My Life on a Hillside Allotment

by Terry Walton

  It was no longer just me and my vegetable empire; now life started to revolve around the responsibilities of a new wife, new home and new job. It’s the kind of adjustment many young men have to make, not always easily. Anthea was familiar with my gardening activities before we got married, and knew exactly what I was doing. Fortunately she was quite happy to come up to the allotments and be there with me, not to garden – that would have infringed the old male-only bias – but to keep me company while I did various jobs.

  Something Anthea and I always disagreed about was my total disregard for the state of my paths. My argument was that I had enough to do keeping the plot weed-free without worrying about the paths, and anyway you couldn’t grow anything on them. So whenever she came up there she’d put me to shame and set to, making an excellent job of tidying up.

  Anthea also reckons I give her all the back-breaking jobs of harvesting the fruit from the gooseberries and blackcurrants. This isn’t so! All I ever said was, ‘You want the fruit, so I’ll grow it and you harvest it.’ And then there’s the fiddly chore of tying sweet peas, which regularly prompts her to chide me: ‘You only bring me up here so I can do the jobs you hate.’

  Anthea’s main gardening responsibilities lie at home, where she looks after the ever-changing flower scene in our front and back gardens. We have very few permanent plants and prefer to change with the seasons, with spring bedding like bulbs, wallflowers and forget-me-nots being replaced by gaudy annuals in the summer. She also has the onerous task of watering the hanging baskets and tubs that adorn every spare inch of the gardens.

  But she enjoys her frequent visits to the allotments and is now a bona fide member of Albie’s coffee club (reasonable fees – just bring the occasional jar of coffee and powdered milk; water supplied free, but not from the large blue water butts, which are reserved for washing the cups).

  Right from the start Anthea supported me in my regular Friday night and Saturday morning routine of making up and delivering vegetable orders, not least because at that time it was still a good source of income.

  At first we were still living with her parents and being fed at home by her mother, but once we moved into our new house I suddenly had to think about providing food for our kitchen. We were now two independent people, and almost overnight I went from following a simple four-month routine during which I grew, gathered and sold everything, to trying to provide food for most of the year to keep the larder full. I even had to contemplate winter vegetables for the first time!

  My father was still there, growing veg on his two plots and keeping an eye on mine: he’d be up every single day of the week, working or sitting there with his cold tea and sandwiches. If something needed attention on my plots he wasn’t beyond just going over and doing whatever was required. The sowing I tended to do myself, but anything else like watering and general maintenance he’d do for me, and there was never a rigid demarcation line. It was like an insurance policy really, because if anything was wrong he would let me know as soon as I got home.

  The trouble was that ‘home’ now meant a drive to the allotments whenever I wanted to do any work. In those days (there’s a bypass now) the journey involved travelling through the various villages, which were becoming more and more congested, and in practical terms I was now a good half-hour away.

  I’d drive up through Tonyrefail itself, then through Penygraig, and then drop down through Tonypandy, which was the main shopping centre and extremely busy at weekends: people didn’t go off to supermarkets then, and did all their shopping in ’Pandy on a Friday or a Saturday. So I had to get through there, and then go on up through Llwynypia itself before I reached the plots.

  And the journey was getting steadily worse. Because of the way houses are packed tightly into the valleys, there are no car-parking spaces, forecourts or garages, so everyone parks on the main road. As a result of the prosperity reaching the valley in the 1970s, husbands increasingly owned a car, together with their wives and perhaps one of the children, so parking was more and more difficult, the streets ever narrower. It wasn’t by any means a quick drive, despite being only five miles.

  The extra journey time probably wasn’t as large a factor as the other changes in my life, because I still wanted to go there, however long it took. It is good to visit your plot every day for many reasons. How much time you then spend there will depend on what you want to do and how long you can spare, but when you get there you might as well take your wristwatch off because time means nothing.

  There’s never any point gardening and watching the time, because you can’t plan properly, and one job leads to another. I always find while driving there that my mind’s preoccupied with a few tasks I need to tackle on arrival. What a waste of brain power! When I get there some job I hadn’t planned for usually sticks out like a sore thumb and so I get on with that instead. Then, as I look round, other tasks catch my eye. The moral of this is not to waste time and energy planning work in a garden: what needs doing will be obvious as soon as you look at it.

  By itself the distance was never a real disincentive. I enjoyed being there too much and it was my major source of relaxation, an opportunity to unwind and a real tonic after working all day in a factory. Although I was lucky enough to have an office with windows and could at least see what the weather was like, there was still this pane of glass between me and the fresh air. On the factory floor itself it was all artificial lighting, you never caught a glimpse of the outside world, and I couldn’t wait to get back out in the open air, to take a good deep breath once more and see what was going on in the ‘real world’.

  The best time on the plot was always early July, when everything was in its full glory. I would look forward to that, and still do. As you walk through the potato plots the plants all sport the delicate colours of their flowers, indicating they’ll soon be ready to harvest. By then the rows of runner beans are covered with their bright crimson blooms, creating a magnificent flowering hedge.

