I am enjoying a fabulous autumn sunset in a pretty English village, not far from the town of Grantham (famous for Margaret Thatcher and being voted the most boring town in England). The village, however is very pretty, boasting a picture postcard church and red-bricked cottages with sweetly scented roses growing around their doorways. I am out taking an evening stroll to one of the three immaculately tended allotment sites in the village to visit my old friend Stan.
We are sitting next to his wood burning stove in the makeshift shed cluttered from floor to ceiling in things that might come in useful one day. (I am not quite sure what use a pogo stick will be in the garden, but you never know). We are sitting on old threadbare armchairs, enjoying a bit of warmth as the heat goes out of the day. The subject is composting. “If you get your old straw or manure from somewhere that has been using chemicals, you could be asking for all sorts of problems.” Stan is a devoted organic vegetable grower and is very careful about what he puts into the soil. “If you are into organics, you need to check out your sources,” he tells me “I wouldn’t eat carrots that were grown with chemicals and I don’t want the chemicals in the soil of my allotment.”
Stan retired nearly twenty years ago because of ill health; he spent too long in the coalmines and the coal dust collected in his lungs. You wouldn’t guess now though. He started on the allotments soon after finishing work to get out into the fresh air and keep active. It has worked wonders for him -he is fitter than me.
“Do you think that there are any financial benefits to growing your own vegetables? I ask Stan. “The credit crunch has sparked loads of interest in growing your own. I wonder if you could put a price on it?”
I take a grimy cup of hot liquid from Stan who just poured it from a kettle on the stove. “If you put a price on it then it turns into economics.” Stan hands me a soil- covered biscuit and puts the kettle back on the plate, which keeps it boiling. “Let’s imagine that you would put a price on what I do here on the allotment. At the very least I will come here about one hour a day, that’s to grow and care for enough fruit and veg for the wife and I. That’s 365 hours a year, which is pretty manageable. Say I charge about €50 an hour.” I splutter at the thought of getting such a reward for my labour and my half eaten biscuit ends up on the floor.
“This is just it you see, you can’t put a price on these things. But that’s what I would charge. You would be looking at a cost of 15 and a half thousand a year. That’s not taking into consideration tools, seeds and feed. You could add a few hundred a year onto the amount.”
“Tomatoes are always really cheap in the shops when mine are ripe.” I add supporting his theory. “Mind you,” Stan says thoughtfully,” With the global market and discount shops, fruit and veg are cheap enough all year round really.” He turns to open the door of the shed. The steam from the kettle wafts out, and the musty smell of his new delivery of horse muck creeps in. “I grow my crops because I know what has gone into producing them. The taste is far superior to anything you would buy. I love gardening. It’s my life. It keeps me active and the social scene here at the allotments is great. There are about twenty-five of us and we help each other out when we can and share our surplus when we can’t get through it all.” Stan pauses to flick a drowning woodlouse out of his cup. “Did you know that some onions that you buy in the shops could be two years old?”
“I didn’t.” I say, not surprised. “There’s nothing tastier than a nice lump of cheese to go with a freshly dug onion, I used to take the odd one from allotments when I was a kid.” I confess.
“We grow extra on the allotments to allow for pests.” Stan continues giving me a disapproving look. “You can keep your costs down when you are growing your own. There doesn’t have to be a big cash outlay. All you need are some planks for raised beds and some good soil to put the seeds in. The secret is to start small, with just a few plants and not spend a lot of money. If you were really thrifty you could get the seeds from other growers, we swop a lot of seeds here, and young plants too. My carrots were grown from seed that I saved last year.” Stan handed me a freshly dug one from a bunch sitting in his rusty wheelbarrow. “Here taste this.” I wiped the soil off and bit through the silty deposits still on the flesh. It was delicious and went well with the biscuit.
“There are NO financial advantages to growing your own and feeding yourself. ” Stan says conclusively. “It can be a hard slog; bad weather such as drought and floods can destroy all of your hard work. All of the crops can be devastated by pests and disease.”
I am almost feeling sorry for Stan when there’s a knock on the shed door.
