I am increasingly convinced by the arguments in favour of no-dig cultivation. I have moved the majority of beds on my allotment plot over to no-dig, and I use raised beds and containers in the garden, so that has always been no-dig by default.
Whilst I can manage most of the allotment beds through judcious use of cardboard, heavy mulches and hand weeding, there are still a couple of beds that I have had to dig to clear existing plants and pernicious weeds.
Whether it be the tap roots of plants like dandelions; the strong rope-like nettle roots or the brittle 'come back king' roots of bindweed and couch grass, they all find their synergy with their environment and have evolved to survive and thrive.
I feel rooted in East Anglia, specifically Norfolk and Suffolk. My DNA comes from the sandy soil, brackish waters and salt-laden winds of this area. We are a family of little migration. Going back centuries no-one from either side of my family has lived outside of Norfolk or Suffolk, with the exception of my unfortunate, three times Great Grandmother, Harriet Blyth, who was transported to Van Diemans Land in 1848 for petty theft. She died there two years later.
Records show that almost all of my ancestors, up to and including both of my Grandfathers, were agr lab (agricultural labourers). These were the rural poor, people of the land, beholden to the landowners. They stayed though unlike many. The lure of industrialization drawing them into the towns and cities was not strong enough to make them break their ties. It was not until the 1940s after my paternal Grandfather had moved to Felixstowe from Norfolk, and changed from being a live-in gardener to a labourer at the then developing docks, that the link to employment on the land was broken on that side of the family.
My maternal Grandfather started work as a horseman at the age of 14. He worked with Suffolk Punches on a small farm between Alderton and the enigmatic hamlet of Shingle Street on the Suffolk coast. He went on to work with other livestock, latterly keeping pigs and chickens on his smallholding almost right until he died in his late 80s. My childhood memories are full of collecting eggs; following behind him dropping potatoes into freshly dug trenches and earthing up seemingly endless rows of celery.
My cousin and his family now live in my Grandparents' old house. We really do not move much.
My sense of belonging, my rootedness to Norfolk and Suffolk, is absolute and overwhelming. It is not merely a feeling of home or familiarity with a place. I feel my invisible roots grounding me and my capillary soul circulating between my body and the land.
I have visited many outstandingly beautiful locations. Other places with wild seas and big skies, or less familiar landscapes, squashed between hills and mountains. I can fully appreciate their aesthetic and can embrace their difference. It is not though until I get back to Suffolk that my own sense of completeness returns. My roots settled once more into their microbiome.
I first had the idea of starting a new blog in the spring of last year. I thought about how I would describe my gardening style and the word that kept coming up was imperfect:
I am a bit chaotic; I break the 'rules'; I am inspired by a diversity of influences; I do things at the wrong time and in the wrong way; I am constantly learning, reviewing and adapting; I am mercurial. I reckon that all this makes me a pretty normal gardener.
I wanted to present my gardening thoughts, reflections and inspirations in an accessible way without a voice of all-knowing authority. This was my initial motivation behind The Imperfect Gardener.
Then in early summer I became very ill. I have had spinal problems since I was ten and had extensive surgery in my late teens and early twenties, which means I am often stiff and achey, but what gardener doesn't get twinges and aches after a good session in the garden or on the allotment? My illness though took me beyond this with a massive auto-immune rection to an unknown something, which left me severely weakened, virtually unable to walk or to move my arms. I could barely lift a cup of herbal tea let alone a kettle, needed help to get dressed and had to use an electric seat to get in and out of the bath.
Now recovering, supported by good physio and medication, I have come to own the concept of being an imperfect gardener as something much more personal: this is about the whole me, the imperfection that is about more than just the way I do, it's about how I am.
I am struck by how often the theme of the therapeutic value of horticulture comes up as our society seemingly becomes more fractious and troubled. The impact of connectedness with the soil on our mental and physical health; the healing it gives to those experiencing loss, grief and distress and how it can enrich the lives of people living with severe disabilities are all things highlighted in mainstream and social media channels.
I have worked all my adult life in health and social care, and have seen a huge growth (no pun intended) in horticultural projects for people with learning disabilities and those experiencing mental distress over the last decade. A real move away from the more institutionalized traditional day care centres which were the only care option for many people. The newer projects not only seek to help participants develop practical and social skills, but on a deeper level work to promote self-confidence, calm and well-being. Experiences can be collective, shared with others, or individual.
There are other growing projects too that bring together communities or re-engage those who have been excluded from society. Our allotment site has recently had loads of invaluable support from our local Community Payback team who have done some much-needed heavy and arduous maintence work for us. Plotholders and volunteers have shared tales and laughter over tea and cake. This breaks down boundaries and preconceptions on all sides.
We live in a world that is imperfect. Each of us has our own imperfections. Let's embrace them and for me, my celebration is in the being of an imperfect gardener. Imperfect physically, imperfect practically - what better start could there be?
