Pamiętam...

Dla Ewka od Tatusia.

Ulubiony robote...

We've had a good long spell of dry weather, give or take the odd shower or two. So I took advantage of it to turn over the bit of the plot I am going to use and then plant the potatoes.

It really is my favourite job on the plot, a real reminder that spring is coming and that new potatoes won't be long (about 14 weeks usually, less if I can't wait). So it's out with the soil, down to a spit deep. This is possible on one part but not on the other so it just goes as deep as I can. Line the trench with good rotten cow shit and then gently place the chitted seed potatoes. Draw the soil back over the top, making a little bit of a hillock to show other people I've been busy, then stand back and admire my work.

Moving house, part one...

I thought I might have had the plot to myself last week when I popped up to turn the ground ready for the potatoes, but the place was packed. There'd also been a good deal of activity since my last visit, as I found out when I went through the gate. What was once good thick turf has been reduced to a slippery slope.

It got worse further in, with the path to the plot more of the same, up to the spring where we get our water. There, some bright spark had had the idea of moving the basin where the water collects, with the result we now have a pool where the old pool was, and a swamp because the new plastic sump doesn't drain the water away properly.

When I got to the bee plot, I was horrified to find this mess:

Walking across from the path was hard work and I can only begin to imagine how much harder it would be with a full super. You can't even wheel a barrow it's that uneven. When I queried who and why, and pointed out that was my half plot for the bees I was given some vague bullshit that just proved once again that the people who have plots on that site have no clue how gardening works, and if brains were manure, there'd be enough to fertilise only a very small gro-bag.

So my hand was forced, so to speak. I don't want the bees on this site any longer and decided to move them straight away. So with a friend, Andrew's, help the remaining hive (the one on the left in the photo) was lifted from its home of over three years, carried stumblingly across the ground, placed gently in the car and driven to a new location.

The distance from site to site was well over the regulation three miles and they should do well there, secluded and in the midst of masses of balsam. I returned to the plot site on the Monday and removed the rest of the windbreak netting and the remaining hive and will re-queen as soon as possible to get back to two colonies.

All this was done in the rain so thankfully there were no flying bees, and I have yet to inspect them after their move, but it all went smoothly, albeit a couple of skids on the path of the skimmed allotments and a near-miss blunder at the top of the potentially lethal steps, below.

The photo is blurred because I was still shaking after slipping on the second step, with Andrew skidding at the top. Thankfully those orange straps keep everything nicely tight and together. So one colony successfully moved, no stings, no mishaps. Thank goodness!

Don't count on your council...

Graffiti these days seems to consist solely of 'tagging', those irritating and pathetic attempts to put a mark on something. In the olden days, graffiti said something, but now it's rare to find something thought provoking or controversial. My own favourite of the last few months, written in neat capitals in a Salford underpass, was: 'Bethany Atherley stinks of fish!'

So it was with pleasure that I noticed this message to the council:

Not that they'll take any notice. A couple of weeks ago our soak away drain was tarmaced over. This has been useful over the last five years, taking water from the downspout and soaking it away so it doesn't wash across the footpath. Now it does, because the council have blocked up the soak. They told me it wasn't a soak, it was caused by 'erosion' because there was no foot on the downspout. It reminded me of Father Ted, querying why Dougal hadn't taken Father Jack for his walk to the cliffs. 'They were gone' says Dougal. 'Gone?' says Ted incredulously, 'How could they be gone?' 'Er... erosion.'

Needless to say, I got no joy from the council. They have blocked up a perfectly useable drain, and now water floods across the footpath. The road is pitted and rutted, potholed and cratered. The footpath on Market Street has almost no flag that doesn't wobble. They've approved another £18million in cuts, to add to the ever-increasing amount they say they have to save, but have miraculously found £4.5million to improve the main market. They continue to pursue a ridiculous bid to gain city status when the town itself has the mentality of a small village...

*Gets off soapbox...*