Chris is already impressed with the efforts of my fellow amateur gardeners.

Eventually we reach my plot and, almost immediately, Chris’s jaw drops. I ask him if he has spotted an obvious problem and he replies that, in 30 years of gardening, he has never taken on such an overgrown patch of land with a view to doing anything more than turning it into a slightly less overgrown patch of land.

Positive thinking is crucial on such an occasion so I explain that, when we came to look at the site, I saw a man clearing an old vegetable bed with a large bionic lawnmower-like machine. This strikes me as a fairly fast way of digging the ground once we have cleared the brambles and assorted weeds so surely we could use one of these things to ‘plough’ our plot.

Chris has bad news on this front. The rotivator – the name of the machine – is not a good idea where cooch grass is concerned; it chops it up and spreads it out, which means that it effectively re-sows it. It turns out that Chris has driven all the way over just to tell me to buy a spade and dig it by hand.

On the subject of self-sufficiency, Chris is scarcely more help, pointing out that it is doubtful if we will be able to survive; I have freely admitted to him that the first and last thing I have ever grown was cannabis when I was a teenager – and that died before it ever saw a Rizla!

It is almost 8am and it’s cold, so cold that I am beginning to understand why so many gardeners have beards. As Chris and I walk back to the gate, he stresses again that, in his view, the best way to remove all our cooch grass is by hand, and then, as he climbs into his truck, he winds down the window to deliver one final bit of encouragement, ‘If you keep removing every bit of cooch grass that springs up, you will find that, within three years, you will have got rid of the lot.’ With this cheery advice in mind, I walk back up Boston Road in the freezing cold.

Back home I sit down for breakfast with MJ and explain that Chris is a little pessimistic about our chances of survival. She immediately takes the line that, if we just grow as much as we can, that, in itself, will be an achievement. I explain that this would be fine for most people, but that this is now a ‘project’ and the rules of it are clear – we have an allotment and we have to survive independently, with no backup from food shops.

Sensing my despair, MJ suggests that we drive up to Homebase to see what sheds they have on display. Up to this point I haven’t even considered that we will need a shed, but, on reflection, it is obvious. I also wonder if we should look into buying a caravan so that we can spend entire weekends on the plot, but MJ convinces me that we should just stick with a shed for now.

A couple of days later Chris calls to see how we are getting on and I sheepishly admit that we haven’t been down to the allotment since I met him there. I do let on, though, that I am up for his book idea and that I have put a proposal in the post to a couple of publishers.

Before he rings off, Chris tells me that his wife, Stella, googled the word Blondin, as she believed it was actually a person’s name. It turns out she is right and he suggests we take a look. Mr Blondin was a famous tightrope walker who notoriously crossed the Niagara Falls on a tightrope in 1859. He didn’t stop there, though; he crossed it again and again, each time using a different theatrical variation: he carried a man across on his back; he pushed a wheelbarrow across; he did it blindfold; and he even did it on stilts.

Blondin performed at Crystal Palace in 1862 where Charles Dickens declared, ‘half of London is here eager for some dreadful accident’. Nice. Blondin did not grant Mr Dickens his ghoulish wish; instead he pushed his five-year-old daughter across a 55-metre high rope in a wheelbarrow. It took an intervention by the Home Secretary to stop him repeating this particular version.

All of this is very interesting but seems to have little to do with cabbages. Stella, however, had discovered that he eventually moved to England and ended his days on Northfield Avenue, which is the main road just off which are … you guessed it, Blondin Allotments. With a list of achievements like his, the very least I would expect is a large bronze statue. Instead there are 112 amateur vegetable gardeners working on an allotment named in his honour. And now, I am one of them.

Although we are yet to really make an impact on our small section of the Earth’s crust, I am busy reading up on food issues big and small. My new-found passion is fuelled by well-wishers. I receive text messages from my dad, who reads Nature magazine, telling me of a crisis in North Sea fish stocks; I receive emails from friends with pictures of phallic-shaped vegetables (this possibly says more about my friends than it does about my green agenda); and a friend, Greg, drops off a book that he suggests I read. The book, called Not on the Label and written by Felicity Lawrence, explores the truth about supermarket food. It’s the sort of book I would have run a mile from just a short while ago but now I am hooked – it makes fascinating, yet scary, reading. I have never fully realised the impact these large superstores have on all areas of our lives, and, by the time I have read the introduction, I am already a committed eco-warrior!

Feeling particularly militant I drive off to Tesco for the last time. Inside the shop I already feel like a stranger prowling the shelves, despairing at the labels of origin on the beans and tomatoes, and all that packaging, all those air miles. As I drive away from the shop I note those things I shall miss most:

Tesco cheese and pickle pork pies

Tesco Finest vanilla ice cream

Tesco Finest dry-cured bacon

Tesco Finest cider

Tesco pancetta and Parmesan sausages

Tesco Finest cookies

But, despite the loss of these, I make a point of sitting down with the family to discuss the idea of buying all our cleaning stuff, tinned food, dry goods and sundries from local stores, so that we need not physically enter a supermarket for one year as of now.

The trouble with MJ is that she lacks the true heart of a subversive. She will not suffer for the cause and tells me in no uncertain terms that she won’t rule out supermarkets; her reason is that they are convenient – so much for her militancy. She does look pretty fired up when she tells me this, so I compromise by agreeing that dry goods, tins and general ‘stuff’ can still come from the supermarket, but we should start to buy all our meat, fish, bread and vegetables (until our production line begins) from local shops.

As MJ and I continue our conversion to the church of culinary Puritanism, we can’t help noticing that our children are somewhat underwhelmed by the whole thing. Up to this point we have not really canvassed their opinion on the whole allotment ‘Should we/Shouldn’t we’ question, because we have been so sure it will be good for them. They do think it will be great meeting their friends at the allotment, but they are already voicing concerns about having to eat all the vegetables that Dad is so convinced he will grow.

Over the years, I have spent a lot of time encouraging, coercing, even bribing and ultimately forcing my children to eat well. Vegetables are often the source of our discussions. On one occasion I explained that they had to eat their vegetables, if only from a health point of view. I went to great length to explain the ‘five portions a day’ rule and pointed out, when they argued, that this wasn’t my idea, that it was actually a government initiative. Still they argued, and, in utter desperation, I told them that, if they didn’t like what I was telling them, they should write to the Prime Minister Tony Blair – or the Queen for that matter – and take up the issue with them.

The next morning I came down to breakfast to find the following letter written by Richie to the Queen:

To call his bluff I made him address an envelope and send it. Then we got back to normal, resuming mealtime conflicts and bribery. Two months passed and then, through the letterbox, fell an envelope addressed to Richie and emblazoned with the royal stamp. We could hardly believe what we saw when Richie opened the envelope. The Queen herself had written back. I’d show you the real letter here …

…. but unfortunately her majesty only gives vegetable consumption advice on a strictly one to one basis and won’t let me print the letter, so you’ll just have to take my word on it (lest she chop off my head.)

The truth is that the letter was actually written on behalf of the Queen by the Senior Correspondence Officer who said that the Queen thanked Richie for writing and that she thought it was thoughtful of him to tell her that I want him to eat more fruit and veg. She then suggested Richie look up information on the web about what children should be eating. Funny, I had never pictured the Queen surfing the ‘net’.

She then mentioned that she was going to forward Richie’s letter to Patricia Hewitt MP, the Secretary of State for Health. Well, sure enough, soon after we received the following letter (which the Department for Health is very happy about my showing you here):

By then vegetable consumption was a hot topic in our house – any green thing served was eaten ‘because the Queen says so’. And I hope to keep it as a hot topic.

While bribery and torture can work in getting children to eat vegetables, however, I still hope that the best way to ‘sell’ vegetables to the young is to pick them fresh and cook them with care. A strawberry fresh from the plant and still warm from the sun will always taste better than a bought one, and the same will apply to a cabbage and even the dreaded sprout. My job is to convince my children of this.

Forget AA Gill or Michael Winner. Ellie and Richie are my toughest food critics. Yet, with the allotment now secure, I believe it is only a matter of time before garden-fresh vegetables are getting the Michelin treatment and being eaten with glee!

MJ and I have big plans for the allotment: we discuss dishes we love and note the vegetables we require as we discuss a growing plan. By this time next year we will be ‘grow your own’ bores who turn up at friends’ houses for dinner with a pointed cabbage and half a kilo of broad beans instead of a bottle of wine.

Nothing can stop us now.

Chapter 3 | The Ealing Project

Despite our early enthusiasm, Christmas has come and gone without a single trip to the allotment. We have thought about going but the festive season just kept getting in the way.

Strangely, however, both MJ and I have demonstrated our commitment to the future in the form of Christmas gifts. My main present from the kids is a portable gas stove. MJ tells me that it is for making tea, but I have bigger ideas. We will carry out ‘from earth to pot’ experiments with all the vegetables we grow by eating them as soon as they are picked.

