Notes from the Garden; Cracked mugs and homemade bread
Tips for your first day at the community garden
Hello! Welcome to this section of my substack called ‘Notes from the garden’. I have long had a dream of growing my own food. Follow me as I go from supermarket shopper and absolute garden novice, to growing and creating. The articles will be composed of two halves; a literary walk through my latest experiences followed by some more practical tips if you’re a novice gardener too. If you are a grower or a wannabe grower, I would love to hear your thoughts/tips/support in the comments. Anna xx
On a late January morning, I woke up knowing that for the 6th week in a row, the gardening club was on at my local community garden. For the 5 weeks previous I had managed to find a reason not to attend. But today I had set my alarm, and laid out my clothes the night before. It was unseasonably warm and I found myself shedding the layers I had already diligently clothed myself in. The perfect outfit for a gardener. Or so I had thought. Tights in place of thermals, big chunky socks. Layers. Old oversized t-shirts, sweat wicking but warm leggings, comfy jumpers that are loved but ok to cover in dirt. Already I felt like I couldn’t move for clothes. Perhaps this was a mistake. Staring at the coat hook, I was indecisive. Would I look too amateur if I took an oversized coat as opposed to a waterproof? It was not unlike a non-school uniform day…I was in a crisis. But it wasn’t a crisis of fashion, it was imposter syndrome looming. Ranging from whether I’d be strong enough to dig, to not having any knowledge of what to sow or how to do it. The deep fear of getting something wrong, what if I planted seeds that would never grow? Or removed a desperately important plant thinking it was a weed? What if I didn’t know the difference between a spade, a trowel and a fork? What if people shook their heads at me, thinking ‘she’s 37 and she’s never picked up a spade?!’. They’d roll their eyes and think ‘young people today’. I was being hemmed in by own fear of never really owning my own garden, my fear that I was failure for not realising the importance of all this sooner.
2 months in to community gardening, all these pre-emptive worries sound silly to me. Knowing what I know about the wonderful people I work with at the garden, as well as the slow and forgiving nature of the soil, these worries are just whisps of air, nothing more. Joining this community garden has been a long time coming and you can read more about why I decided to take the leap here. But I know that others who wish to venture into growing with their community may have these feelings too and by shining a light on them I hope to disperse them for you. These worries and fears are abundant, and definitely not unique to me. Change is big. And when you enter a garden, you know this is life shifting big. How you view your world and you spend your time will radically change. Once you begin working with the land there is no going back. So the voices in our head that tell us to stay where we are, try to keep us in our creature comforts because they are scared of such a universal change. But, with a little encouragement and a push we may well step into something so wonderful that life slows and the world is good again. I hope to set out in this series my story of working in the community garden, and hopefully as time goes on, share tips, and helpful nuggets that might well be of use to those starting gardening for the first time or joining a group. Maybe I’ll answer those questions you are too worried to ask, or instil a curiousness in you to explore this world yourself. Please do comment below and ask, and I will happily share my experiences, and what I am beginning to learn.
Would you like to know more about who I am, and this substack Tides and Seasons? Click here to read my about page or here to read my first ever article.
In just 8 weeks, I didn’t expect such an extraordinary knowing to develop. I may not know how to plant a particular seed or where, the best way to turnover a patch of soil, or how to cutback plants so they continue to grow, but I know that I am meant to be here, and that overtime it will all come. Its a sense of inner quiet that I’m not sure I have ever felt. Back in 2007, one summers day as we drove away from our research site in the Welsh mountains, we lowered the back of the truck so our professor could sit out the back, his legs dangling as he watched the flora and fauna, the waterfalls as they cascaded, the stream as it tripped and fell over the rocks with a babble. Although in his 60’s he looked just like a boy full of wonder and awe. I could see the beauty of the mountains, his inner peace emanating from him like a low hum. I could feel the moment, the landscape through his eyes but I did not know this peace myself. For me it was fleeting, not rooted. I was envious. Staring in the rear view mirror, I watched the moment unfold, not even daring to breath. A stillness I had not yet grasped washed over him, the very landscape permeating his soul. Despite my love of mountains, instilled in me by that long ago life of scientific research (which I am slowly making myself back to….more of that in a later newsletter), the walks and the sights have only coasted along the side of my being. It is possibly the combination of grief, life’s impeccable timing and the sheer beauty of the garden that mean that now I experience it every day I step through its gates. But nothing will compare to that first morning.
