Allotment

I don't know how old I was when my dad got his allotment: four, maybe? At that age, I didn't think about what the word meant, nor did it occur to me there was anything unusual about my dad being allocated a piece of land two or three miles from our house, where he could grow vegetables.

The allotment itself was at the back of a maze of roads beyond New Malden station and to the north of Coombe Road. This was well off the beaten track for me: for the most part my life at that time was limited to less than a dozen roads, so on the occasions we went out to my dad's fiefdom, it was exciting yet alien.

It's occurred to me before that it was a private space for my dad, away from work, friends and family responsibilities, where he could have some time to himself and not worry about things. But even now, over forty years later, he remains a keen and quietly proud gardener. I don't think he's missed a harvest in all those years, apart from the four summers that we were living in Hong Kong.

I was reminded of his allotment today as I walked back from meeting a friend for coffee at Baba Ganoush in Kendal. I walked back along the south side of the Kent, crossed on the pedestrian bridge and joined the old canal at Parr Street. These allotments are just off to the side of the canal.