Well my dears, hasn’t it been scorchio? The kind of weather that causes pavements to shimmer and hats to become imperative rather than ornamental. I’ve taken to sitting in the shade of my favourite elder tree, though frankly even the tree seems to be panting.
The allotment’s looking rather crispy in parts, I must admit. This hot spell has become a bit of a trial for vegetable management – there’s talk of a hosepipe ban looming, and already I feel the pressure of keeping everything hydrated without offending any bylaws or setting off Keith’s “District Water Emergency Alert System” (which is mostly a milk bottle full of pebbles that he rattles whenever he suspects misuse). The village duck pond has never looked so inviting – not for the ducks, mind you, but for me. The thought of just trailing my feet in there with a cool flask of elderflower cordial is becoming dangerously tempting.
It’s funny, though, sitting in this heat and watching the poor bees trying to decide whether to bother with my parched lavender or just sit down for a nap themselves. It gets a chap thinking about the old summers and how different they felt – more measured, less… intense. We had our hot days, of course, but they never seemed to snarl quite like this. Back then, heatwaves felt like a pleasant interruption to summer – now they feel like summer itself, stretched and cracked and slightly alarming.
I try very hard not to get drawn into debates about whether climate change is “real” these days. I mean, really, what a peculiar thing to debate. As if the fact that my runner beans now flower in February and I’m harvesting lettuces in October is something I could chalk up to whimsy or seasonal variation. There are people who still treat global warming as a sort of optional belief system, like horoscopes or Father Christmas, which is very odd given that you can literally feel it. The heat isn’t a notion; it’s currently wilting my kale in front of my very eyes.
But we muddle on, don’t we? I’ve been collecting old washing-up bowls and dubious buckets to capture whatever rain might fall, though of course, the skies remain as blank as Keith’s understanding of crop rotation. I’ve taken to talking sternly to the courgettes, encouraging them to conserve water and remain calm in the face of adversity. I’m not sure if this helps them, but it seems to soothe me.
All of this heat has put me in mind of village fetes of yore, where the Vegetable Prize Contests were a highlight of the summer. Tables laid out under flapping bunting, proud growers lining up their perfectly spherical onions and impeccably symmetrical carrots. There was a decorum to it all, though I must confess that, even back then, some of my exhibits caused mutterings. I have always had a tendency to grow vegetables with… character. Some of my prize-winning marrows from previous years are best described as “conversation pieces”, and not always suitable for polite conversation at that.
I shall refrain from dwelling too much on the more anatomical shapes my allotment has produced – though suffice it to say there are one or two carrots still tucked discreetly behind the shed that, if they ever saw the light of day, would cause Mrs. Trubshaw to go pale and drop her jam spoon.
So yes, the heat may be wilting the lettuces and softening my resolve, but it also reminds me of simpler times – brass bands playing, children throwing sponges at vaguely tolerant vicars, and rows of vegetables lined up under canvas, ready for judgement.
I think that’s enough reflection for now. I’m off to investigate whether the hosepipe ban specifically mentions watering by hand using a colander on a stick.
Yours, overheated but still rambling,
🧓 Virgil