On my first day, I had risen early, despite the club not starting until 10:30. I was a bundle of nerves. I had not brought my warm hiking underlayers with me that weekend, and I knew January could change in a hairs breath from a false spring to the depths of winter. If I took a backpack stocked with cups, water and biscuits, would that look too keen? I rifled in Dad’s garden shed for some spare gardening gloves, that at least would make me look professional. And so as I pushed open those emerald gates at exactly 10:28, not wishing to be late, I was met by beds of forced rhubarb, a robin or two flying past my nose and carefully crafted signs indicating garlic bulbs, kale and artichoke. My jaw dropped. I’m not sure what I expected it to look like, but to my eyes this was nirvana. Lovingly created beds, market stalls for produce and a make shift potting shed of corrugated iron. Spades and gardening gloves littered the outside. Even in January the birds sang as if this was a hidden away sanctuary with magic floating at its boundaries. The sun tickled my face promising something that was yet to arrive. My hiking boots crunched their way over the path as I made my way down to the chattering voices eager to envelope myself in this time and space.
Outside the potting shed I was greeted with big smiles, excitement as a new joiner was added to the ranks. I filled in all the volunteer forms with care, and was dutifully handed a spade, making my way up to a dense patch of what looked like rushes. Do bear in mind dear reader, that for some time you may not find the correct names or even well put together descriptions of anything. I have been wisely advised that even describing a plant accurately can take time, and a knowledge and knowing that can only come with seasons and years behind you. So for today, rushes it is. There were dense areas of spiky stems, hawthorn, blackthorn, something thorny none the less, and hints of flowering plants from the summer. Hardy grass had taken over in the patches of soil that had been left exposed over the winter. It was clear that this overgrown area was to be tackled. In the spring and summer months it was a haven for butterflies, full of nectar filled flowers, and places to perch. A mini butterfly garden. So today the plan was to clear. To pull the grass from its roots, and cut back the bristly rushes and thorns.
I was pleased to be shown the very obvious grass and thorns to be removed, that at least I knew I couldn’t get wrong. And as we dug in the soil the conversation flowed, we discussed how it felt to still be wintering ourselves, and the joy of slow preparation for the spring ahead. As we accidentally decapitated a couple of worms, we had our hopes dashed as the group leader told us that they sadly would not survive, that myths of them regrowing their heads was only possible if we did not damage them below their heart chamber (which unfortunately was not the case here). Our discussions weaved a path talking at the edges of philosophy; the meaning of life, living and growing, the best places to get pizza in town, and places to settle to watch the sun go down. Passers by looked through the railings, keen to see the movement taking place in this winter garden, watching 4 women passing the time of day, toiling the soil.
Before I knew it, it was time for tea. Cracked mugs of all shapes and sizes made their way from the potting shed. Some clearly had been hastily glued back together after being dropped off a fence or tree stump. Free Easter egg mugs, floral ensembles, and some very clear rejects from the ugly cupboards at home decorated the tea tray. But covered in mud, and a little chilly, I didn’t mind, I was keen to get to the tea. Even my usual OCD self felt there was nothing to lose. This was a place of pure goodness. With rooibos, camomile, dandelion and mint teas, jars of dried flowers and herbs from the last summers harvest, and a pot with a chipped spout that had seen better days, the spread was looking pretty good. With the water being switched off until spring, a thermos of hot water was brought to the table, along with home made apricot jam and sourdough from the local bakery. I spread the jam thickly across the bread, and devoured it in two bites, washing it down with a steaming mug of tea. Does anything taste better when you’ve been working outside? I think not. The slow warming crept through me, as if I was sat by a fire, and although it was likely that the tea was doing most of the work, the morning had shifted something inside of me. A gate was opening, and I could feel hope again.