My gifts on the other hand are seriously ‘correct’. I have done most of my shopping on the Centre for Alternative Technology website. MJ is the main beneficiary of this environmentally aware shopping spree and I shall always remember her joyful expression as she unwrapped: her new water siphon especially designed to remove ‘grey’ water from the bath to use on the garden; a reusable J cloth; a notepad made from elephant shit; and a (reusable) string bag for shopping – in local stores obviously. She just looked so happy.

When it comes to the allotment itself, the truth is that, since we got the keys, we have not found, nor made, the time to visit. MJ is retraining as a teacher and I am at the pre-production stage of a TV series called Ever Wondered about Food…, which will be filmed during February. We are both simply too busy, and are perhaps slightly daunted by the task ahead. To compound the situation, the temperature has plummeted to minus two degrees and the thought of digging in this weather is too much to bear.

The trouble is that we are constantly reminded of the allotment. Each time we drive down Boston Road past the gates that lead to Blondin, one of the kids will call out, ‘that’s where the allotment is’ (or ’lotment, as Richie calls it). MJ and I just grimace and mutter empty promises that contain the words ‘next weekend’. It is now two months since we inherited our plot and it’s hard to ignore Keith’s echoing words about eviction after three months of neglect.

That cold November morning we had been filled with so much hope for the future – a future full of vegetables – and I had worked hard over Christmas convincing MJ that my allotment project, including a supermarket ban and a book of our achievements, was a good idea. She had only come around when I had received a positive response from HarperCollins about publishing a book – she couldn’t bear to crush my excitement, I expect.

In early January I had gone to meet a lady at HarperCollins called Jenny who had bowled me over with her enthusiasm for my book. She fully agreed that a supermarket ban should take place and I had confidently told her that I would start right away. This had been somewhat foolhardy as we hadn’t lifted a single nettle, let alone planted anything, and now, another month on, I am beginning to envisage a cookery book with no recipes and no story.

Our weekly trips to the supermarket are carrying on unchecked. At first I had refused to go myself, but now even I am resigned to the fact that, until we get the allotment up and running, the supermarket is our only hope.

Towards the end of February, we have Dilly and Doug over for lunch (no prizes for guessing where the ingredients came from). As we sit around the table, the conversation drifts into choppy waters when MJ mentions the allotment. It comes as a huge relief to learn that they have also not visited their half of the plot and are wrestling with the desire to pack it all in before they start.

At meetings like these, you need a leader, someone who stands up and bangs their fist in defiance of the gloom. I’m not about to lead anyone anywhere, but my wife is made of sterner stuff. She leans on the back of the chair and makes a stirring speech along the lines of, ‘We will conquer this patch of land. Paul’s even going to write a book and he’s never going to a supermarket again – ever. And we are behind him one hundred per cent.’ It does the trick; all of a sudden we are four gardeners around a table ready to dig at a moment’s notice. We all agree that we will get down to the allotment and show our mettle … next weekend.

It is March – and still bloody freezing – when we take our first visit to the allotment. We have now had the plot for over three months and have failed to scupper a single weed. Dilly and Doug, and their children Eddie and Sylvie, join us so that we can divide the one very big plot into two smaller ones as per the original plan. Standing, shivering, in the middle of a frozen jungle that we have been silly enough to pay for, we agree ends and decide that a shared shed shall be the dividing line.

Our plot is so overgrown that it’s difficult to know where to start; the whole area is a mass of tall grass, brambles and nettles. I feel the best way forwards is to go home, make a nice cup of tea and sit down in the warm to devise a plan of attack, but MJ counters that meetings simply get in the way of progress. We have brief words before she grabs the only shovel we own and starts randomly digging like a woman possessed.

As this is really the extent of our garden tool kit my choices appear to be limited to standing in one spot and shivering, or standing in another spot and shivering. Eventually I decide to make a fire with the kids. One of the points of this mad folly is to give the kids a bit of outdoor life, so we collect as much wood and dried grass as possible and are soon all standing, hands held out, around a blazing fire like some 1970s workforce at odds with our employers.

As the day wears on, it becomes increasingly obvious that we need some sort of plan if we are going to defeat this tangled, weedy corner of Ealing; even MJ, when she joins us around the fire, has to admit as much. MJ, Dilly, Doug and I decide to concentrate on a small area that will eventually be the spot for our shed. The next two hours are spent pulling up brambles and digging down six inches until we have a relatively flat space.

A shed is a vital addition to an allotment; everyone who has an allotment has a shed. It means we can begin to buy some tools and store them on-site, and also that we will then have somewhere to shelter from the more extreme weather.

Sheds, of course, are joked about as some last domain of male authority, a place where a bloke can go when everything gets too much. I have never thought of myself as the shed type but, as I look at the patch of cleared ground, it is easy to get excited about the structure waiting to stand there.

We are the allotment that is furthest west so our shed will be like an outpost in the other west. The wild one. I start to ponder the whole shed thing and realise that I could really get used to having a shed. I then consider the five things I need in my shed:

1 A radio – for football results, the Today programme and Woman’s Hour

2 A kettle – for making tea

3 A camping stove – to boil the kettle (to make that tea)

4 A chair – well, you can’t stand during your tea break; it might have to be collapsible

5 A barbecue

The other thing every allotment worker has is a compost heap. These come in various guises. Some are simply piles of vegetation left exposed to the elements; others are elaborately constructed from old wooden pallets; some are even the more modern type – a green plastic drum with a removable lid.

We have the latter variety – MJ had accepted the council’s offer of a subsidised compost bin and had given it to me for Christmas (ooh, lucky me!). After some discussion, we decide to put the compost bin at the outer edge of our plot. MJ feels that it might pong a bit during the summer, so we shouldn’t put it too near to where we will be working.

It’s worth mentioning that, as well as a shed and a compost bin, there is something else that marks a gardener out from the crowd – his or her wardrobe. It includes: stout sensible boots; lightweight practical trousers with lots of pockets; thermal shirts (preferably with a checked pattern); waterproofs for wet weather; and thick socks. This is the type of clobber you will find yourself wearing should you take up the challenge to ‘grow your own’. Incidentally, this is also the sort of clothing over which I seriously considered divorcing my parents when I was young, so I have tried to avoid it at all costs!

The following Saturday, nursing a monster hangover, I go to watch Brentford crush Barnsley (3–1). Over a Friday night beer, Chris, his wife Stella and I discussed all things horticultural, and I awake to find not only that I have a serious headache but also that I have in my pocket a list of tips on: growing tomatoes, killing slugs, types of weedkiller and building sheds. It seems that I can’t escape the allotment, even while drunk!

As the haze clears, I remember talking enthusiastically about the task ahead. Chris listened intently as I told him that we have begun the ground assault. He agreed that a shed is absolutely vital and pointed out that we will also need to start thinking about garden tools.

Stella asked if we had planted anything and I had to admit that, so far, I have only thought about clearing our space because that, in itself, is such an immense task. She suggested taking it bit by bit. Her view is that we might be spurred on once we have something in the ground. This is probably very true but the thought of actually planting anything has seemed further off every time I have considered it.

It had taken Dilly, Doug, MJ and me the best part of a day to clear a relatively small patch for the shed, so I am already beginning to redraw the ground rules of our project. I consider pushing back the whole self-sufficiency thing to next year, by which time I hope all the weeds will have been removed. Stella’s suggestion, on the other hand, will allow us to clear and plant a certain area and then move on to the next section.

After the match, despite still feeling a bit rusty, I join MJ, Ellie and Richie for a spot of digging with some new shovels. We all dig for a solid three hours until at last the base for the shed is fully dug and we can lay down the reclaimed paving stones that will act as the foundations for our yet-to-be-purchased Homebase shed. This small measure of progress is encouraging and we soon begin to tackle another small corner of the plot just as Stella had suggested.

It fast becomes apparent that weed clearing is, quite literally, the tip of the problem. The patch of land that is now free of brambles and nettles has all sorts buried in it – we have uncovered glass, metal rods, bricks, medicine bottles (why?), gardening gloves (six pairs), shoes, rusty beer cans (lots of these!), and other assorted rubbish, and it feels as though we have inherited a landfill site rather than an allotment.

I am sure there are some who would feel that all this preliminary work makes the eventual harvest more rewarding. MJ and I, however, reckon eating vegetables minus the graft is just as rewarding, and we can’t help wishing we had inherited a recently vacated and lovingly cared for plot that had only just been dug over and maybe had a mature pear tree in one corner.

Back at home the allotment is also having an effect on our daily lives. As the project develops I am finding myself thinking more about our life in general. Every news bulletin seems to include some further evidence of the environmental destruction of the planet. I have long been aware of this but now, as I begin to live in tandem with the earth (well, I have dug a couple of holes), I realise that there is possibly a bigger effect to be had from the allotment than simply putting food on the table.

Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

MJ agrees with me that we, as a family, could make a bigger contribution to the planet-saving drive than we currently do. We have long been recycling paper, glass and plastic, but, to be honest, we could increase our efforts. I resolve to change all our light bulbs to energy-saving ones as soon as I can and, in the meantime, I sit the kids down and deliver a stirring lecture on the need to switch off lights when they leave a room (to be honest, this is a bit rich coming from me as I am possibly the worst offender in the house). I also advise the children to consider the amount of water they use. I sound like Al Gore as I stand in front of these two slightly bewildered children describing scenes of a sun-baked African village where children (‘much younger than you’) are forced to walk miles to a waterhole or pump before carrying a heavy container of water all the way back to their home. Once again, the irony of my speech is obvious – I have never once turned a tap off while brushing my teeth or put the plug in when washing a saucepan. However, I am not the first great leader to fail to practise what they preach and I do at least intend to change forthwith. From now on, baths are banned unless it’s your birthday and teeth must be brushed with no more than a cup of water. Ellie is horrified to learn that the toilet will only be flushed after number twos and that showers have a three-minute maximum time allowance.

By this point, my children are quite used to my sudden bursts of enthusiasm over some life-changing project or another and it is obvious that they see these new house rules as nothing more than Dad’s latest rant. However, they look quite shocked that their mum is in full agreement, rather than raising her eyebrows as she normally does when Dad goes off on one.

I really think that, if we are to be self-sufficient from our allotment, then we should embrace the whole lifestyle package. One clearly cannot expect credit for growing a carrot if one’s bin is stuffed full of plastic. With my convictions sharpened to peak condition, I turn up for a meeting at HarperCollins. I had known Jenny was behind the supermarket ban, but, when we discuss my green credentials, it soon becomes apparent that a spot of token recycling will not be tolerated. I will not be allowed to write a book about green living unless I do in fact ‘live green’. It occurs to me that I may have rather over-egged our green credentials and that actually we may not stand up to scrutiny, but there’s nothing like a challenge, and my family are more than up for it.

Back at the plot, work continues. The shed base is ready, the compost bin has had its first delivery (a salad Ellie and Richie refused to eat!) and now the task of carving out and digging our first bed can begin.

This involves hardcore digging. Each spade load is a mixture of earth, stones and bric-a-brac. After a whole Saturday toiling on the land we can dig no more. It’s back home for a quick supper then straight to bed for all of us – Saturday night and I’m in bed at half past nine. Vegetable growing sure is one crazy lifestyle!

A day’s digging can make you feel fairly healthy – you are outdoors and it’s good honest physical work – similar to running a marathon (I expect). It’s the next day, however, that puts those healthy thoughts in perspective. Needless to say, I wake the following morning to find my hamstrings are so tight that it feels as though they have been tuned overnight by the ghost of Jimi Hendrix – I can’t scratch my bum let alone touch my toes.

I eventually drag myself from the bed, go downstairs and almost immediately have a row with MJ over the allotment. I say we should have a day off; she disagrees and says she seriously doubts my commitment. Having said this, she grabs the kids and storms off to the allotment. I mooch about at home feeling a bit guilty for an hour or so and, in the end, think the best thing to do is to go down to the allotment, eat a slab of humble pie and show a bit willing.

I eventually manage to lift my leg high enough to get it over the crossbar of my bicycle and, with a genuine feeling of goodwill, I very slowly make my way up Boston Road to the allotment. Dilly and Doug are there starting on a bed their side of the divide; MJ is digging away and all the kids are charging about, filthy, and having a great time.

Having told MJ that I am sorry for my anti-allotment tendencies and reaffirmed my commitment, I grab the shovel and, with a look of resolve in my eye, I throw myself into the task in hand. On the third dig I fall to my knees in complete agony – I literally crumple up; my back clicks and gives way and I am so sore I can hardly move. I have been there for ten minutes and am now reduced to a writhing wreck. I feel a complete fool as MJ and Doug carry me to the car to take me home.

But what makes the experience so much more humiliating is that, after I have been carted home, MJ returns to the allotment where she meets Keith, the committee Chairman. He obviously takes pity on this poor husbandless woman digging her vegetable patch and offers to bring over his rotivator; he proceeds to clear half the plot in ten minutes.

It’s bad enough to be humiliated in such a way, but we have also used a rotivator to clear cooch grass, which is exactly what we were told to avoid doing. I had told MJ Chris’s warning about spreading the cooch grass, and she had quite obviously ignored my advice.

To make matters worse, Keith tells MJ that, since it’s March, our first bed should really be put aside for potatoes as they are due to be planted soon. On the back of this, MJ has bought three bags of seed potatoes on her way home … at bloody Tesco. Now the very shop we are working so hard to avoid, has sold us the first thing we are going to plant.

I ask MJ what variety of potato she has bought, determined to pour scorn on whatever strain she has got (huh, Desirée are so common, we’ll simply have to take them back), but she finds that the labels aren’t attached so we don’t even know what our potatoes are. I am away from the project (due to a serious industrial injury) for two hours and, all of a sudden, the whole thing has gone tits up.

There’s no doubt that allotments are dangerous places – I see the osteopath three times in one week. On my first visit, Mal next door literally has to carry me to his car and slide me in horizontally across the back seats, before driving me up to the Old Isleworth surgery. It is obvious to me that Stuart the osteopath had rarely seen a man as badly injured and he has to draw on all his experience to gain me just a little comfort. He uses gels, manipulation and acupuncture to relieve the pain. I am not able to walk, sit, lie or stand with any comfort, though sympathy at home is, quite frankly, in short supply.

A few days later I go to our local garden centre with MJ. She has spoken to her mum about our imminent potato patch and has been told that, before we plant them, we should get some manure dug in. My back is still so sore I can hardly get in the car, but I manage to hobble about pointing at the things I think we should buy before returning to the car and collapsing once more. People give me very strange looks as I sit in the car and watch my poor wife load three twenty-kilogram bags of manure into the boot!

After lunch we return to the allotment, where MJ digs in her manure (not her manure obviously – we are not that green yet) and plants our unknown variety of potatoes that she has so carelessly purchased from the supermarket. I am still way off ‘planting fitness’ and, to be honest, I feel that, since she has taken the decision to buy the things regardless of the fact that we have not done a stitch of research on the topic, she can darn well plant them. I (slowly) terminate weeds with a (very light) can of (hopefully green) weedkiller that we bought.

We arrive home to a phone message from Doug saying that he is picking up the shed and we can put it up the next day. This will make going to the allotment a whole lot less hassle as we can leave stuff there.

The next morning my back is still sore but I am determined to get the shed up. I meet Doug at the allotment at 11am and we get cracking; cracking probably isn’t the right word as we make painfully slow progress. We have purchased the cheapest shed in the shop (1.8 x 1.2 metres/6 x 4 feet); it is tiny but it still takes us the best part of four hours to assemble. This is not only because the assembly instructions have been written, I reckon, by a dyslexic foreign teenager on work experience at B&Q, nor completely due to me being bent double with a serious back injury, but also because of the never-ending stream of goodwilled advice from our allotment neighbours. The gist of this advice is as follows:

1 Face the shed into the prevailing wind (north?) or else it will blow away in a high wind

2 Have the door on the south side so that we can sit outside when the sun shines

3 Have the window facing south southeast (or something) so the rain doesn’t get in

As neither Doug nor I have a compass on us, we decide to just get the thing erected and take our chances with nature. Having put it up we realise that good old B&Q has given us the wrong size of roof boards and we are about six inches too short. Rather than go all the way back to the shop, we decide to bodge it together with a couple of redundant floorboards that we find lying about; I feel this represents the green option both in recycling the floorboards and also in terms of saving fuel emissions by not driving back to the shop (actually, we simply couldn’t be arsed to go all the way back – sometimes ‘green’ is the easy option).

During the final stages of construction the kids join us and Sheila pops over to chat to them. On seeing us finishing the shed, she delivers the most useful advice of the day – always remember to keep an emergency bottle of wine hidden in the shed in case there is a thunderstorm. This gem apparently comes from her experience one time when she was stuck in her shed for almost two hours without a drop to drink!

Despite the shed being in place, the allotment continues to feel like it will never be conquered and, as a novice, it’s really hard to see it taking shape. It is now April; the only things we have planted are a few potatoes, and the part of the plot that isn’t knee-high in weeds is still so strewn with rubble that it will take days to clear.

On top of all this, it turns out that on the Friday when I got very drunk with Chris, he apparently offered me (and I accepted) 50 cubic metres of topsoil. This is great – it is good quality soil and will help our digging efforts – but 50 cubic metres weighs around 6 tonnes and I have one wheelbarrow and a bad back. If it comes soon I shall have to tell MJ to shift it, which could see me on the receiving end of a spot of domestic violence.

Allotments aren’t all about marital strife and industrial injury though. We now have crops in the ground, something to look forward to. Ok, so they weren’t quite planted to plan but at least they’re in the ground.

