LIZ JONES: The new hobby that I think might finally make me flourish
I have a garden: it’s walled, and paved with Yorkshire stone. South facing, with three outbuildings: I plan to have a cloakroom, bootroom and a snug. It seemed enough, until I flicked through the parish magazine that had landed on the mat, wanting to find out more about my new village.
It turns out there are allotments up for rent – £70 for the full size – a short walk along the river. I take Missy to have a look.
A woman shows me round – the allotment holders seem to be mostly older women, widows possibly, who are determined not to atrophy, who want to stay fit, active and well fed. Mine is next to a water butt. I have a shed, a bench, a gravel path and raised beds. Or I think they are raised beds, under the weeds and the grass.
The only plant I recognise is rhubarb. And a bush that is possibly blackcurrant: crushing the leaves I am transported back to Sunday lunch, and my mum’s blackcurrant pie. Whole berries would explode in my mouth, prompting my mum to exclaim, ‘Mind my tablecloth!’
I became vegetarian aged 11, to avoid eating meat, which I had just realised was from animals who hadn’t died of natural causes. At high school, my packed lunch was a banana sandwich on brown bread (Mum baked all our bread; I yearned for something soft and white).
Over the years, I gave up dairy. But I don’t enjoy food: even on my wedding day, I didn’t taste the organic chocolate cake. I’m addicted to MasterChef and The Great British Menu, in awe of people who love to cook, who appreciate flavour, who have an appetite. I want some of that joy! But as I live alone and have no children, shopping for food and cooking has become a chore.
Weirdly, I grew up in another vicarage. It was rented: the only way my parents could find somewhere big enough for seven children. The garden was huge, with a tyrannical lawn my dad would spend days mowing, shirtless.
My mum grew runner beans: a wigwam of red flowers turning into long, fat green beans. I would be dispatched to harvest them, along with mint from the patch by the coal bunker. No other veg or herb was ever spoken of.
I’ve been off my feed for a few months: my gut feels full of stress. Nothing tastes of anything.
I wonder if growing my own will make me appreciate what I eat more. My first assignment as a writer was to take a windsurfing course on a Greek island. Aside from bruised knees (I spent the entire time wailing, ‘Can you hold it while I get on?’), I discovered what real tomatoes and peaches taste like.
I’ve made a list of what I want to grow: chillis and tomatoes in a glasshouse bought on Ebay for £13, peas, broad beans, spinach, potatoes, onions. I’ve wanted to grow cut flowers (sweet peas, roses, peonies, bulbs for spring) ever since I read that Guy Ritchie grew his own, in the garden that once belonged to Cecil Beaton, for his second wedding: so much cooler than buying imported hothouse blooms from the supermarket.
I want to plant night-scented stock and tobacco plants, so beloved of my dad, to scent late summer evenings when I will sit in my plot, admiring my handiwork. I am too late to plant seeds, apparently, and will have to buy plugs. I already have a huge fig tree that I hope will have children this summer, although I remember I don’t like figs.
You might think I’m taking on more than I can chew, literally. The other day, I forced myself to eat an apple, and my jaw ached from the unexpected activity. I have a fear of worms, which I plan to rehome, Dalai Lama-fashion. More than anything else (exercise, meditation, almost free food), my allotment is about permanence.
Not for years have I been able to plan, put down roots, actually believe I will live to see an apple tree blossom next year.
I had a drink with a friend the other evening, and she said, ‘Liz, we’re at an age when things will start to go wrong with our health.’ I wanted to say, ‘Speak for yourself.’ I think I’m just about to flourish.
Gardening, growing and eating my own plants will make me stronger, healthier, less caught up in constant worry over things I can’t control.
Jones moans....what Liz loathes this week
- What’s the bossiest thing I’ve said to a man? This: ‘Can you bring indoor and outdoor shoes?’ But who, seriously, wears shoes indoors? I’m not a 1950s housewife!
- My Miele vacuum won’t turn on. I can’t tell you how many Mieles I’ve bought. Who once said the definition of madness is doing the same thing, expecting a different result?
Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and find her @lizjonesgoddess