by Terry Walton
There are often other sources of manure, if you look around. Tommy Parr, my early mentor, always kept animals or birds – for many years he was a keen canary exhibitor as well as a big vegetable showman. Later on he bred show rabbits, and after his death his son Ray continued to keep dozens of them in two large sheds in the garden. These needed cleaning out regularly, of course, and every Sunday morning at nine o’clock, give or take thirty seconds, you could guarantee my phone would ring and it would be Ray.
‘Are you going to the allotments today, Terry?’
‘Ray, I go to the allotments every Sunday,’ I’d say.
‘Well, I’ve just cleaned the hutches out, and when you come past you’ll find there’s four bags of rabbit manure here for you.’
So every Sunday morning without fail, for about fifty weeks of the year, I had a generous supply of straw mixed with rabbit pellets, which is a wonderful natural fibrous material to add to everything else on my compost heap as an activator, the concentration of urine and pellets helping all the other stuff to break down.
One of the guys down on the allotments in Trealaw kept pigeons, and whenever he cleaned out the loft he used to ring to say he had three or four bags of pigeon manure for me to collect. That’s diabolical stuff, very acid and high in ammonia, and the smell is almost lethal. Within minutes of loading the bags into the boot the car would be stinking, which didn’t amuse Anthea one bit if she was with me. But it was a valuable booster on top of the rabbit-straw manure, because it was so vicious and high in nitrogen that the straw would break down very quickly.
Unfortunately change is a fact of life. Ray has passed on and his rabbits are gone. The pigeons went, too, so that was the end of those sources of humus.
That’s always been the way here. During the late fifties and early sixties we could depend on manure from the abattoir in nearby Ton Pentre. Any day of the week when they were cleaning out the abattoir a lorry would arrive at the gate, and in return for a drink the driver would cart and tip a lorryload of fresh manure near your plot. This was useful provided you had room to stack it for nearly a year before use. Unfortunately that’s gone and there are now no abattoirs anywhere in the vicinity of the allotments.
In the fifties there were large stables for the pit ponies at the colliery in Llwynypia, and the people there were very happy to bring the manure half a mile across to the allotments. But with the demise of the collieries and the coal board, the pit ponies went.
Rhondda farms have never been a reliable source of manure because they tend to be on the mountain tops, too far for the farmer to cart it down to us. Most of them are sheep farms anyway, and sheep aren’t usually penned like horses or cows, so you don’t get a lavish supply. Very few people used to keep horses, which was an expensive hobby, although some have them now for their children to ride. So at times there has been no nearby source of manure in any quantity, especially during the seventies.
Later several of us on the plots formed a little cooperative, and we’d hire a lorry, find a large source of manure and then spend a whole day collecting it – one loading, one driving, one tipping, one throwing – for a reasonably cheap price. And for a while we got together to buy lorryloads of mushroom compost, but that all came to an end eventually (see Chapter 11).
So I was left wondering what I could do now to improve the soil and keep fertility levels up. Then, a few years ago, I went to a lecture at Pencoed College given by a guy who was growing his vegetables completely organically, and that proved to be another turning point for me. He convinced me that digging the plot and leaving large swathes of ground empty all winter meant much of the goodness leached out, especially in our extremely wet part of the world.
He introduced me to green manure crops, plants sown deliberately to cover the soil and protect it until they are dug in to rot down and form humus. In particular, he reckoned I needed to grow ‘fixers’, plants that preserve fertility by absorbing the soil nutrients that would otherwise have washed out, and ‘lifters’, plants that extract nutrients from the subsoil, bringing them up to make them available for later crops after they are dug in.
Various green manure crops are good for these purposes, especially clover and mustard, but mustard needs just the right conditions to grow fairly quickly, while clover works best over a two-or three-year cycle and I can’t afford to give up part of my plot for that amount of time. ‘Westerwolds’ rye was his suggestion, a quick-growing perennial rye grass that produces a large root mass and is ideal for autumn sowing. Now, when I dig out my potatoes in mid-or late August, I just rake those large areas of ground down and sow the rye grass broadcast over the surface. In a reasonable year it will grow to about 4–5 in (10–12 cm) high, although it can get taller after a mild winter and need digging in sooner than normal (otherwise it would take longer to break down). It’s a brilliant plant. Its foliage protects the soil surface, the roots absorb nutrients, and when you turn it into the ground during February you’ve virtually got horse manure without the horse. By the time you fork through again in April ready for planting there’s a very friable mixture of roots and green material already rotting down.
I still use animal manure to top up fertility levels because there’s never quite enough from green manure alone. But I find one of the big advantages of the rye is that its ‘rescued’ fertility is available for crops that don’t relish animal manure – carrots, parsnips and the other root crops, for example. These occupy about one-third of my plot each year and that’s where I concentrate it.
Another third contains the winter vegetables, and the remaining third I winter-dig and dress heavily with loads of horse or cow manure or whatever I can get my hands on. Here I grow onions and peas, and dig the bean trenches. I don’t tend to manure cabbage ground because I think that makes the soil slightly more acid, which encourages clubroot: instead my brassicas follow the peas and beans without any extra manure.