The fun in this vegetable growing game is in the anticipation. Having sown our potatoes, it is hard not to start imagining what I will cook with them. The potatoes are of an unknown variety – they could be new potatoes, waxy or floury – so, for the time being, I am content just to imagine eating as many chunky chips as I want.

Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

Chapter 4 | Read What You Sow

Back pain doesn’t really have an upside but, in my case, having been banned from digging for seven days by my osteopath, I at least have the opportunity to do some reading and research into this allotment business.

Over the years I have accumulated a mass of cookery books, which has cost me a fortune. Where gardening is concerned, I am reluctant to do the same, so we decide to rely on four or five books for advice. I now see the chance to get stuck into each of them. As with any subject, each writer has his or her particular take on the gardening question. I don’t really know which books are the best to buy, so the following short list is simply my choice rather than the ultimate selection:

1. Geoff Hamilton – Gardeners’World Practical Gardening Course

I don’t know where I got this book but it’s been on the shelf for ages. Geoff was a man who liked to lean on a hoe and gaze wisely at the camera – he reminds me a bit of my grandpa with his checked shirts and sensible shoes. He writes quite well and doesn’t presume the reader is already an expert; he includes lots of pictures, which is helpful, though a little intimidating as his vegetable gardens are totally perfect.

2. Dr DG Hessayon – The Vegetable and Herb Expert

It would be tempting to dismiss anyone who called themselves a ‘vegetable expert’ as a horticultural megalomaniac, but he is a doctor and that must mean he’s well qualified. The book is basically a page per vegetable, and outlines growing methods, pest control, cooking advice (steady on doctor – my territory), and varieties of plants.

3. Alan Titchmarsh – Gardeners’ World Complete Book of Gardening

Everyone knows Alan Titchmarsh. I met him once when I was working at The Greenhouse (the restaurant, that is), and he was a charming man. His books are very informative and you feel you can trust him (people say this about Delia Smith with regard to cooking, and they do share the same haircut). His outlook is a more modern one than Geoff’s so it will be a good balance.

4. Edward C Smith – The Vegetable Gardener’s Bible

This book claims to contain all you need to know about successful vegetable growing; however, I seem to have fallen for the word ‘bible’ in the title. Cookery writers have employed the same trick – The Bible of French Cookery or French Culinary Bible would be obvious titles – but generally they are written by people who spend two weeks a year in the Dordogne and claim to know all there is to know about French cookery despite the fact that they wouldn’t know Marc Veyrat if he married their daughter. (Actually, thinking about it, Alan Titchmarsh has done Songs of Praise so, from the Divine’s point of view, he would get the nod on using ‘bible’ in the title.) Anyhow, to get back to Mr Smith’s book, every subject from soil testing to pruning is covered with helpful step-by-step pictures.

Pictures are a really important element because you really do want some idea of the final result before you start to dig (or whisk).

All of these books contain fabulous pictures of finished vegetable beds burgeoning with peas, beans, tomatoes and just about any other vegetable you can think of; this can, though, leave one a little frustrated if, like us, your vegetable plot currently consists of a shed, a compost bin, a potato patch and a vast uncultivated area. All the books do, however, give practical advice on starting out, and it is obvious to me that we should give some thought to how the finished plot will look.

There are more ways than one to plant a cabbage, apparently, so it is important to think ahead. At this stage two questions need to be answered:

1 Are we the ‘plant in row’ traditionalist types, or are we going to have raised beds?

2 How are we going to deal with crop rotation?

I turn first to the issue of raised bed versus traditional row sowing. My grandpa’s vegetable patch was a succession of perfect rows, each one a different vegetable – this is the ‘row’ method and it allows the gardener to walk between the plants to weed and water. The modernists are not satisfied with this tried and tested method, however, so they have come up with a new method called ‘raised bed’ growing. Here, one builds the bed up above ground level and then sows in blocks so that, when mature, each plant is touching its neighbour (sounds like a dodgy council estate!), thus producing very high yields. This is apparently done in narrow beds so all watering and weeding is done from the edge of the beds. Geoff Hamilton is a ‘plant in rows’ man and he does look like the type you can trust, but Titchmarsh reckons one shouldn’t overlook the block planting method and he’s done OK for himself, so the jury is still out.

Next up it’s crop rotation. All the books agree that crop rotation is a must. This is for two reasons: if a bug knows that every May his or her favourite food will be in abundance then he or she just sits and waits for the harvest to begin, so crop rotation thwarts pests and disease; secondly, certain plants sap the soil of certain nutrients so, if one sows a different type of crop in a plot each year, the nutrients remain at a consistent level.

This is all well and good but here’s the snag – the authors can’t agree on how many beds one should be rotating. The vegetable expert Dr DG Hessayon suggests three beds – roots, brassicas and ‘others’. Geoff Hamilton enjoys a little more rotating with four beds, though one of these he suggests is for permanent crops (as yet, I am not sure what permanent crops are). Compared to these, Alan Titchmarsh takes a ‘radical’ view suggesting (correctly, in my opinion) that both DG Hessayon’s and Geoff Hamilton’s systems require equal space for each crop type, which can result in yielding slightly more root vegetables than is fashionable to eat. He, however, has a picture of three beds with an enormous list down the side of the page showing what he is growing, including nasturtium, Florence fennel, rocket and coriander (Geoff will be turning in his grave at this list: ‘Where are your turnips and swede, Alan lad?’).

My gut feeling on all the above is to sit down with MJ and decide what we want to eat, then group the list into types of vegetables and take a view on how many beds we can logistically chop our allotment into. We both agree to limit the rotational beds to three: legumes, brassicas and root vegetables will all get a similar sized bed and be moved to the neighbouring bed the following year. On the row versus raised bed issue, I decide to go with tradition – and the seemingly easier option – and sow at ground level in rows.

Further reading reveals that permanent crops are those plants that are only planted once: rhubarb, soft fruit, perennial herbs and asparagus all need a permanent site. I reckon that, if we concentrate on getting these beds dug and planted, at least we will feel we have made progress. My plan is to line these beds with old floorboards so they are defined in area; this will also make the digging feel more achievable.

With my osteopath’s digging ban now at an end, and having read up on the relevant topics, I am ready for some serious allotment action. I get up full of enthusiasm and head to the local garden centre. As I walk towards the entrance, I have the same feeling of excitement and anticipation I used to feel as I approached HMV. Now, rather than wondering if I will come out with an Otis Redding CD or one by Bob Dylan, however, I have string and nails on my mind. Actually ‘String and Nails on my Mind’ does sound like it could well be a track by Bob Dylan, but this is a complete coincidence.

I have never been good at sticking to budgets and I decide that I will buy everything we need to kit out our shed on this one visit. String, nails, wire, hooks, soil-testing kit, forks, trowel, rake and a very necessary pink barbecue set are all purchased and then carted back to Blondin. The afternoon is spent hammering in nails and hooks and putting up shelves and, by the time I leave, the shed is beginning to look like it is a real gardening shed, albeit with very shiny tools. The pink barbecue is given to Ellie and I promise to teach her how to cook on it.

The Easter holiday arrives and with it comes the first serious sign of dissent in the camp. Ellie and Richie are far from thrilled to learn that Mum and Dad intend to spend most of the holidays moving things on at the allotment. I think they both feel that they are the victims of a huge con. Back in November, when we explained to them what an allotment was and why we should have one, I seriously played up the plus points (as anyone would when trying to encourage an unconvinced third party). I promised them that the allotment would be huge fun: bonfires, digging big holes, picking strawberries, pulling carrots, finding frogs, having barbecues; in truth, the only things ticked off that list so far are bonfires and digging big holes – and there are only so many holes you can dig with a smile on your face.

At this rate, I realise that they will hate the place by the time we have it up and running, and this will be a serious crisis. We are so keen for them to enjoy the allotment. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, we have to admit that we would have felt the same at their age – the difference is that our parents wouldn’t have cared. We do care, though, and it has always been important to us that we all enjoy the allotment.

MJ points out to them that part of our reason for taking the allotment was out of guilt. As children, we had both enjoyed a childhood in the countryside with all the freedom that brings. We had seen the allotment as going some way towards giving them that outdoor life that we had deprived them of by deciding to live in London. What we had possibly not recognised was that our kids might be urbanised beyond repair. Allotments are as foreign to them and their peers as the current Arsenal football team. As Ellie explained: why would they want to go to the allotment when they could be playing on the PlayStation? So, while MJ and I are both free spirits who have settled in London through convenience, our children are Londoners born and bred. We have given birth to Chas and Dave!

Obviously, there are times when the call of the allotment is simply too strong to resist and, at these times, you just have to drag the kids there kicking and screaming, but we have discovered that there are ways to encourage the children to get involved. You can sit the little darlings down and calmly explain that the planet is in trouble and needs our help; possibly they can be convinced that the outdoor life that is on offer is one that can enhance their lives way beyond the reach of a Game Boy or an iPod; or you can simply resort to bribery …

Easter Monday starts with coffee and hot cross buns, and the conversation centres around the fifth family member – the allotment.