Hi Stan.” It’s Dan and Susan from the adjoining allotment. “We’ve got couple of bottles of last years gooseberry wine, fancy a taste? Without hesitation the dust is blown off four of Stan’s cleanest jam jars and are put out on the worktop. The cork is pulled, the wine poured and the ritual of tasting begins. Stan is right. You can’t put a price on this.
We are sitting next to his wood burning stove in the makeshift shed cluttered from floor to ceiling in things that might come in useful one day. (I am not quite sure what use a pogo stick will be in the garden, but you never know). We are sitting on old threadbare armchairs, enjoying a bit of warmth as the heat goes out of the day. The subject is composting. “If you get your old straw or manure from somewhere that has been using chemicals, you could be asking for all sorts of problems.” Stan is a devoted organic vegetable grower and is very careful about what he puts into the soil. “If you are into organics, you need to check out your sources,” he tells me “I wouldn’t eat carrots that were grown with chemicals and I don’t want the chemicals in the soil of my allotment.”
Stan retired nearly twenty years ago because of ill health; he spent too long in the coalmines and the coal dust collected in his lungs. You wouldn’t guess now though. He started on the allotments soon after finishing work to get out into the fresh air and keep active. It has worked wonders for him -he is fitter than me.
“Do you think that there are any financial benefits to growing your own vegetables? I ask Stan. “The credit crunch has sparked loads of interest in growing your own. I wonder if you could put a price on it?”
I take a grimy cup of hot liquid from Stan who just poured it from a kettle on the stove. “If you put a price on it then it turns into economics.” Stan hands me a soil- covered biscuit and puts the kettle back on the plate, which keeps it boiling. “Let’s imagine that you would put a price on what I do here on the allotment. At the very least I will come here about one hour a day, that’s to grow and care for enough fruit and veg for the wife and I. That’s 365 hours a year, which is pretty manageable. Say I charge about €50 an hour.” I splutter at the thought of getting such a reward for my labour and my half eaten biscuit ends up on the floor.
“This is just it you see, you can’t put a price on these things. But that’s what I would charge. You would be looking at a cost of 15 and a half thousand a year. That’s not taking into consideration tools, seeds and feed. You could add a few hundred a year onto the amount.”
“Tomatoes are always really cheap in the shops when mine are ripe.” I add supporting his theory. “Mind you,” Stan says thoughtfully,” With the global market and discount shops, fruit and veg are cheap enough all year round really.” He turns to open the door of the shed. The steam from the kettle wafts out, and the musty smell of his new delivery of horse muck creeps in. “I grow my crops because I know what has gone into producing them. The taste is far superior to anything you would buy. I love gardening. It’s my life. It keeps me active and the social scene here at the allotments is great. There are about twenty-five of us and we help each other out when we can and share our surplus when we can’t get through it all.” Stan pauses to flick a drowning woodlouse out of his cup. “Did you know that some onions that you buy in the shops could be two years old?”
“I didn’t.” I say, not surprised. “There’s nothing tastier than a nice lump of cheese to go with a freshly dug onion, I used to take the odd one from allotments when I was a kid.” I confess.
“We grow extra on the allotments to allow for pests.” Stan continues giving me a disapproving look. “You can keep your costs down when you are growing your own. There doesn’t have to be a big cash outlay. All you need are some planks for raised beds and some good soil to put the seeds in. The secret is to start small, with just a few plants and not spend a lot of money. If you were really thrifty you could get the seeds from other growers, we swop a lot of seeds here, and young plants too. My carrots were grown from seed that I saved last year.” Stan handed me a freshly dug one from a bunch sitting in his rusty wheelbarrow. “Here taste this.” I wiped the soil off and bit through the silty deposits still on the flesh. It was delicious and went well with the biscuit.
“There are NO financial advantages to growing your own and feeding yourself. ” Stan says conclusively. “It can be a hard slog; bad weather such as drought and floods can destroy all of your hard work. All of the crops can be devastated by pests and disease.”
I am almost feeling sorry for Stan when there’s a knock on the shed door.
Hi Stan.” It’s Dan and Susan from the adjoining allotment. “We’ve got couple of bottles of last years gooseberry wine, fancy a taste? Without hesitation the dust is blown off four of Stan’s cleanest jam jars and are put out on the worktop. The cork is pulled, the wine poured and the ritual of tasting begins. Stan is right. You can’t put a price on this.
