How it began.

You'll find that most professional gardeners have been inspired by someone or something during their youth.

I am no exception. That accolade goes to my Grandad.

Growing up in a busy rural household alongside my mum, Grandparents and an Uncle, I would often find myself in the garden making mud pies, or chopping wood with the Bill Hook that I now use for laying hedges.

My Grandad would use his allotment as his escape. I would accompany him, riding alongside him on my yellow Raleigh bike, down the country lane to the allotment.

Jumping to reach the key, I would have the treat of unlocking the door to the wriggly tin shed, to be greeted by the familiar smell of oil, petrol, rusty tools and good old Devon clay.

The smell of hard work!

He would show me how to sow seeds, dig up teddies, and pod peas for Sunday lunch. I will always remember his chuckle when I got the pod with the maggot in! A thought that still gives me a shudder when podding my own peas now. There always seemed to be a dead pigeon hanging in the plum tree, I think I was told it would "ward off the other pigeons", probably folk lore. It certainly didn't work, as there is a healthy population of Wood Pigeons on the plot to this day.

At the age of ten, I accompanied my Grandad on a trip to a local garden centre to purchase a much longed for shiny new Merry Tiller. A large investment, on my Grandads part. No amount of cow muck delivered by the local farmer, over the hedge to the plot could break the soil down, but the help of the tiller would ease the back breaking digging.

In my teenage years, my Grandads health began to deteriorate, and the decision was made to give up the allotment. Suddenly the shed at home was full of old tools, rusty bits of this and that, and a wooden chest full of broken things and old nails.

My Grandad found a new love of flower gardening, and the vegetable patch at home was turned into a lawn with flower borders. He acquired two cold frames, and I would sneak in extra Sweet Peas, Night Scented stocks, and the odd Sunflower and Pumpkin. The tiller was no longer needed, so given to another Uncle of mine for his allotment plot.

In my early twenties, I moved into Exeter and together my husband and I planned our wedding. Three months after our wedding, my Grandad passed away, leaving a huge hole in mine and my families lives. Not a rich man, he didn't leave any money to family members, but I was left his most important possessions, his gardening tools. Precious treasure indeed.

Within a year, my husband and I moved back to my little village with plans to start our own family, in this rural setting. The house we purchased has a small outside space, so getting an allotment seemed like a logical step.

And there it was. My Grandads old plot. Standing there for the ten or so years since he left it, unloved, untended. Covered in a thicket of Elm suckers and brambles, a challenge to say the least. And that challenge was met. Myself, my husband and some friends all used Grandads old tools to clear the plot. Steady progress has been made for the past 19 years on my allotment.

Over those nineteen years, the allotment became an extension of our own garden. My two girls have accompanied me on the plot, much like myself with my Grandad. Dens have been made, chicks have been hatched and insects collected. During many summers, not a single Raspberry entered the house, as the girls had eaten them all when my back was turned whilst tending to the vegetables! The progress on the plot hastened when my Uncle sadly passed away. I was gifted a tiller, that would help me with the back breaking digging.

My Grandads old tiller. The Merry Tiller that as a ten year old girl I knew had meant so much to my Grandad.

The allotment site is relatively small by comparison to some sites. And as such, there is always an opportunity to have a chat with the fellow gardeners. An idea was put to me one day by the land agent, as I know all of the other plot holders, that I would become the 'Head Allotment Keeper'. To be the man on the ground to deal with day to day issues, waiting lists and such like. A symbiotic relationship, my plot fees would be discounted and I deal with the minor issues, the land agent would only need involvement for serious matters.

I wonder what my Grandad would have thought?

Each Springtime I am reminded of my Grandad, as the Daffodils that he scat into the hedge flower, I like to think of him standing in his shirt sleeves, smiling with pride at the thought of a new generation enjoying their time on his allotment.