I’d say I was an empirical gardener. The try it and see formula. I do read the label that comes with plants in pots. Well, I do say read but more often there’s a series of symbols to decipher.
Getting to know a small patch of land is deeply ingrained in my psyche. It’s a connection that I find hard to break. There are times when I’ve lived without a garden to tend every day. Even then I found myself an opportunity to tend one on weekends. When I couldn’t do that, I’d visit a garden. This is a habit it’s likely I’ll never break.
My family farming background set the scene. A childhood link to the soil. A large farmhouse garden divided by a crossroads. A concrete path that ran north-south and east-west. Each of the four sections of the garden had a different characteristic. One had the shadow of the farmhouse for much of the day. Two were bounded by the deep litter houses and one got the full force of the weather. There was a slight slope towards a lawn on the south side.
I’d better explain. The deep litter houses were the two big wooden chicken houses. They were called that because chicken droppings and bedding were left to accumulate. The compressed mass of chicken manure was dug out once or twice a year. Most often by me and my brother. Could be three foot deep or more. That’s how we earned our pocket money. It certainly was the cases that there was no end of soiling enriching compost for the garden.
During my childhood, we were not entirely self-sufficient in produce. Got close, I’m sure. There was always a large crop of beans, peas, and potatoes. This was a practical garden with a purpose. The purpose being to feed four hungry boys. Me and my brothers.
There are many differences between where I am now and the farmhouse. The one that makes the most difference to gardening is the soil. The basic geography. The drainage may have been poor, but the fertility of the farmhouse soil was unquestionable. Heavy clay enriched by generations of cultivation. Produce grew on overdrive.
Where I am now, I’m getting to know and wrestling with a soil that’s way different. Although there is a similar origin to the soil. Rivers played their part in forming both soils. The farmhouse clay was sprinkled with small sandstone stones. A positive benefit. My garden soil has pebbles and pieces of flint just enough to hit the spade every time I dig. As the water table rises in the winter both soils create a swamp like environment. As the summer sun sits overhead it makes bakes the soils but with different effects.
Here, the untilled areas compact and take up the characterises of poorly mixed concrete. Impenetrable and hard. Without water the grass dries. Only the deep-rooted plants survive. The lawn looks like an unirrigated Greek field. Where it’s tilled the soil becomes like gritty dust.
In my empirical gardening way, I’m using what I have to hand. I’ve built a series of raised beds. Mixed up a cocktail of native soil, compost, and manure. I’ve created a better growing medium. Even so, with a limited amount of water it’s mostly the deeper rotted plants that are happy.
My sunflowers have been smiling. My potatoes are miserable. Onions seem fine. Tomatoes are indifferent. Only getting started it could be that my pumpkins will be momentous.
This is only my second year working with this new plot. Prior to my digging it was a blank canvas. The whole space was lawn grass designed as one big dog run. One remaining plumb tree was the only trace of a past kitchen garden. For me this is a beginning.
John Vincent 