Allotmenteers don’t cry..

The calm before the storm

The wind gusted around the houses as the horizontal rain lashed my flimsy waterproof and found its way up my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I looked down to see my boots sinking into the mud and the beginnings of a lake which may be visible from space. The rake in my soggy hand dragged across the heavy load it was trying to spread, its tines clogged with saturated poo. I wanted to cry, but didn’t, as I’m a hardened allotmenteer, this is what I do.

I think someone at the Met Office was sniggering when they stuck a big fat yellow sun on the weather map for that day, right over our allotment. That was the day for our poo delivery, we agreed, we didn’t see the sun fall off to be replaced by rain and floods. We didn’t hear the sniggering either.

While our allotment site is delightful and rural, with charming wildlife scampering around, including our newly-adopted mouse clan living in the planter, and wood pigeons declaring ‘my toe hurts, Betty’ all day long, reaching 31A with a wheelbarrow could be straight out of It’s a Knockout. The 300 metres from the gate starts with a wide, flat path, but soon hurtles down the slope, narrowing by the water butts and throwing up mole hills and the odd tree root. Add a few days’ rain and after the first barrow load there are ruts, cambers, mud and a mahoosive slide. You don’t want to be shifting anything heavy in those conditions.

The compost arrives on the back of a lorry and is dumped by the gate, blocking the way for the other plotholders, so it’s allotment courtesy to move it as soon as you can. We’d ordered a cubic metre of spent mushroom compost, which is ideal for mulching and, due to its fine, light texture, easy to transport and spread. We have a system, a barrow each and a trug piled on top, so we have to do fewer trips, maybe ten, 12 if I slack on the job. We often joke about it maybe blowing down the hill and landing on the lot, all soft and airy.

The truck arrived along with the rain. As its load slithered on to the concrete with a with a thud, splashing liquid poo as high as my eye, I knew this was not going to be a ten-load day. It looked like it had been in the truck in the rain for days, there was no steam, the heat had gone, steaming poo is healthy poo. A cubic metre is about a tonne, obviously it can vary, but you get the idea. A cubic metre of compost, which has become saturated will be, let’s do the maths here, with one litre of water the equivalent to 1kg, it will be….heavier. Much heavier and, though there is no real measure for this, stickier and smellier.

We quickly gave up any hope of the barrow and trug combination as they wobbled and spilled onto the grass path. Noel trotted off, using his superior strength and speed, while I lagged behind, slowed by the swearing and cussing, I try to vary my expletives just for creativity’s sake, but had to resort to my swearing of choice, which, ironically described what I was wheeling.

After about three loads from Noel and one from me, we’d trashed the path and Noel had made a buttock-shaped rut where he’d literally hit the ground running. Hard to believe I know, but I was getting grumpier with each skid and slide. There wasn’t much relief once we reached the lot, the loads were reluctant to leave the barrow, I fell at least once as I overbalanced. There may have been more swearing, but if no-one’s there to hear you, did you really swear?

Sensing my frustration, Noel suggested I stay there and re-distribute the mounds. He didn’t need to say it twice, I abandoned the barrow and grabbed the rake. My trusty rake I’d bought for £1 at a village fete. I love that rake. It sank into the poo hill and stayed put, like a flagpole. I realised I was staying put too, water was filling my footprints and the barrow trail, the thick gloopy clay was saturated and so was I. I managed to pull one foot out with a loud farty noise, then the other, then the first one which had got stuck again, more farty noises. This went on for a while, I’m sure I heard the mice tittering from their warm, comparatively dry, planter. I eventually broke free, but had created a lake which the torrential rain was topping up. This is the point where I wanted to cry, but of course I didn’t, because allotmenteers don’t cry, we just sniff and blame the cold.

With Noel doing the bulk of the barrowing, we were so near to done that my spirits lifted, along with the rain clouds, and I volunteered to get super-sized sausage sandwiches from the local deli, along with a slab of cake and two mugs of builders’ tea. I suspected I may be smelling a little ripe, so left my shoes outside while a went it to order. With everyone wearing face masks, I couldn’t tell if anyone was turning up their nose at me.

After our feast fit for a king and queen, enjoyed in sunshine, the heavens opened again, this time to wash away the remains of the poo from the allotments entrance. At least it saved us a job so we could stagger home for a shower and a nap. A long nap.

I shared our trials with allotment buddy Bev, who’s had a similar experience the previous week, though without the swearing. ‘Your allotment will love you,’ she said in the cheerful tone of someone who had forgotten those barrow treks. ‘Yes,’ I half-heartedly smiled, ‘But I’m not sure the feeling is mutual…..not today at least’