On New Year's day,
spurred on by the blue skies and sunshine, and full of New Year's resolution your
intrepid allotmenteer ventured forth once more unto the plot to do battle with the
out of control cultivated blackberry plants that were threatening to crowd out
my raspberry canes and take over my soft fruit bed.
As usual, as soon as I arrived, I discovered there were many other maintenance jobs that needed doing, so morning visits have been scheduled for every day this and next week while the weather remains dry.
I have to count myself
lucky that I can actually do anything as my plot is on a slightly raised corner
of the site unlike several other plots that are completely underwater.
Despite the awful
Spring and Summer weather resulting in a poor return from the normal banker
crop, the potato, and the constant attack from the monster slugs which even gorged
themselves on my beetroot, some of the other crops have flourished.
None more so that the humble
parsnip, a vegetable that I have consistently failed to grow successfully since
I took on the allotment. I have spent hours raising parsnips in the greenhouse
in root trainer cells then carefully transplanting them into individually
prepared conical shaped holes filled with sifted soil. All to no avail. The
results were invariably the same - stumpy tops and "forking" roots
sprouting out in all directions.
This year I took no
special care at all. I sowed 3 seeds in
a group at intervals direct into the ground and forgot about them. To my
amazement they all germinated and I was left with two rows of healthy
seedlings. On harvesting some for the
Christmas period I was amazed at how difficult they were to dig up, as it
turned out not through frozen or compacted soil but because of their size.
I dug up two with a
combined weight 3¼ pounds. Now that's what you call parsnips!
We were going to go to
Cyprus for 3 weeks in January but decided we should spend some time
re-acquainting ourselves with our house and all the outstanding jobs that have
accumulated over the last two years. Needles to say I am still at the
"Planning" stage.
The Fox made the front
page of the local paper again last week for all the right reasons.
Community pub thrives after time called
on food plans
It would appear that after nine months Greene King have finally got the message. The Fox is where local people go to have a drink NOT to sit down and eat. Even their final pathetic attempt to drum up some food trade by installing a hot cabinet on the bar, armed with over priced Peter's Pies, failed miserably. All it was used for was warming up the hands of the boys from the building sites when they came in from work and the unsold produce, which hadn't been nicked when no one was looking, becoming the staple diet of the now quite portly "Who Ate All the Pies Roger", the Landlord.
I am now reading the fourth of the Brentford trilogy novels by Robert
Rankine, "The Sprouts of Wrath", in which there is a wonderful passage
describing exactly how a pub should be:
"Not one hundred yards due North of Norman's shop, as fair flies the griffin, there stands a public house which is the very hub of the Brentonian universe. Solidly constructed of old London stocks and fondly embellished with all the Victorian twiddly bits, The Flying Swan gallantly withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous brewery management. It's patrons have never known the horrors of fizzy beer or pub grub that comes 'a-la-basket'.
The
Swan had grown old gracefully. The etched glass windows, tinted with nicotine
and the exhalations of a million beery breaths, sustained that quality of light exclusive to elderly pubs. The
burnished brass of the beer engines shone like gold and the bar top glowed with
a deep patina. The heady perfumes of Brasso and beeswax blended with those of
hops and barley, grape and grain to produce an enchanting fragrance all of its
own. Only a man born without a soul would not pause a moment upon entering The
Swan for the first time, breathe in the air, savour the atmosphere and say,
'This is a pub'.
But of course, for all its ambience, redolence
and Ridley Scottery, a pub is only as good as the beer it serves. And here it
must be said that those on offer were of such a toothsome relish, so satisfying
in body and flavour as might reasonably elicit bouts of incredulous
head-shaking and murmurs of disbelief from the reader.
Nevertheless the eight hand-drawn ales available were of a quality capable
of raising eulogies from seasoned
drinkers, their bar-side converse long hag-ridden by cliches of how much
better beer tasted in the good old days."
Robert Rankine - The Grapes of Wrath
Robert Rankine - The Grapes of Wrath
As this particular story unfolds Brentford is chosen to host the Olympic Games, not at Griffin Park, but in a soon to be erected purpose built stadium supported 500 feet in the air by four large columns. In preparation for the great event the Brewery, (it's got to be Greene King), have unveiled grandiose plans to convert the Flying Swan into an upmarket Hooray Henry 'wine and dine' bar, changing its name to "The Pentathlon Bar". The locals are NOT happy!
Remind you of your local? It reminds me of mine!
When I heard this story I must confess it made me laugh and the Welsh
Bard quite rightly felt strongly about it as well:
Another fine day, so once more unto the plot dear friends, once more!
I leave you with this video of Jeff Lynn's new group, appropriately named "The Jeffs" with a track from their latest CD -
Clever! That's a real 'one man band'.
Hey Ho!
Hey Ho!