Not that I’m a big brassica grower. I don’t grow many cabbages: they’re difficult to keep safe from the pigeons in winter, and during the summer there’s so much else to eat – beans, peas, salads and so on – that cabbage isn’t so welcome. But I do grow a few to follow my broad beans, which finish reasonably early in the season. I just cut down their topgrowth and set the cabbage plants between the roots, which have fixed nitrogen from the air and release it again as they rot.
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Gradual change
‘GROWING YOUR OWN FERTILITY’ with green manures is a cunning way to boost crops and also fortify soil conditions in the longer term. Usually when anyone changes back to organic there’s a distinct slump in yield because you need to restore the underlying fertility of the soil after using inorganics for a long time.
With all the goodness leached out, it can take a while to build up that fertility again, and inevitably there will be weaker crops at first because the soil is not so productive. Weaker plants are more susceptible to pests, so there can be a double negative effect. This can discourage some people, who may prefer to change gradually over a few years.
Unfortunately some organic enthusiasts can be very intolerant, unable to see any alternative to immediately using organics exclusively and convinced that people who do otherwise are major polluters and environmental vandals. I think that’s a bit extreme. In the long term organic has to be the better way for everyone and everything, because you know exactly what you’re putting in and getting out. But I have to admit it’s more labour-intensive because you need to keep a close eye on things all the time. And you need patience: when everything in the soil has been destroyed it takes a while to heal and restore the balance.
* * *
After I gave up inorganics it took me three or four years to get back to where I had been before. Onions were very disappointing initially, with embarrassingly small bulbs. I had always buried some humus under them to hold the moisture, because they’re quite shallow rooted, but their former size and quality came from the effect of the artificials, especially the liberal d
oses during May and June to help them make maximum leaf growth – every leaf is another layer on the bulb, so the more leaves the better.
Sulphate of ammonia used to produce plenty of large leaves and some really cracking bulbs. But when I suddenly stopped using chemicals, my onions looked more like shallots, and I was struggling to keep them growing throughout the season. What made it worse was that others around me on the allotments were still doing things the inorganic way, and the difference in quality was even more obvious. Not to mention the hurt pride!
I took a lot of stick from the others while converting to this apparently newfangled way of growing things. As they walked by the plot they’d pass classic comments like ‘Not growing much this year then, Terry?’ or ‘You’re into these mini-vegetables now, are you?’ or even ‘There won’t be much to keep you going this winter, Terry.’ To make it worse, I was only one plot in from the gate, so everyone had to pass my patch on the way to theirs. It didn’t do a lot for my reputation as the longest serving member there, always expected to grow very acceptable produce, as I had done in my selling days.
But my father’s words spurred me on. ‘Terry,’ he used to say, ‘gardening is all about patience and perseverance.’
So I persisted, and I can truly say that I’ve now achieved my goal of growing excellent, almost totally organic produce. One day I might even manage to give up using those little blue slug pellets, and finally reach the pinnacle of completely poison-free cultivation.
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Organic seeds
THERE’S A STRONG MOVE towards using organically raised seeds, though I’m a bit sceptical. I’m not convinced you can guarantee seeds are organic. You need insects to pollinate the flowers in order to get seeds, and they fly around all over the place, so unless you have a massive great place fenced off from the outside world you can’t be sure a bee hasn’t gone from one type of plant to another. It’s like organic honey: how do you control where the bee goes?
I’m not sure that it matters anyway. I can’t see how an organic seed is fundamentally any different from a normal seed, because the genetic material is the same and that’s all a seed brings with it. It seems far more important to avoid ‘genetically modified’ seeds, because there the character of the future plant has been tampered with, which again opens up the uncertainties of long-term consequences.
Exactly the problem we had with inorganic gardening, in fact. Do we ever learn?
* * *
There’s a greater acceptance of organics on the plots these days, and a lot of people don’t reckon to use insecticides at all. That’s the first and probably the most important thing to change, but there are still a lot of users of Growmore, although sulphate of ammonia has dropped off considerably, mainly because people now tend to realize it’s a quick fix and not a real food.
This change of heart is being reflected nationally, with more organic produce being sold in shops and garden centres. Regular farmers’ markets are held throughout the country, offering opportunities to buy and sell home-grown, organic produce. And the demand for allotments is still on the increase, with most sites now reporting waiting lists, particularly of people wanting to grow their stuff organically because of the unavailability or high price of organic vegetables in shops. It’s an enormously encouraging trend.
I find these days people look at my plot, see that I’m getting pretty good results now and ask what I’m doing, and when they see that organics do actually work they’re sufficiently convinced to try that method themselves. My yields are back up to where they were, and I’m actually picking more runner beans because there are fewer flowers falling off without setting seed.
