THE last overgrown courgette waiting in vain for a recipe to spring to mind has, mercifully, been consigned to the compost heap, together with the steadfastly green tomatoes sojourning on the windowsill. The summer, the harvest, is over and, apart from the obvious winter brassicas and root vegetables, there’s little to look forward to until late spring. Yet what if we could fill that gap, particularly from the ides of March to those of May, the ‘hungry gap’? What if we could eat food that we’ve grown ourselves all year round?
My serious gardening days—I ran an allotment for 12 years—ended when my stay-at-home-father plan of having our baby daughter gurgle peacefully in her pram as I tended my plot came face to face with reality.
However, I still grow rhubarb, the occasional runner bean, apples, figs and herbs in my small garden, with my status as an ‘expert’ bolstered by being the once-a-year chairman of a local village ‘Gardeners’ Question Time’ team. Frankly, I’m seriously outgunned by my panellists and my only helpful advice was to a gentleman whose wife permitted him to use only a tiny patch in which to grow vegetables and was worried about crop rotation. I suggested he consider ‘wife rotation’. Memory fades and new methods and philosophies develop, so, in attempting to make my advice useful, I’ve gathered the current wisdom of people who grow things all year. Chief among these are those who supply veg boxes and for whom ‘all year round’ is a necessity.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der October 30, 2019-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
Starten Sie Ihre 7-tägige kostenlose Testversion von Magzter GOLD, um auf Tausende kuratierte Premium-Storys sowie über 8.000 Zeitschriften und Zeitungen zuzugreifen.
Bereits Abonnent ? Anmelden
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der October 30, 2019-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
Starten Sie Ihre 7-tägige kostenlose Testversion von Magzter GOLD, um auf Tausende kuratierte Premium-Storys sowie über 8.000 Zeitschriften und Zeitungen zuzugreifen.
Bereits Abonnent? Anmelden
Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-art’, bought merely to show off one’s wealth. It’s time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
Cast as a sanguinary tyrant, our first Queen Regnant may not deserve her brutal reputation, believes Geoffrey Munn
A love supreme
Art brought together 19th-century Norwich couple Joseph and Emily Stannard, who shared a passion for painting, but their destiny would be dramatically different
Private views
One of the best ways-often the only way-to visit the finest privately owned gardens in the country is by joining an exclusive tour. Non Morris does exactly that
Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in London’s Eaton Square (worth a king’s ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you don’t mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agent’s particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but never—no, never—an indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course