‘Well, kids, where would you like to go today: Chessington World of Adventures or the allotment?’

‘Oh, Dad, not Chessington again. Let’s go and dig.’

That conversation never took place over breakfast because, right now, my children would rather go to school than the allotment. I offer several packets of football cards and a kilogram of chewy sweets but still they complain so, in the end, MJ suggests that we can go to Chessington later in the week if they come to the allotment today, and they finally yield. This is great, but how do we get them there tomorrow? We shall soon be offering skiing trips or safaris if we continue to up the stakes.

The day starts with a trip to the garden centre (I am rapidly becoming a regular), where we buy some paint for the shed – chosen by Ellie. Then we meet Dilly and Doug and their children at the allotment.

Progress is being made. MJ and I have started digging an area of about eight feet (2.4 metres) square, which will be our asparagus bed. The problem is that we are still having to sieve every spadeful for debris – I feel like I’m a pastry chef once more sieving icing sugar (though this is a lot more heavy!). An entire morning is devoted to this thankless task and this is just eight square feet.

I finally finish off the asparagus bed and then MJ and I make a start on the rhubarb bed. While we dig, the kids all paint the shed – it is lavender and marine-blue stripes, and is, without doubt, the smartest construction on the entire allotment site (personally, I wanted to do red and white stripes in honour of Brentford FC but I was overruled). They have done a great job and, by the time we leave, most of our allotment neighbours have come over to admire their work.

One of them, John, tells us of an allotment hosepipe ban put in place by Ealing Council, despite it being only April. I get the impression he sees this as nothing less than botanical murder by the council but, frankly, with nothing planted bar potatoes, we couldn’t care. So, despite this news, and after what has been a really good day, we fire up the barbecue. As we eat, we can see the progress we have already made: a potato patch, a compost bin, a very smart blue and purple shed, an asparagus bed with freshly sieved soil, and a rhubarb bed half finished. And all this domestic bliss for just the price of entry to Chessington World of Adventures.

The following week school restarts and MJ gets back to work, leaving me lots of time to spend at the allotment. I finish digging the rhubarb bed and get it manured and lined with floorboards; one of my neighbours is a builder called Richard who does loft conversions, so I have now got easy access to as many floorboards as any gardener could wish for.

I also line the asparagus bed, which we have raised as a trial of the raised bed system. I have spent many hours now reading all I can about this succulent vegetable. It’s one I’m desperate to grow but, one of the reasons asparagus can be so expensive to buy is that it takes the farmer three years to produce a crop he can sell. For the first two years after planting asparagus must be left untouched. Dr DG Hessayon, author of The Vegetable and Herb Expert, warns the reader that taking even one spear from newly growing asparagus can have catastrophic consequences. This is all well and good, but what Dr Hessayon forgets is that I am a man with a mission – I need asparagus recipes in my book and I, therefore, can’t wait three years for it to grow.

By now I am totally absorbed by the allotment and have started turning down weekend trips to visit friends and family, opting instead to carry on digging. The weather is improving, the dark days of a freezing barren wasteland seem far away and the whole project now feels under control.

One Sunday morning over breakfast the kids ask the inevitable question: ‘Do we have to go to the allotment today?’ My response would have been a gruff ‘definitely’, but MJ got in there quicker than me. She suggests that they have their own vegetable bed where they can plant exactly what they want. She adds that she will help them dig it and Dad will buy the plants the next time he goes to the plant shop.

My initial plan had been that everything we grow, wherever possible, should be from seed, but I can see MJ’s point and I refrain from pointing this out. If we can fuel their enthusiasm, it’s worth relaxing the rules so, after breakfast, we give them a gardening book and tell them to make a list of what they want to plant. This list, when complete, looks something like this:

I am trying hard to embrace MJ’s cunning plan and show willing but, when I read their list, it’s hard not to give just a small lecture on the principles of plant types and crop rotation. I bite my lip just in time.

When we get to the allotment MJ immediately stakes out a small bed, about ten by five feet (3 x 1.5 metres) and starts to dig the kids’ vegetable patch and, to my amazement, they are happy to help.

During the afternoon we have some visitors; our next-door neighbours Gill, Mal, Jake and Joe come down to give us a hand. With four adults now digging, we make real progress. The sun shines and I am soon stripped to the waist. Vegetable gardeners need a weathered look about us because we are the outdoorsy types!

The extra help means that we not only finish all the beds on the go but we also start and finish a soft fruit bed and begin on bed number two of our three rotational beds – things are seriously moving on. When we come home I immediately have to apply aftersun to my back because it is so badly burnt, and then I collapse into bed.

Twelve hours later I am back on site and proudly gazing at our plot. I take stock of where we have got to:

Potato patch – rotivated (against my better judgement) and planted (variety unknown). This is bed number one of our three rotational beds

Asparagus bed – dug, 8 x 8 feet (2.4 x 2.4 metres), raised and lined with boards

Rhubarb bed – dug, 3 x 3 feet (0.9 x 0.9 metres), lined with boards

Soft fruit bed – dug, 12 x 5 feet (3.6 x 1.5 metres), lined with boards

Kids’ bed – dug, 10 x 5 feet (3 x 1.5 metres), lined with boards

Herb bed – dug, 2 x 3 feet (0.6 x 0.9 metres), lined with boards

Rotational bed two – under construction

OK, so we haven’t actually planted anything except potatoes so far, but, with all these beds ready, we are just one shopping trip away.

We have three gardening centres near us, if you include Homebase, which I don’t because it is owned by a supermarket. So, we have two gardening centres near us and both are good for the more general gardening requirements, but, when it comes to plants – especially the permanent crops – they can be a little lacking in choice. For example, if you are a chap who wants a blackcurrant bush, your local garden centre will no doubt obligingly flog you one, but, if you are a chap like me, say, who has done nothing other than read about blackcurrant bushes for the previous six nights, that is different. That marks this chap out from your common or garden blackcurrant bush customer, as this chap is obviously well up on Ribes nigrum and he simply won’t take the first bush he is offered. This chap needs a garden centre with a choice befitting his knowledge. In fact, this chap needs Wisley Garden Centre.

Wisley Garden Centre is the Wembley Stadium of garden centres. It is run by the Royal Horticultural Society and is situated just off the A3 in Surrey, just 30 miles away. I don’t actually want a blackcurrant bush at all – that is just by way of explanation – but I do have a rather particular shopping list gleaned from my previous six nights researching soft fruit, herbs and asparagus. In addition, my dad has recommended I try Wisley for all my permanent crops.

I have not seen my mum for some time – mainly because I am now a full-time vegetable gardener – so I suggest we meet at Wisley. She naturally thinks I am going all that way to meet her (which is fine until this book is published) but really I have plastic in my pocket and some very empty-looking vegetable beds to fill. I also have a detailed list:

Rhubarb – three varieties. The books recommend getting different varieties to prolong the season

Raspberries – these come as summer- or autumn-croppers. I want summer-croppers so that we can make summer pudding. Apparently raspberries can suffer from ill health, however, so a benefit of going to a place like Wisley is that they will be certified ‘virus free’.

Blueberry bushes – two varieties are needed to ensure pollination

Gooseberry bushes – these come as a dessert variety (which is sweet) and a culinary variety, which tastes sharper. I am not sure whether we will eat them from the bush or make jam so intend to buy both

Herbs – I intend to buy a general selection

Strawberry plants – my favourite are the Gariguette strawberry so I will look for these. I also love wild strawberries – we call them fraises des bois in the kitchen – which are tiny strawberries with an intense flavour. The gardening books call them Alpine strawberries

Asparagus crowns – Edward C Smith, author of the religiously endorsed Vegetable Gardener’s Bible and one-time front man for The Fall (possibly not), suggests buying the male hybrid plant, which is apparently better than buying mixed sex asparagus

All of the books I have read have made the point that you should buy plants from a reputable supplier. This doesn’t just apply to raspberries; you shouldn’t buy plants on the cheap, and you should even be wary of well-meaning old ladies at the allotment offering plants that they say they have raised from seed. You have to buy the right thing for position, climate, and culinary requirement, but also, crucially, for its disease resistance. Failure to do so can result not only in a poor harvest but also in an outbreak of death in the flowerbed.

With all this in mind, I head off to Wisley full of enthusiasm. I can’t wait to buy the plants and get them dug into the sandy soils of Ealing. I meet my mum outside and, after a quick cappuccino in le café (that contains lots of people in woolly jumpers and sensible shoes), we head straight for the shop, where I promptly part with one hundred quid on books. Then it is off to the plant department.

Mum suggests that we stroll through the manicured gardens that Wisley boasts alongside the nursery shop, but I decline. What she doesn’t understand is that I am not interested in orchids and rhododendrons; I am a vegetable man through and through.

