“And there’s one more present for you, but the delivery people messed up,” said my husband on Christmas morning as we sat around the tree. “However, we can go to look at it all the same…” So, the Christmas goodies were pushed aside, I was blindfolded with a scarf, packed into the car and off we went. Several disorientating minutes later, the car stopped, my husband Kevin giggling to himself all the while. He opened the door, led me out into the bracing air and up a grassy track.  | | The allotment plot back in December 2005 |
And the moment arrived. My blindfold was whipped off and I saw, for the first time, my new allotment. Blinking in the wintry sunshine, I took it in – the patch of bare earth, the stones, the thick, knee-high grass… the work! But I was in love. Ever since I was little, I’ve been fascinated by allotments. My Great Uncle Mick spent hours on his patch, tinkering in the shed, digging beautiful raised beds or dreaming up wonderful contraptions to keep the birds away and the slugs off. I remember peeking into his greenhouse, watching him move gracefully between shelves, his giant fingers easing seedlings out of pots and planting tiny seeds in perfect rows. Looking around my very own plot 4a that morning, I was filled with excitement, enthusiasm and a little dread. If I can barely keep a houseplant alive, how will a bed of potatoes fare? But the idea of growing fresh veggies, being self-sufficient is so intoxicatingly wholesome that I brushed off the niggling problem of cluelessness. Indeed, with increased debate about GM crops, global farming imbalances and the new “you are what you eat” style of thinking, more and more people – and especially younger people – are switching to grow-your-own.  | | Claire's allotment three months later |
Lured by the prospect of feeding a family of four for up to a year with produce from a well-tended allotment, urban farmers are snapping up plots, and there are even waiting lists for the most desirable locations. Telling friends about the new Moriarty land acquisition (“I have a confession. I’m a 27-year-old allotment holder,”) has sparked offers of payment for vegetables and manual help. Indeed, the family are already buying seeds of their favourite crop. And so, I throw myself into the fascinating world of gardening, learning everything from how to spot a horsetail – that’s a nasty perennial weed, and you rip them out pretty quickly – to the fact that human urine is a great compost accelerator. In my mind, I am already proudly popping round to the neighbours with a basket bursting with harvest leftovers. Everyone is thrilled with my flavoursome lettuces and amusingly-shaped carrots. So I hold that thought as I prepare for the back-breaking job of digging this weekend – and I look forward to biting into next Christmas’ first festive hand-reared, home-grown spud. Come back for the next installment of Claire's Allotment Diary | 