I have to admit some plants looked more luscious when they were grown with chemicals: a cabbage, for example, was always a deeper green than it is now. But it’s still a green vegetable and good enough for my needs, especially as I know what has gone into it. And that’s what’s important.
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Terry’s Tip for August
Rhubarb soup
NO, THIS ISN’T ONE of Anthea’s recipes! I’ve discovered a brew of rhubarb leaves that I use to water cabbages and other brassicas, both to keep the cabbage white butterfly away and as a bonus to provide some kind of feed – I’m not sure exactly what it supplies, though: I just know that Brussels sprouts watered with this soup have done better for me than ever before, so I’m keeping an open mind about it.
I have an old black plastic dustbin which I three-quarters fill with water. As I harvest rhubarb stems I trim off the leaves and add them to the water, giving them a good stir before replacing the lid. I keep adding more, stirring twice weekly, until after a few weeks the soup begins to smell slightly evil: a sure sign that it’s ready.
Use it neat in a watering can fitted with a rose, and water all over the tops of your brassica plants, including swedes and anything else likely to host cabbage root fly or the white butterflies. When the dustbin is only about a quarter full, top it back up with water, and keep adding more leaves and stirring the mixture to rejuvenate it.
This brew seems to deter the butterfly from laying its eggs, and the run-off down to the roots discourages the root fly from laying. It doesn’t stop white fly as this tends to collect on the undersides of leaves, nor will it control mealy bug, which forms in some less accessible places on the leaves. But no single method controls everything. Reapply frequently – especially after wet weather, which dilutes the unique fragrance of the soup and hence its efficacy.
* * *
Anthea’s Recipe for August
Cucumber and Tomato Relish
(900w microwave recipe)
GREENHOUSE CROPS ARE usually coming thick and fast by now, so you should be able to supply the cucumber, tomatoes and green pepper from under glass, together with one of this year’s onions that needs harvesting early because of its thick or split neck.
1 cucumber
1 level tsp salt
¾ pint (450 ml) cider vinegar
8 oz (225 g) granulated sugar
½ tsp curry powder
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
¼ tsp ground ginger
1 level tbsp chopped mint
4 oz (125 g) sultanas
1 lb (450 g) ripe tomatoes
1 small green pepper
1 medium onion
Wash, peel and chop the cucumber into small pieces. Place in a basin and sprinkle with the salt to remove some of the moisture. Put to one side.
Put the vinegar in a large microwavable dish and cook on high until boiling. Add the sugar, stir until dissolved, and add the spices.
Drain the cucumber, finely chop the onion, de-seed the pepper and dice, skin the tomatoes and chop into small pieces.
Add all ingredients to the vinegar, sugar and spice mixture, stir well, and cook on high for 20–30 mins (the shorter the time, the crunchier the relish).
Put into sterilized jars, and seal when cold.
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CHAPTER NINE
The Penultimate Plot
I WENT ORGANIC in the early 1980s, after my father had died and while I was looking after his two plots. I think he would have approved of my giving up artificial fertilizers and chemical insecticides: all I was doing really was returning to the style of gardening he used in the first place, back in the late forties after he came to the valley from the Midlands and afterwards while I was learning by his side.
It was time to settle down but something was niggling at me. I had a good job, a wife and a growing family, and my father’s two good plots to tend and crop to the best of my ability to keep us well fed. Perhaps I missed all the excitement and stimulus of running my earlier vegetable empire, or maybe it was simply that stage in life when things run so smoothly the days begin to seem humdrum, but for a while I had the urge to change direction and go in for gardening full-time.
I enjoyed the challenge of growing things, and I’d toyed on and off with the idea of doing something more with the allotments. Then a garden centre on th
e old Cardiff Road came up for sale, a rough and ready sort of place that was becoming rather run down.
It was very tempting. In those days there weren’t many garden centres or big supermarkets selling the selection of plants they do now, and this was the only place in our district. It didn’t stock a vast range of goods – no big concrete ornaments or pools or garden furniture – nor did the guy have a posh café, which people now seem to expect.
But you could usually find what you wanted there. He had several big greenhouses where he grew everything and sold bedding plants in the spring, a large outdoor area full of shrubs and larger plants, and a shop selling fresh vegetables. As you drove in you passed his big fields where he grew cauliflowers and potatoes and other produce.
This seriously appealed to my market gardening instincts, and the way I saw it I could sell plants throughout the summer, like a nursery, while growing vegetables to sell in the garden centre shop. That was the plan I was mulling over, and at one point I was perhaps 60 per cent certain I could make a go of it.
Common sense and caution prevailed, though. When I looked hard at the idea in terms of business viability, it was obvious I’d only have six or seven months of the year in which to earn sufficient income to carry me over the rest. One bad spring or a wet season and I could be back to square one; two poor years and I’d be in real trouble.
Although gardening had been my first love in life, I reasoned that my job in industry was fulfilling, I had a steady income, a good company and boss to work for, and I actually enjoyed the job. I could carry on looking after the allotment in my spare time without any risk, simply growing for home use and to enjoy myself.