The nursery is all I had hoped it would be. They have a huge array of plants and at least two types of each variety. From my list I manage to get the following:

Malling Jewel raspberries – a summer cropper and 100 per cent disease resistant

Blue Crop blueberry and Northland blueberry – to aid pollination

Herbs – lavender, sage, pot marjoram. I could have bought more types of herb but my trolley was too full. (Curiously, you don’t grow pot marjoram in a pot.)

Honeoye strawberries – I have bought this Honeoye variety from my vegetable supplier at work before and they are right up there with Gariguette for flavour. Apparently I am a bit late for Alpine

Rhubarb – early and late varieties (Red Champagne and Victoria)

There are a couple of things I do leave without:

Gooseberry bushes – these are not sold at this time of year unless container grown, and they don’t recommend container grown (naturally – this is Wisley after all), so these remain on the list

Asparagus crowns – I can’t find these until, at the checkout the lady says they are on the far wall; by this time, however, I have seen my bill and decide to quit while still solvent

At this point, however, I can’t wait to get back to the site and plant my purchases so I ditch Mum at the checkout and head back to Blondin. One small blip along the way is that I have totally forgotten to buy the plants that Ellie and Richie want to plant in their bed. I am halfway home before I realise my mistake and can’t turn back. I know that if I turn up empty-handed, however, I will be accused of only caring about what I choose to plant, so I make a small detour to our local garden centre, which feels like a corner shop after my Royally Horticultural experience. Nonetheless, I am able to pick up everything on their list – a list incidentally that does not feature words but pictures of vegetables, drawn by Ellie a couple of nights previously. It takes a few moments before I decide whether I should buy pumpkin plants or an orange tree!

I carefully leave the children’s plants to one side so that they can dig them in themselves, and then get started on the crops I have bought. I feel a real sense of responsibility as I dig in these permanent crops. These plants won’t be yanked out at the end of the season and moved elsewhere; these plants are in the ground for life. As I plant the impressively straight line of raspberries, I wonder how many allotmenteers will enjoy their fruit long after I am on the compost heap.

The plot looks so good with things finally in the ground. I know the guys back home will want to see this big development so I take some photos on my mobile phone to show them. Back at home I also find myself fretting like a new parent that the raspberries won’t take or the rhubarb will be unhappy where I have put it, but, really, I tell myself I have done my bit for them and now it is their turn to repay the favour.

These plants should all be in early enough to produce some fruit this year, which is hugely encouraging, because, at the moment, we have nothing to show for our efforts. The supermarket ban I tried to impose now looks ridiculous. As MJ points out we would all be dead of scurvy had we actually followed my plan. Personally, I have actually been trying to use local shops for fruit and vegetables but I am not convinced that they are any more in tune with the seasons than the supermarkets are. I recently asked my local shopkeeper if his vegetables were in any way local, and explained my desire to reduce food miles. He said that they were; they came from Covent Garden wholesale market each morning – which frankly misses the point, but I couldn’t be bothered to argue with him.

The thought of producing our own fruit is very exciting. It reminds me of long hot childhood summers spent picking raspberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants and gooseberries with my sister in our grandfather’s garden. We would pick kilos of fruit that my granny would then turn into jams, fools, jellies and preserves. The books advise that we don’t pick any rhubarb this year because we have to allow it to establish itself. However, MJ’s standard (and most delicious) dessert is rhubarb crumble, so I have promised she can make one batch later in the year.

Apart from the potatoes, all the now-planted crops are permanent – they come back each year and don’t wish to be shunted around the plot. Our rotational beds cause a little more angst because they cover a greater area so getting the beds sieved and cleared of all the debris is a mammoth task. We have, however, made some progress. We have potatoes in one of our three rotational beds and a second bed for legumes is well on the way – this bed will be for beans, tomatoes, spinach, lettuce and leeks. This leaves just one space uncultivated. As soon as we can sort this one out we will plant brassicas.

Geoff Hamilton says in his book that, because we have inherited such a poor plot, it is important to enrich the soil with manure just as we did with the potatoes we planted. To this end I buy copious amounts of well-rotted farm manure from the garden centre (I have bought some crap in my life). It also seems that one should spread on a general fertiliser, so I use Grow More pellets. I am not really sure how organic these are but, right now, I have bigger responsibilities than saving the planet – I need to move this venture along swiftly and I will take whatever measures I have to!

The additional books I purchased at Wisley are proving, with one exception, most useful. By far the best is an RHS one, cleverly titled Fruit and Vegetable Gardening and written by Michael Pollock. It contains detailed information on plants as well as diagrams on pruning and general tips. This will definitely be a much-thumbed book. On the other hand, one is now on my ‘books to be avoided’ list. It is by Robin Shelton and is called Allotted Time. The book is basically a journal written by some bloke who has never gardened before (sound familiar?), and he takes the reader on a month-by-month journey through the gardening year. I only read about three pages before I begin to think that the book I am struggling to write has already been written. I realise that, if I read any more of it I will be become despondent, not least because his seems to be so much funnier than mine. Recent news has featured a legal battle between Dan Brown and some chaps who claim they have already written The Da Vinci Code. The case is threatening the release of a film of the book. Will a similar scandal hit the gardening world with allotment holders taking sides between me and Robin Shelton? While we sling organic manure at each other in court, a host of actors led perhaps by George Clooney (set to play me, of course) await the go ahead to release the blockbuster Brassicas Quest. My saving grace is that, as far as I can tell from the book, Mr Shelton is no cook, so at least I have him on that one. The book is now hiding in my sock drawer.

Photograph by Mary-Jane Curtis

Chapter 5 | iPods and Asparagus

As a chef I am lucky enough to go to some really interesting foody events. Not long ago I was invited to Dorset to present the Dorset Food Awards and give a small talk on regional cuisine. The evening was a big success and afterwards, the organiser, Fergus, suggested I might like to return for the World Nettle Eating Championships. Unfortunately, I can’t make it to this important event, but it has given me an idea.

Despite having cleared half our plot, we are yet to eat anything from the place and this is a constant source of frustration to me. I have considered stealing vegetables from our allotment neighbours but this really isn’t in the spirit of things (and anyway they would all find out when I publish the book). But one thing we can eat that is growing in profusion is stinging nettles.

A few years ago, while head chef at The Greenhouse in Mayfair, I put nettle soup on the menu and it was a huge hit. What is a little embarrassing to acknowledge about this, however, is that I bought the nettles from a vegetable supplier. Nettle soup is actually a well-loved dish on the continent, but it is obvious that, if I am caught at home cooking nettles for human consumption, my children will be on the phone to Esther Rantzen at ChildLine quicker than you can say ‘dock leaf’. However, if I am careful to knock up the soup when no one is home, then I can probably pass it off as pea soup, and no one will be any the wiser.

One morning, therefore, I go down to the allotment with a pair of rubber gloves and a dustbin bag and start collecting nettles. They grow mostly along the borders of the allotment against a wire fence. With my Marigolds on, I am able to sift through and choose only the youngest, tenderest nettles; back home I turn them into a brilliant green creamy broth that everyone agrees is the best pea soup they have ever tasted. Sensing my moment of triumph, when the last spoonful has been eaten, I proudly tell them the truth – at which point Ellie bursts into tears and says her mouth is ‘sting-y’. Who cares about mouth ulcers when we have just eaten our first allotment meal? I wonder what cooch grass is like?

I quite enjoy my solo trips to the allotments, and during the week the plots are relatively quiet. Our most immediate neighbour there is Andy, who seems to spend days on end at the allotments but never on the same plot. While we have nodded a hello in the past, I have not ever had a chat with him, so, when we pass on the path one morning, I make a quip about which plot he might be working on today.

Andy explains that he is the Vice Chairman of the Blondin Allotments committee and, as such, he regularly checks the entire area and looks over plots that seem to be falling behind in terms of maintenance. I had never realised that our closest fellow gardener is part of the Blondin secret police.

Although we have moved the plot forwards in the past two months, I am aware that our initial start has been anything but convincing, so I ask him if we have violated the rules by not coming to the plot from December to March. He, surprisingly, replies that quite the opposite is true and that, in fact, they are all rather impressed with our efforts. Furthermore, Andy lets slip that one of the adjacent plots to ours is on the hitlist and, if the owner is evicted, we might be offered a plot extension. This faith in us should be heartening but, having worked so hard to get to where we are, I am not sure if I could start all over again on another bit.

We say our goodbyes and walk off in opposite directions. It’s good to get to know a few people at the site because a day’s digging can be a lonely life. At first, although Sheila and Keith had been friendly, few other people acknowledged us as we walked to our patch but, now we have proved ourselves as hardcore, green-fingered regulars, we have been accepted into the clan.

Sheila always calls hello as we come through the gate and invites the kids over and Keith will come over for a chat, and John – a plot away from us – is also a friendly chap, and there is the most charming West Indian woman who always stops me and asks when I’m next on the telly. My standard response is to joke that she should forget all about that CCTV appearance on Crimewatch and not say a word to anyone; every time she laughs as hard as the first, which is very kind.

On the other hand, several of the plot holders have erected large fences made of poles and bits of wood around their plots and these guys tend not to be the ‘good morning, nice day’ types. They appear to have barricaded themselves in. Then there is Mr iPod Man, who sings out loud while he works. He is usually bent over planting or digging and, while I have never worked out who he’s listening to on his iPod, it is obviously a band that he knows well, because he is always in full song whatever the time of day.

I have yearned for an iPod for ages. Every birthday for the last three years, I have hoped in vain to spot the Apple logo as I tear back the recycled wrapping paper. So far, no joy, but now I am head gardener I feel it might be time to treat myself.

I once heard John Major describe writing his memoirs as a cathartic experience. Frankly, I am finding writing my book completely frustrating. Digging, however, now that is truly cathartic. Some of my best times at the allotment have been spent with just my rambling imagination and a shovel for company. One morning, having nodded a hello to the iPod man, I take my shovel and start to dig rotational bed number three. It strikes me that, if I were to get an iPod, I could spend many a happy hour listening to what I please as I dig and sieve the land. The trouble, I have found, is that, as your children get older, they start to complain about the music that’s played in the car – ‘Dad, is “White Riot” really appropriate for us to be listening to?’ – and then, worse still, they demand music of their own. Ellie now insists on the Black Eyed Peas (at least it’s a vegetable reference) or some blokes called McFly, and she inevitably gets her way. Suddenly the allotment offers me a way out of this musical rut – if I were to buy an iPod I could cycle down to the allotment and listen to Neil Young without someone calling ‘this one sounds the same as the last one’ from the back seat.

iPods are a wonderful invention and, as I ponder the possibilities, it strikes me that there could be a vegetable version of this wondrous gadget. Just imagine this. You desperately care about the environment. You also wholeheartedly agree with the environmental issues surrounding food production, such as the air miles it is flown and the use of pesticides, but you are simply too busy working to play a ‘hands-on’ role in the environmental movement. Perhaps you are a long-haul pilot with a busy schedule or a lumberjack working away from home in the Brazilian rainforest, or simply someone who doesn’t like dirt under their fingernails. If this is you, then you need iPlot.

The investors and I buy a huge patch of land (perhaps Wales) and we carve the entire area into allotments, each with its own shed, compost heap and water butt.

You, the ethical wannabe, contact us and we assign a plot of land exclusively to you and give you a small piece of software through which you can download vegetables 24 hours a day. We then run out and plant your download to order before delivering it to your door when it’s ripe and ready to eat. Perhaps after a few beers you will fancy downloading a few carrots, a marrow and a plum tree. No problem. We at IPlot will get them dug in. For the specialist gardener there is the whole range of obscure vegetables to enjoy with just the simple click of a button. Salsify, artichokes, sea kale and red carrots will all be available for immediate download. And with coordinates provided by Google Earth you can tune in and watch your garden grow. One click of a button and out rushes some chap with a watering can. You can tend your virtual plot while down the pub, on the train or even while on holiday …

OK, so I’ve overdone this digging thing lately. What I need is a night off.

I have arranged to meet some friends, most of whom are chefs, for a quick beer. The problem with chefs, though, is that quick beers don’t really exist. We spend the first part of the evening catching up. I tell them of my allotment project, promise all of them a box of vegetables as soon as I can manage it and, before I know it, it is three in the morning and I am lying in the back of a black cab.

MJ had told me not to be too late home so, as I stumble into bed, I know I will need a good excuse if I am to be granted a lie-in. Though in-car map reading, forgetting birthdays and impromptu hangovers can all lead to domestic disagreements, the next morning I discover that, even if I haven’t come up with a good enough excuse for a lie-in, the allotment provides the perfect solution for the hangover issue at least.

I hop out of bed as if I refused every one of the fourteen bottles of beer I was offered the night before. Maintaining this look of sobriety, I declare that a visit to the allotment is well overdue, and that I shall go without delay. With a quick stop en route to buy a Mars bar, a cappuccino and a newspaper, I whiz down to the allotment, set up my camping chair, doze, read the paper and listen to the football on the radio before rubbing soil on my hands and returning home. And you thought you could walk a tightrope, Mr Blondin?

Back in the real world, the late April sun is drying out the earth and making the digging of the rotational beds that bit easier. Each of the three will measure approximately 18 feet by 10 feet (5.5 metres by 3 metres). I suspect that each year we might try different crops within each bed, but the principle of grouping a type of crop together, and moving it along one bed each year, remains. The various books seem to overlap in advice on which vegetable goes in which group, however. For instance, Dr Vegetable Expert puts onions in with his legumes, while the Royal Horticultural Society put onions in with their roots. We make up our own minds on these arbitrary points by letting the chef decide – an onion to me in the kitchen is a root vegetable and so be it. So, we finally have a list of which vegetables we are going to put in each of the rotational beds:

Bed number one – roots

Potatoes

Carrots

Onions – spring, pickling and large

Beetroot

Parsnips

Garlic

Bed number two – legumes

Beans – runner and broad

Spinach

Lettuce

Tomatoes

Sweetcorn

Bed number three – brassicas

Cabbage

Broccoli

Kale

Cauliflower

Radishes

Brussels sprouts

Swede

Having worked out what vegetable gets grown where, however, we have to re-read all the books to see what vegetable gets planted when. It turns out that ‘just about now’ is the answer to the above question, certainly when it comes to the bed of legumes; it is late April and runner beans, broad beans, tomatoes and sweetcorn are all in need of sowing.

The books also advise that most of these plants should be started off at home, so we make yet another trip to the garden centre, this time for plant pots and potting compost. I thought that growing your own vegetables was supposed to reduce the cost of living but, right now, it’s costing us a bloody fortune and we still haven’t eaten anything home-grown.

At home Ellie, Richie and I cover the table with bin liners and set about sowing seeds. They are actually far better at it than I am. Whereas Ellie easily manages to sow each tiny tomato seed dead centre in its little pot, they are far too small and delicate for my wacking great hands. Peter Schmeichel would make a useless gardener.

Within a couple of weeks our fledgling plants are ready to be transferred to the allotment and we all drive down to Blondin. All three passengers have a tray on their knees full of little plant pots, each containing a potential supper. While MJ and Richie plant up the seedlings, Ellie and I plant spinach and lettuce straight into the ground. I haven’t yet managed to grow anything but I already know that, when I do, I want it to grow in a straight line, so we put a bamboo cane across the bed and crawl along it placing each seed with great precision.

Before long our entire legume bed is a mass of baby plants about which I worry constantly. My dad had explained that watering at the beginning of the day is far more beneficial than a midday water so each morning my first job is a pre-breakfast dash to the allotment to water the plants.

One morning, while I am busy watering and generally minding my own business, a lady from a plot not too far away comes over to chat. She is obviously a gardener with some years’ experience and she immediately realises that I am a complete novice and therefore must be in need of tips – lots of them.

It is almost impossible to carry on watering when you are having a conversation but I do my best and, even in this department, she is on hand with some useful advice. She advises me to purchase a hoe at my earliest convenience. Apparently hoeing breaks up the earth and allows the water to penetrate the ground, thus reaching the roots of the target plant rather than forming a small temporary pond a little further down the bed, which, to be fair, is exactly what is happening to me. She is actually a little incredulous that I don’t already own one. I feel like telling her that I am new to all this and, while she has spent the last ten years fretting about bindweed and parsnip germination, I have been busy having a life. She doesn’t look the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll type, however, so I keep my opinions to myself and leave to buy a hoe!

My other mission at present, since I failed at Wisley, is to buy and plant asparagus in our inaugural bed. During the digging of the asparagus bed I had continued to read up on this wonderful vegetable and now feel I am more knowledgeable. Asparagus, or Asparagus officinalis to give it its full title, is a fussy customer. The books advise me to prepare the soil by adding lime. It turns out that different plants require a different pH factor; in other words, some plants like a limey soil and others like an acid soil, while most sit somewhere in between. This is good information, but only if you know what pH your soil is in the first place. Luckily, help is never more than a vegetable patch away on the allotments and Andy tells me that our soil is relatively neutral, which means we definitely need to add lime.

The books also advise removing all weeds and stones because these can cause bent spears, which can be particularly annoying to the cook (don’t I know it?). As well as this, the Royal Horticultural Society book urges top dressing of the soil. This apparently means sprinkling on a general fertiliser; however, the book warns the – by now terrified – novice asparagus grower that too much fertiliser will cause excess nitrogen and, guess what, old fussbags asparagus doesn’t like too much nitrogen.

American Edward C Smith also knows a good deal about asparagus cultivation – at least this is his boast in The Vegetable Gardener’s Bible. He advises lining each trench with something rather frighteningly called triple super phosphate. I buy this at the garden centre – it is very slightly cheaper than cocaine! As I go to tip it in I wonder whether it was an organic addition to my plot. The box suggests that it might not be but my serious desire to see my asparagus flourish means I decide to ignore the plight of the planet on this occasion and add it anyway.

