Tuesday, November 17

Allottment blogging

I really love this concept, that a patchwork of the faces of kindred spirits can form a literary quilt of a garden plot; an allotment of ideas, of 'how does your garden grow' (with designated space for fanciful food ideas and a nod to fashion).
This is quite possibly my ideal story , a heavenly tale. It comes attached to a giveaway of unimaginable delight. Ms Flint, you're all style.

Write a post on your blog about an allotment garden
real or imagined
what would you plant in yours?
what will you wear whilst tending it?
when you pause for elevenses, what will you have?

Here goes.

I would start with a border, an edible border of course, something tall, private. Espaliered fruit trees, a peppercorn too, bay and definitely a quince or two and honeysuckle and jasmine winding to enclose the space, I love to garden alone with my thoughts. Hidden. A wooden gate is essential, with a huge old lock. Memories of The Secret Garden. Inside this fragrant and fruiting fence i would hedge the line with lavenders and rosemary, some roses too. Gravel paths would form curving frames for a riot of vegetables of heirloom sorts; pinks, purples, yellows, whites, reds, oranges and stripes and spots complement an array of greens. A heavenly rainbow of edible offerings. The dark, covered ground would hold blood red beets, purple and orange carrots and creamy white parsnips. Asparagus fronds would tempt, peas dangle from natures poles, beans sway, cukes climb, potatoes rest and an earthen pile in a corner is forked, its goodness taken to feed the soil and hold the drink, unwanted growth pulled. Hours pass. A seat piled with cushions under the peppercorn would beckon. A book too. Sit. Boots removed. Feet aired. Toes wiggled. Ahhh. My back creaks and i stand and stretch. Age. An old worn, riddled cotton tank and cut off jeans even feel too hot. Panama removed. Wet hair shaken. The beloved bloke had placed a tray. A gin, some lemon, ice cubes melt. Mint is picked. Pheasant pate, fresh butter and toasted sourdough. Fragrant tomato, green oil, giant basil and coarse black pepper float on buffalo mozarella. I sit, I eat, I look and listen. My book waits.

No comments: