The Allotment in January
Early January, only just light on a cool and damp morning, and I'm heading to the allotment to empty the bokashi. The alleyway and the green have a worn-out, post-Christmas air, a low point of gathering litter and over-trodden grass. In our shared plot, the chickens seem less eager than usual to be out of the coop. World-weary and bedraggled, they already number one less than they did in the autumn. They're not enjoying this wet winter one bit. Our main plot is further down, hidden away by the burn with its dense, ever-sprouting crack willows. The sky is dull and sullen, but the birdsong is almost spring-like. The blue tits are active in the ancient elder, the sentinel of our plot, and the air smells of recent burning, damped by night rain. It’s a familiar smell down here – people are always looking for an excuse to burn stuff – but again it reminds me of spring; last year, around April, one of the abandoned plots was taken by a new tenant, and in preparation, one of the
