Soilman

Think I may have left the parsnips a tad too long…

Given good soil and good conditions, parsnips grow to monster sizes. Some folks say they get woody and unpleasant to eat when they’re huge, but to be honest I’ve never noticed. Provided you cut out the core before cooking them, they’re fine.

And actually, this year’s crop has been my best ever. I’ve had two 15ft rows of huge, straight, tapering roots. Delicious, too, because all these frosts have sweetened them marvellously. This is Tender and True, my favourite variety.

How were your parsnips this season?

Some of you were sad enough to want to see my allotment shed.

Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. First, it’s not a shed – it’s a plastic dumpster (whose assembly you can watch in my foolish video). Second, it’s a bloody disgrace.

I don’t do tidy. Tidy’s for tedious tossers. Sorry, but there it is. Apologies to all the tedious tossers I count among my friends. I love you guys. I know it’s a sickness.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to be tidier. I would. It’s just that becoming so would require becoming a tedious tosser. And some prices are just too high to pay.

OK, time to ‘fess up: I’ve been in Marrakech, Morocco. A very special treat in February for a SAD sufferer, and a huge boost to my flagging morale.

The sun shone every day, and it was glorious. Interesting from a gardener’s point of view, too; this is a shot of Yves St Laurent’s garden, the Jardin Majorelle (which contains a rather dignified and touching memorial to the man).

The yellow and blue theme runs throughout, with cacti and limpid pools making a rather special visual experience. Bizarrely, there seemed to be only French tourists there… which seemed a waste. If you’re ever in Marrakech, don’t miss it.

Not exactly a typical garden scene for the UK in February. Here’s a clue: it’s not the UK (although it IS February).

Here’s another pic to help you figure it out…

It’s here. Only eight months until it’s ready. Er…

Sorry I’ve not posted a picture of my shed (you guys must be SO gutted). Not had time. Busy week.

I’ll hopefully be posting some unusual garden pictures over the next few days…

I so am. Almost nine weeks after the shortest day, and it’s still dark, dank and freezing.

Message to God: END THIS BLOODY WINTER NOW BEFORE I GO MAD.

There was a bit of feeble, watery sunshine yesterday. Not warm, exactly, but a distinct improvement on conditions over the last two months.

Instead of cheering me up, it’s depressed me further; like Tantalus reaching for his grapes (is it just me, or does that phrase sound like it should be in the Viz Profanisaurus?), I thrilled to the prospect of Spring… then remembered it was still Feb 17.

Utterly gutted.

I’ve started a bit late this year. Celeriac usually gets sown end of January, because it needs a long, long growing season to achieve any size (and even then it sometimes fails to deliver much of a bulb).

The good news about a wet summer is that you get monster celeriac. In SE Britain, it was horribly dry last year so I got rubbish. I don’t want a pissing summer, God knows, but there is an upside.

Looks like a shanty town, huh? Welcome to “Slumdog Allotmenteer”.

I’m not proud of myself. A compost heap should look a bit ragged around the edges… but this is beyond unhygienic. The bags are full of chicken shit from my mother’s farm, and the pong is really minging. Makes your eyes water.

The rest is… well, junk. Let’s call a spade a spade: I’m a filthy bugger, and I need a clean up.

Mental note: Tidy up plot soonest.

“Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty”

Call me a dreamer. Call me a sadster. Tell me I need to get out more.

But hey, really. Is there anything more gorgeous than a neatly trimmed, manured, freshly dug vegetable plot?

Huge thrill this morning. Managed to take my morning shower without the bathroom light on.

“Pray, why?” you may ask. “Is this some new eroto-luminance perversion popular with the allotmenteering classes?”

Not exactly. It’s one of my personal winter foibles. You see, the day I can shower at 7am without artificial light is the day I know the sun is rising significantly earlier.

I’ve tried a few times over the last three weeks. Mostly with cartoon results – stubbed toes, histrionic slips with wild, flailing arms. I almost gave up last Tuesday when I spent 5 mins in pitch blackness trying to work up a lather with the soapdish.

But today, I managed it. Only shaving was a serious challenge: I look like Sweeney Todd’s practice dummy.

Still, the point is made: Spring’s bloody close.