To drive the knife home, so to speak, the RHS book reminds the reader that slugs and snails can damage the crop, as can the worryingly named asparagus beetle. All this, and you can’t even make asparagus soup with seared salmon and crème fraîche until the third year after planting!

But I am still determined to grow it so now, with my bed ready, I am on the hunt for asparagus crowns to buy. Planting asparagus seed is not that simple, so most of my books recommend planting what is known as a crown. This is actually a one-year-old root stock, which is then transplanted.

I don’t have time to drive back to Wisley and am unable to get asparagus crowns locally so, in the end, I hit the button marked Google and type in ‘asparagus for sale’. There are lists of people all over the country queuing up to sell me asparagus. I note three numbers and hit the jackpot on the very first call. I phone a farmer in Kent who sells asparagus crowns and explain to him that I have a bed dug and have added lime. I ask him if I should plant the crowns next year after the soil has had a chance to settle and develop, but he tells me, in no uncertain terms, to plant it this year, saying, ‘We could all be dead this time next year.’ This is alarming news and I am not sure if he made the statement as a sales tool to encourage me to buy asparagus, or whether he may in fact be a witch doctor with some uncanny foresight of the future. Anyhow it works, and I purchase ten crowns from him. A year ago I knew nothing about asparagus cultivation but now I find myself having highly technical discussions on the subject. I ask him if the ones I am purchasing are male hybrids, which he assures me they are (both of us know that you don’t want female asparagus depositing red berries among your crop and spoiling next year’s harvest – though I have to admit I never have quite found out why).

A few days later my asparagus arrives. I have not been to the allotment for several days because, thankfully, we have had a bit of rain so watering has not been an issue. I arrive at the allotment with half an hour put aside to plant my asparagus only to find a weed epidemic in full flow. This is what happens if you fail to visit the allotment for even a short period. I immediately start hoeing all the beds including the proposed asparagus site and then turn to planting the asparagus.

This humble fern represents far more than a tasty excuse to consume hollandaise sauce; the asparagus is the yardstick by which I shall measure my gardening success. I have spent long nights reading about this fussy perennial and, as I approach the planting stage, I feel nervous lest my knowledge should come to nothing more than a barren bed of earth.

The crowns of the asparagus themselves are the size and shape of a small octopus but, unlike octopi, which are best tenderised by beating against a rock, these plants need to be lovingly handled and spread out in the trench with care. As with the raspberries and other permanent crops, these are only planted once so I feel that the pressure is on.

I discover also that runner beans are only slightly less troublesome in the planting department than asparagus. They require some imaginative structure on which the runner beans can climb so, one Sunday morning, the family all troop down to Blondin where we meet up with Dilly and Doug and their children. MJ is on watering duty while I am putting my maleness to the test with a spot of DIY bean-structure building. Runner bean supports – an aid to the climbing bean plant – are an opportunity for a gardener to show his more practical side. I remember that, when I was young, my dad made his by fixing a stake in the ground and securing a metal hoop at the top. From all the way round the hoop he then ran twine down to the ground. The beans climbed up the twine. My grandpa on the other hand was more of a traditionalist – he made a wigwam out of canes and let the beans climb up these.

We do not have the room for a wigwam structure and I have no metal hoops so I can’t replicate my dad’s. Instead I make my own version by putting a cane into the ground at either end of the bed and then joining them by another cane, which acts as a crossbar. I then tie canes either side of the crossbar coming down to the ground at a slight angle.

Once this is in place, Ellie and I dig holes and plant the three-inch-high plants at the base of each cane. We then plant more rows of broad beans, spinach and leeks, while MJ and Richie dig in some sweetcorn plants.

I mark the rows with a line of string over the planted line of seeds, with the string held taut at each end by a short piece of bamboo. When the plants start growing we will obviously be able to see them but, until they push through, the string will act as a reminder to us all that there are things happening below ground level. This isn’t my own idea but one I have copied directly from our allotment neighbour John, who seems to know his stuff. Actually, MJ and I are always very careful to walk around the beds, but our children don’t seem to share this concern. If they need to get from one side of the allotment to the other, they always take the most direct route and, if that means walking straight through a vegetable bed, tough luck! Perhaps my little strings will stop them!

We have been trying to stagger the sowing of seeds where possible because MJ’s mum has told us that, if we stick everything in at once, we will have a problem with overwhelming quantities when it comes to harvest time. This may seem obvious, but the temptation to get everything up and running is enormous. Many gardeners find that, for three or four weeks each summer, they are literally buried under a mass of ripening fruit and vegetables and, as many gardeners are better at the growing than at the cooking end of vegetable production, they fail to keep up with the harvest.

There are two solutions to this problem: one is to buy this book for tips on using a glut – I would highly recommend this tip (and congratulations to you for having done so); the other is to stagger planting, thus extending the cropping period (but don’t forget it doesn’t have to be either or!).

Planting out the young plants is very satisfying. The bed is now full of small green stems all in neat rows, but there is a worry at the back of my mind. What if the temperature drops? Or there is a swarm of locusts? The plants will have to fend for themselves. I expect it is a similar experience to waving off your grown-up children at the airport as, with rucksacks on their backs, they go travelling the world. That night, as the wind whistles outside, I think of the bean and sweetcorn seedlings out in the elements, but there is nothing more I can do for them now.

I have started to daydream about succulent asparagus slowly pushing through the delicate topsoil. It’s almost erotic. When I bought the crowns I was told they would show through in about a week. Each day I visit the allotment with only one thing on my mind: has the asparagus come through yet? After six days and not a single spear in sight, I am beginning to worry that nothing will happen.

The weather is still awful, especially for late May. Richie’s birthday football match in the park with his friends (Brentford versus a World Eleven) is very nearly rained off. As a gardener, however, there is a small silver lining to the enormous rain cloud presently over Northfield Avenue. I can at last use the phrase ‘at least it’s good for the garden’ and really mean it.

On the water front, I read that blueberry bushes need very soft water. The water they are currently receiving is coming from either a passing cloud or from the allotments’ water butts. These butts are plumbed in and have a tap from which you can fill a watering can. At first I decide not to worry about this snippet of information, but these things play on my mind. In the end I find an Argos catalogue and look up water filters. The cheapest one looks like a big kettle and is about fourteen quid. I could fill it up at the beginning of the day and, when the water had dripped through the filter, I could pour it on to the blueberries. MJ says this is a little obsessive and she is probably right because we don’t even drink filtered water ourselves, so I risk it without.

As May draws to a close the weather slowly begins to improve and I am back to watering the allotment each morning. Back home we also water our flowers and shrubs, but I can’t help feel that pouring tap water on a plant that will never be eaten is completely at odds with our drive to create a greener environment. I suggest to MJ that she could use ‘grey’ water rather than filling the watering can straight from the tap. Since ‘grey’ water is used bath water and second-hand washing-up water, she cleverly points out that I have banned baths and that we use a dishwasher so I have to agree that the tap is the place for the watering can.

One evening I get a call from Andy who says our shed window has been blown out by the wind. The next morning I scrap my plans to install a water butt at home and head off to the allotment. Stuff the window – today is a great day: we have asparagus! Five beautiful, innocent, happy spears have gently nudged aside the well-limed, stone-free earth and are pointing skywards. My mind wanders back to the birth of my children – that is the impact of this discovery. Sure, they will grow up into big bold asparagus wrapped in pancetta and smothered in hollandaise sauce, but, right now, they are the pride and joy of my short gardening career. They must not be cropped for three years but it is all I can do to stop myself dining on them there and then.

I call home and tell them the news, expecting them to drop everything and rush down to share the moment but, to be honest, their reaction is a little low-key. This could be because I have talked of nothing other than asparagus to anyone who would listen – so they may well have had their fill of the stuff before a single spear gets boiled.

The news just gets better – we also have broad beans coming through. I net them for protection, mend the window and then head off to do the family shop. Although I have been telling family and friends for some time that I will never again visit a supermarket, the truth is that I have occasionally broken that rule with a sly trip to Waitrose. This particular brand of supermarket feels slightly more in tune with the ethical shopper in my mind; they also sell a very decent version of millionaire’s shortbread, which I love! Pulling up in my car, I feel like an alcoholic outside an off-licence as I lurk outside the shop, telling myself it’s against the rules, but knowing I will end up going in, and hoping nobody sees me.

On the occasions that I have visited the supermarket, I have limited myself to buying only British seasonal produce that can be purchased free of packaging. I feel that this is in some way making a stand, and what could be more seasonal today than a kilo of Norfolk asparagus. In honour of our future harvest, I plan that the weekend’s menus shall revolve around this little beauty: asparagus soup – both hot and chilled; asparagus wrapped in Serrano ham and roasted in olive oil; and asparagus with hollandaise sauce.