  In the weeks before that, especially in late May, the runner beans are starting their quest to reach the top of their canes. There are always some that have lost their way, the ends of their long shoots flapping vainly in the breeze. I gently wrap these back round their supports, like helping a child to walk for the first time (but take care when you do this: a runner bean climbs in an anticlockwise direction, so don’t confuse it by twining it the wrong way!).

  Thinning overcrowded seedlings is always an important task, but in late spring it needs to be done promptly to ensure robust healthy crops. You always tend to sow small seeds too thickly, and successful germination can result in a host of congested seedlings. Spread the thinning over several visits, just in case you lose any casualties to pests, and that way you’ll end up with a full row of strong plants that can look after themselves. Leave them overcrowded for too long and they’ll perish!

  Without any doubt the sight and scent that excite all my senses in late spring and early summer are always the long rows of sweet peas in full bloom, their colours glowing in the evening light and their fragrance overwhelming me with a lasting, almost hypnotic effect. You don’t necessarily have to go along to your allotment to work: it can be deeply satisfying at times just to look and admire the results of your labours.

  Another new pressure was the amount of time I needed to spend at home. There seemed to be an increasing number of chores to do around the house when I came in from work. When we moved in it was an empty shell (unlike today when you can move into a fully equipped home), and there were just the two of us living there at first. In those days you never bought anything until you could afford it, so there were plenty of do-it-yourself jobs that needed doing, all things that took time.

  But it was a bit of an adventure really, making a home in a new house. We had parquet floors throughout the downstairs and no carpet, so we collected odd bits of rug. Parents helped out with a television, we managed to buy a three-piece suite, and at least we had a bed in our bedroom, with some cheap MFI wardro
bes to keep a few clothes in. As we put a little money away we gradually improved things here and there, and were steadily getting on our feet.

  When we had been in the house only two years and were still in our early twenties, it pulled us up short when we found out Anthea was expecting our first child, who was born in 1971, bringing real change into our lives.

  I remember the occasion very well. It was one of those balmy May days when I had just come home from work. Anthea was hot and bothered, and in the last stage of her pregnancy. She looked tired and said, ‘Do you have to go to the allotments this evening?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ll tell you what: sit down, I’ll get some food together, and we’ll go to the seaside for the evening where it’ll feel cooler.’

  We were sitting there on the seafront, enjoying the picnic, when Anthea said, ‘I think I’ve started labour.’

  This was our first time, I was a complete novice and knew nothing about childbirth, and I thought we’d better get back to collect her things and go to the hospital. We arrived in plenty of time, and I sat in the room holding Anthea’s hand and trying to be the perfect reassuring husband. Then the doctor came in and said, ‘Would you go outside now, Mr Walton.’

  So I did and, thinking everything was under control, naively went straight back home!

  It wasn’t long before I had a call demanding, ‘Where are you? Get back here quickly.’ After a long night, during the late morning this rather bonny lad was born: our first son, Anthony.

  The arrival of a first child is a major event that every couple has to adjust to in their own way. For me it meant extra pressure on the simple way of life I had been used to. Soon I found I was getting up at 6.30 in the morning to start work an hour later, getting home at night and immediately dashing to the allotments for an hour or so, and then coming back to my evening meal just in time to see Anthony briefly before he went to bed.

  Then in 1974 our other son, Andrew, was born.

  This time we knew what we were doing, and Anthea made sure I didn’t leave the hospital. Once more it was an all-night affair, and I stayed with her almost until Andrew arrived (in those days fathers weren’t welcome at the actual birth).

  Now our family was complete, with our two sons, one very dark and the other very blond. They turned out to be wonderful sons and great brothers, always sharing and looking out for each other in a crisis. Although they’re not yet hooked on allotment life with all its pleasures, I can detect early signs of them coming round to following in the Walton tradition.

  At first the allotments helped me to keep everything in perspective. There was no point my coming home from work and then staying in the house, because I’d be touchy, and I think Anthea appreciated that the nights I came in and stayed in I was more hindrance than help. I couldn’t switch easily from one enclosed environment to another, and felt I didn’t want to talk to anybody or hear the phone ring or have to sort out problems. There had been enough of that for eight or nine hours at work.

  I was in a sedentary occupation, not doing anything physically active in the factory. My job there was to work at a desk and come up with plans, and although I wasn’t on my feet and working hard like a craftsman or labourer on the shop floor, at the end of the day I still felt exhausted with all this pent-up energy, and needed somewhere to go out and do something physical. The allotments provided that, a lot more cheaply than going to the gym, and it was in the open air. I thoroughly enjoyed working up there, even in the winter months.

  So everyone was better off if I went there for an hour or so and came back afterwards feeling refreshed. Anthea was tired, but I’d be ready then to look after the children and give her a break, have a meal, sit down and enjoy a couple of hours’ relaxation with her before going to bed.

  By then Anthea had given up her job as manageress of the shoe department in our local cooperative. That was a very responsible position, and at the start of our marriage she was earning more than I was, so I felt I needed my allotment income just to keep up with her.

