Me, my mum and our allotment 

My Mum’s allotment was home to my happiest childhood moments. Now she has passed away, being in nature is where I feel closest to her.

There is something about gardening and digging your hands deep into the earth that makes you feel at peace. It’s in the shoveling of the soil, the scattering of the seeds and the watering of the saplings. Green-fingered gardeners are adept at turning unpromising patches of grass into bountiful allotments full of fresh fruit and vegetables – their power is transformative. 

Research has shown that even short sessions of allotment gardening can reduce stress and anxiety.
In a world that constantly feels like it’s spinning off its axis, the methodical nature of gardening creates a sense of calm. However, waiting list times for allotments in England average around three years. In some council boroughs across the country, you can expect to wait up to 15 years, meaning thousands of people lose out on these benefits. Long wait times, coupled with many of the capital’s allotment plots being lost to property developers, means that our green spaces are slowly diminishing, particularly in London where 21% of homes lack a garden. 

 ‘In a world that constantly feels like it’s spinning off its axis, the methodical nature of gardening creates a sense of calm.”

When I was ten months old, we moved out of London. My parents went for a drive in a one hour loop outside the city. They discovered Cuckfield, a small village north of Brighton in West Sussex where my Mum started her allotment. Our patch overlooked fields where horses grazed in the summer, and it was close  to the Baptist Church where the Cuckfield Village Show – an annual horticulture and baking competition – was held. The allotments are on a public footpath that used to be my walk to school. There were six plots on our patch including ours. Other plots were occupied by villagers who we got to know over the years. Spending time on the allotment taught me the immense value of quality time in nature. I spent many summer afternoons on our patch that my Mum (Emma, pictured right) shared with our neighbour (Claire, pictured left). Most of my early childhood memories involve me running around the allotment patch picking juicy berries that stained my fingertips red. Despite it only being a small patch, it felt like an entire world to me. 

One year we grew a pumpkin. It was huge – practically the size of me, aged five – and bright orange. News of the pumpkin spread like wildfire to other allotment owners who peered over the fence to marvel at its size, and they encouraged my Mum to enter it into the local village show. Unfortunately, the pumpkin was stolen, and to this day the identity of the thief remains a mystery. My Mum decided to enter a baking category instead. After many years of entering the show she decided to get involved in organising it. 

My favourite category in the village show has always been ‘Most Amusing Vegetable’. The winner last year grew a carrot shaped like two legs. There are categories for everything you could possibly imagine, including floristry, baking, preserves and crafts. My Mum helped judge the show. She looked very official, carrying a clipboard and a tape measure to size up each gardener’s produce (not a euphemism, promise). I was often tasked with decorations and helping hang up the multi-coloured bunting. 

Many of Cuckfield’s allotment owners found a sense of community through keeping allotments and attending the village show. Winning a category at the show was actually quite a big deal, even if the best prize was the world’s smallest trophy. My mum helped out at the village show for years.
She was incredibly community oriented and loved sharing her passion with others.

“I’m not blessed with green fingers, but I hope I can make something of my flower bed and turn it into a peaceful oasis – something my Mum would be proud of.”

When Mum started getting ill, she lost a lot of her mobility and this meant gardening became challenging. After a chest infection developed into pneumonia and then multiple organ failure, she died in December. We planted a rose in our garden, a variety that was suitably named ‘Emma Rose’, as a memorial to her. My memories of her often centre around the kitchen. The yellowed pages of her cookbooks contained traces of her in the recipes scrawled in biro. She loved using seasonal produce from our allotment to make jams and jellies, sweet and savoury tarts, roasted vegetable traybakes and hearty stews. There are still jam jars in our cupboard labelled with my Mum’s handwriting that I’m reluctant to open. Every time I go back home and walk past our allotment, I remember my Mum and her love of nature. Memories of my Mum are often set in our allotment, or in our kitchen. Her love of nature and cooking are things I hope to keep alive in myself. 

In my London flat, I have a small balcony with a flower bed. It’s not quite an allotment, yet it is a small dose of nature that is much needed when living in a busy city. Admittedly, I have let it become overgrown and weed-ridden. I’m not blessed with green fingers, but I hope I can make something of my flower bed and turn it into a peaceful oasis – something my Mum would be proud of.