Keen to share the wonder of the garden with Dad, I asked to take home a bag of salad, potatoes and some carrots fresh from the soil, so that he may taste the goodness which I had felt that morning. Thinking back on my first day seems so far away now. I cannot tell you how proud I am that I conquered the nerves. Can you imagine if I had never got the courage to come, and not seen what life there was behind the gates? In many ways I feel this garden may save me. Provide me with a grounding, a community and a purpose as I come to terms with my grief, and my changing way of life. It feels as if the answers will be found in the soil, in the bees that buzz in the trees, the call of the birds and in the people I may find here. I may still find meaning to this being human after all.
What to take on your first trip to a community garden
Many layers! Particularly in the UK the weather changes almost minute by minute. I made sure I had a waterproof, but layers of thermals, t-shirts and jumpers underneath are handy. As you work being able flick easily between wearing t-shirt in the sun and a jumper in the hail is always a bonus.
Walking boots (as opposed to shoes) that you don’t mind getting muddy. Some people wear wellington boots which is fine, but our community garden has many different terrains and I found walking boots to be the superior shoe.
A refillable bottle of water and a thermos of tea/coffee. Your community garden might have tea supplies, or a money pot for purchasing milk etc. Our garden has the water switched off over winter until April so make sure you have a drink with you just in case.
Snacks, ideally ones you can share. Once you join the garden you might sign up to a cake baking rota, or be offered communal snacks, but its always good to have something to keep your energy levels up.
A hat. Whether it be a woolly hat or a cap to protect you from the sun. It is always needed.
Sun screen, even in winter….I managed to have a burnt nose in February!
Toilet tissue and/or hand gel. Your garden may have a toilet, but like ours it could be a compostable one. Think a festival in a field. It’s always useful to have something with you.
Maybe some gardening gloves. Most community gardens will have all the equipment provided for volunteers, but if you want to be sure, its good to have them just in case.
Top tips when you join a community garden as a novice
Expect to feel a little bit out of your depth, because after all you are a novice. If you know this is how you will feel it will likely keep the imposter syndrome at bay and you are more likely to return after your first visit!
Don’t read too much about gardening before you go. No one is expecting you to be an expert, and you might not even be aware of the methods and priorities of the garden you’re going to. My garden focuses on permaculture, which I knew nothing about. I’d focussed my reading on seed sowing which was pretty useless for January! I am also realising, you can’t really learn from a book, you learn from experience and you learn from others.
Have a tiny notebook and pencil that you can keep in a pocket. I tend to use it if I want to draw or write a few descriptive words that have helped me to identify a particular species. Or if I am having a particular mindful moment amongst the plum trees.
Ask about what they have on offer on different days of the week. You might find that you have skills that would be particularly useful that means you can give back as you learn. My community garden runs support for mental health days, cooking demonstrations, craft workshops, parent and baby groups and compost schemes.
I have found that in depth conversations are common place when you are working on gardens together. Small talk is unlikely. It might be worth thinking about what you feel comfortable being open about, and perhaps identifying topics of conversation you could use to get to know people. These could be facts about nature, books you’re reading or what you would love to learn.
There is so much to learn, and as much as I would like to absorb it all like a sponge I can’t. Focussing on one plant I want to know really well each season is the approach I am taking. I want to know how it roots, how it grows, whether it likes sun or shade, who are its companion plants, what medicinal properties does it have? There is so much to know about just one. If I can remember more its a bonus.
If you start attending regularly ask where their money pot is for the tea and coffee, and if you’re a great baker, bringing in cakes will always go down well.
Before you leave for the day, make sure you’ve taken any tools you’ve used for the day back to the tool shed to save them getting rusted in the rain. It also helps the end of the day team having to do a big clear up.
If you are a community gardener, I’d love to hear about your first day in the comments, or any tips you have for people joining a garden. Next week, I’ll be discussing the project we’ve been working on for the last few weeks, the greatly anticipated hügelkultur! These are a type of no-dig raised beds that self-fertilise. I can’t wait to show you how it has progressed! If you have any questions you’d like answering, pop those in the comments too.
With love,
Anna xxx
Would you like to know more about who I am, and this substack Tides and Seasons? Click here to read my about page or here to read my first ever article.
Really loved reading this but if there's one maxi, by which I live it's that NOTHING GOOD EVER COMES OF LEMON BALM
This is a lovely post 🌱 There should be far more community gardens around than there are 🌷