  We agreed soon after Anthony’s birth that she would stay home and bring him up, because we both believed that stability in a child’s early life is paramount. I was fortunate in having a good job with excellent prospects, but it was a demanding one. And there were the allotments too, which meant that I would not be around to help out as much as I could wish. Anthea remained at home until the children were in their early teens, before finding a part-time job that allowed her to get them off to school and be at home when they returned.

  This approach was not unusual in valley life in those days, and mothers with young children tended to be at home in large numbers, which wasn’t as bad as it might sound to modern ears. There were plenty of opportunities for them to meet up during the day and socialize, helping each other out and having coffee together. There were no lonely days while the men were away at work.

  We both discovered the arrangement actually enhanced family life. I found it helped relieve the pressure on my various activities, and I was able to organize very enjoyable and rewarding leisure time to spend with all three of them. I made sure, too, that I always took my full four weeks’ leave so that we could go away for at least two holidays a year, maybe only to Tenby in a caravan or somewhere local, but it was a break.

  Just after Anthony was born, Keith Harris (who I suspected later of winding me up over the BBC phone calls) joined Perkin-Elmer and came to work for me in production control. We got on well together: he had the same sort of character as me, and a family of almost identical ages to mine. The factory in those days was a very sociable place, organizing children’s parties and activities for families, and we always seemed to be together when we went to the various functions. Eventually our families would go on holiday together, often to a Pontin’s holiday camp.

  One year we went to a camp in Brixham, run by an ex-Royal Navy lifeboat man known as DAC. Although he ran this holiday camp for families, for some reason he was always grumpy with children. If any of them went to play pool he’d make them put a couple of pence in the lifeboat charity box, and if they wanted anything he’d moan and groan about ‘kids again’.

  After a couple of days of this we’d had enough, and we started going from there over to Pontin’s nearby for the entertainment. The girls used to be terrified, but Keith and I would just drive through the gate, park up and walk in as if we belonged there. And when we went back for our nightcap we used to wind up DAC in the bar every night.

  We finished our week there and came home, but I kept on wondering if I could get some fun out of the situation. I knew that the mother of one of the guys at work lived in Brixham. So I concocted some headed paper with the name of the camp and the full address, and wrote a letter that said, ‘It’s part of camp policy that every month we run a draw of all the people who stay here, and the winning name receives a free holiday with their family at the expense of the camp whenever they want it.’

  I sent this letter to my contact in Brixham, and she posted it back to Keith Harris. Nothing was said for a bit, and I began to wonder what had happened.

  Finally he rang me up and said, ‘You’ll never believe it. I’ve won a holiday at DAC’s down in Brixham.’

  ‘Have you?’ I said.

  ‘Was it you?’ he went on.

  ‘Why, where did the letter come from?’ I asked him.

  ‘It was posted in Torquay,’ he said.

  I said, ‘I’ve been working with you, and I haven’t been on holiday since I came back with you. So there’s no way I could have been in Torquay to post it.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t know what to do. The kids hated it.’

  I said, ‘Well, you could stay there like we did last time. It’s a free base, there’s no cost or anything, and you can go out and enjoy the area round about.’

  A week later I had another phone call and there was Keith on line, fuming.

  ‘It was you!’ he said. ‘I rang up that place on Sunday afternoon, and DAC picked the phone up. He’d obv
iously been asleep and I woke him up. I said I was ringing up about my free holiday. “What free holiday?” he said. “We don’t give free holidays here.” I told him I’d got this letter, and he said, “Somebody’s winding you up!” I knew it must be you then.’

  That was just one of many such incidents. We continued to go away together as families, to Yugoslavia and all over Europe, and we’re very good friends to this day.

  After Anthony came along and I found it more difficult to arrive home and just disappear, I considered reducing the number of plots I was looking after. I was still running ten of them, but I felt my standards were dropping, even though (like everyone else at the time) I was using all the relatively inorganic fertilizers and insecticides. They seemed to be a boon because they were less labour-intensive than organic methods: all you did was open a packet or blast things with a spray. And my emphasis had changed, now that I wanted to grow crops all the year round so as to eat off the plot for as long as I could.

  I didn’t shed them all at once. The plot with all the roses on was ready to go anyway, because I hadn’t replaced the plants over the years. They were starting to go woody, and the quantity and quality of the flowers were declining. Like everything else, plants have only got a certain lifetime, even roses. You can prune them hard back but eventually they age and begin to deteriorate. So I decided to give them up altogether.

  At that stage I still had my customers. Most of them had stayed with me all the way through and they would take whatever I had. In most cases they didn’t even place an order and would just tell me to bring anything I had to offer. This made it easier to offset things – if one vegetable was a bit short, I simply took something else to make up the order, which was great, and they would eat whatever I gave them. It was almost a forerunner of the vegetable box schemes that are popular now: you get what’s in season or at its peak. Nothing’s new in this world really, and the wheel continues to turn, every few years returning to its starting point.