The allotment in winter
A (rather large) snapshot of life on the allotment over winter.
December 2022
The robin landed on my hat recently, and, yes, I was wearing it at the time. The sun silhouetted us against the open shed door, so I was able to get an idea of what we looked like. Very Christmassy!
One of the allotment cats (semi-feral, neutered by a cat charity) spent part of one morning prowling around nearby, accompanied by alarm calls from the robins, tits, blackbirds, crows and magpies. I didn’t want to scare him, so I just walked slowly after him, hoping he’d get the message. A kestrel and a buzzard have also been drawing unwanted attention from the corvids, who ‘escort them off the premises’ furiously whenever they come around.
The laughingly-titled ‘compost heap’ was threatening to overspill its bounds, again, so I started to tackle it in October, but a knee injury slowed the job considerably, and both are still lingering on. Two winters ago, when the extremely longstanding heap of weeds was interlaced with tarpaulin, glass, rocks/stones and goodness knows what else, I took on the mammoth task of removing it all, coupled with the task of ‘sorting out’ the bottom of the plot, which had been under tarpaulin for many, many years – it’s a big plot, is my excuse! Weeks of clearing that ground, moving and spreading the five one-ton bags of weeds and soil that had accumulated down there, removing the weeds from the soil and raking it flat, barrowing full loads of pine-scented chippings onto the now even ground, and adding a little path had resulted in a pleasant space where I now sit on days when it’s too hot to be in the full sun.
New pine chippings
However, the compost heap had built back up again over the two years – vegetables mightn’t always grow but weeds always seem to – and so it was (unfortunately) time to reduce it again. Also, the ground under the apple tree had not become the beautiful wildflower meadow that I had anticipated: the original weeds grew back and more joined them, so I decided that the now rotted material on the compost heap could be spread down there. I also discovered some flag stones underneath about six inches of soil, so had to dig down and move that soil to expose them, then find a few more to even things up (thanks, Richie!).
Helping
January 2023
The crow children have been back ‘at home’, hanging out with their parents, for a couple of months now. One was forlornly gaping at them as they strode across the peanut-strewn ‘table’, but in vain. I wonder why they have returned, and why they are accepted and not chased off – although there was a bit of a commotion early on. There are no squabbles when a raven passes over one morning, though: the family start calling aggressively and then all four take off and chase the intruder – who was probably only flying over ‘their’ airspace, not prospecting for a new territory of its own, although they have nested in a couple of very close woodlands. I love hearing them ‘kronking’, and the other weird noises they make. That’s how I found a previous pair: I was leaving the Festival Gardens site when I heard them, and quickly traced the calls to an enormous conifer, where both birds could just about be seen. As well as the usual sounds, they were also making bell-like noises, which was fascinating. An extremely memorable encounter – but sadly they didn’t seem to nest there in the following winter, perhaps due to the building work there, although I did see a pair in the next woodland, and they do fly over the plot on occasion, as we have seen!
Richie, the allotmenteer with the great shed has a robin friend, too, and one day the bird decided to investigate, spending a long time in the kitchen area, before we managed to coax it out – it could get lost in the four-room shed and never see the light of day again! I try not to have shed envy…
Shed envy
January on the allotment ended with a nasty shock: as I approached the birdseed feeder one Saturday, I saw with horror that there was a robin attached to it. I’ll spare the details, but the poor bird was dead. I was suffused with guilt, thinking that the squirrel-proof feeder must have trapped it, but later realised that the poor bird must have had a heart attack due possibly to a loud noise from the interminable building work at the activity centre next door, and become trapped as it died. This was backed up by the fact that its wings were close against its body, not outstretched as they would have been if it had been struggling, and from a similar experience shared by someone else. I felt very relieved, but still very upset for the little creature. However, another robin has already taken its place, and my allotment is back to (at least) three: the bold male, one that he seems to be tolerating now, and this third bird, which visits much less often.
February
It’s been a beautiful month for the time of year: fairly mild and extremely sunny. I have been torn between going for long walks and spending more time on the plot, finally feeling like doing things again. The ‘compost’ pile is sorted out, the old metal compost bin has been emptied and moved, soil has been transported down to the bottom of the plot, and the weeds are already growing. OK, so the last one isn’t me ‘doing things’ – but it’s indicative of the things I will have to do soon. Somehow, I don’t feel like kneeling down and weeding for hours at a time, although it’s not been a problem before. I want to be out walking or even just moving around the plot: a spirit of wanderlust has grown in me over the winter, perhaps due to another birthday looming, coupled with the fact that my knee issue really stopped me moving at all for a few weeks and the spectre of lack of mobility and worse loomed closer (I’m nothing if not a drama queen…).
The bold allotment robin has been pleased to see more of me (or the suet crumbs). He is singing now from atop the field maple on the willow border of the plot across the path, from next door’s trees, and from the dying cherry tree on my own plot. One morning, he and another robin were both close to the food on the fence, the other one bobbing up and down, perhaps in supplication or a mating ritual. I fervently hope that he raises a strong brood of young and teaches them to fly onto my hand for suet crumbs. I have photos of him from last summer, looking extremely raggedy as he provisioned his family; although he wasn’t coming to my hand then, he was landing on top of the shed door, so I’m sure it’s the same bird. He is a lovely constant companion and really lifts my spirits every time I see him.
Too eager