Retired

All good things come to an end they say and after much soul searching, well not that much to be honest, I have deided to retire Mystic Veg in order that other people on the Internet waiting list can take my place.
There are a good number of people I could pay tribute to but I am going to save my thankyou's for just one person - Nora Clark.
Nora has voted for Mystic Veg every day on FuelMyBlog even though we have never met.
My very best wishes to you Nora, who knows, I may return one day and you'll be the first to hear about it.
Fond farewells to you all.

Mystic Veg xx

Damn the expense!

There's no money in vegetables, unless you count the £5000 Alderman Hickey managed to secrete in one of his prize marrows to hide it from the bailiffs. People often say "why do you bother to grow vegetables? You can buy them cheap eough at the local supermarket."
They're probably right, but cost is not the main factor when it comes to growing your own food. Knowing where it has come from is my main concern and I would have to be desperately short of money to set up a stall to sell the stuff - I leave the selling of produce and all its inherent risks to the big boys.
That does not mean that I can afford to put my feet up and live off the money I get for personal appearances and the like. In this day and age, it is wise to get work while you still can and I am pleased to say that there are more than enough people in these parts who are willing to pay that little bit extra for a 'personal touch' to their gardens.
I am lucky to know one or two local landowners who wouldn't dream of having anybody other than yours truly trimming their hedges and mowing their lawns.
One of my regular clients, who prefers to be known as Hoggy had a rather large job he wanted doing some years ago. It appeared that the local council was going to serve him with an ASBO for having a hedge that was blocking the view of his neighbours. Given his high standing in the world of politics, he rightly considered that the press would have a field day should the story unfold.
I promised him that the hedge would be gone by the time he'd returned from his weekend in Dublin and I popped round to get Juris and Ludis, the Latvian twins who work for cash and don't ask any questions (possibly because they don't speak a word of English).
Given the size of the job, we decided that it would do no harm to dump the trees in Hoggy's moat rather than drag them off to the council tip. On his return, Hoggy was obviously delighted and also handed me a cheque from his pal Alan who I'd done a bit of work for previously.
I didn't hear from either of them for a couple of days but then Hoggy phoned me with another job. It turned out he wanted his moat cleaning out and was happy to pay me £2000. Obviously I didn't mention the trees that we'd dumped in there.
Once again, Hoggy was delighted with the work and as I pocketed the money for the job, the last thing on my mind was that the transaction would end up splashed all over the front pages of the newspapers.
I can understand the disgust of the country over the MP's expense claims but when I bumped into Hoggy yesterday I had to tell him that despite my sympathy over his predicament, I was sorry to say that the £2000 was long gone, and I hoped that the general public wouldn't be beating a path to his door to demand the money back.
"Don't worry about that old friend" he said, "that's what the bloody moat is for".

Row, row, row the boat

It's not often that I feel the urge to champion someone under the age of 55 and I cannot remember ever singing the praises of a 23-year-old but there is a first time for everything they say and given the wretched state the Nation's youth appear to be in, I can console myself with the thought that it is unlikely to happen again for some considerable time.
I guess you may already be thinking that I am about to sing the praises of a certain Oldham Athletic footballer but you couldn't be further from the truth.
I am, at heart, a landlubber. The seas, oceans, rivers and lakes of this world hold no interest for me and the last time I attempted to steer a craft across water was on Alexandra Park Boating Lake, many, many years ago. The experience hardly encouraged me to become Oldham's answer to Thor Heyerdahl.
I can safely say therefore, that I have the utmost respect for 23 year old Sarah Outen from Oakham in Rutland who is currently attempting to become the first woman and the youngest to row 3,100 miles solo across the Indian Ocean from Freemantle in Australia to Mauritius.
Her story came to light on the Radcliffe and Maconie show on Radio 2 when she was interviewed aboard her boat, 20 days into her journey.
If you visit her website you will see that she is a pretty determined individual and it would be delightful to think that her drive and resolution might rub off on some of the sallow youth who hang around outside the local Co-op trying to get someone to buy a bottle of cider for them.
I promise to get back to the vegetables soon!

Saving the planet - one washing machine at a time

I must apologise for my absence lately but every spare moment seems to have been filled with various tasks around the garden. I have decided to attempt a personal record this year of growing over 30 different crops and that obviously entails a little extra work.
The mild April weather has helped a great deal and as well as sowing and planting like a dervish, I managed to find time to tidy the garden and do my bit to help the environment.
I read somewhere that instead of taking your old washing machine to the nearest recycling site, you could in fact turn the drum into a nifty patio burner. The first step is to get the washer out of the house and into the garden. Don't wear your slippers to do this job as it is common knowledge that a washing machine on your foot is going to spoil your day rather badly.
When you're happy that the washer is out of the house (and unplugged) you can set about taking it apart. Don't allow yourself to be daunted by this, you won't need to put it back together so remembering which screw goes where is not an issue. One of those electric screwdrivers is a good investment as it saves you getting calluses on your hands and gives the impression to any visitors or neighbours that this is a job you do regularly. Remove every screw you can see and before long, with a bit of help from a hammer you can remove the top and front.
You'll discover that there is an incredible amount of wiring and electronics inside and for comic effect you might want to pretend you are the washing machine repairman and say "I think I've found the problem luv" as you hold up a handful of wiring or "Course, you know they stopped making this model in 2001". Better still, purse your lips, suck air in through your teeth and say "I'll have to order the parts, it should take about 12 weeks".
Before long, you should be left with the drum with its plastic surround. Make sure you save the washing machine motor. It is completely useless for anything other than operating a washing machine but it will look good on a shelf in your shed, giving you the opportunity to claim that you used it to power your laser pigeon scarer.
I have to admit that when I got to this stage, I thought I was home and dry but one half of the plastic cover for the drum refused to become unattached despite my efforts.
I found that I had to use the tried and tested DIY method - a large hammer, to finally arrive at the finished item.
As you can see, the final result would not look out of place with a £100 price tag in your local garden centre and I am preparing myself for favorable comments once the barbeque season gets under way.
I haven't tested it out yet but there is a large amount of correspondence from the local council regarding smoke-free zones that is waiting to be disposed of so it should be put to good use rather soon.

The Second Coming

There are very few things more important than growing your own produce. Take Roy Hislop's situation as an example. A devoted father of six healthy lads, he had far more important things to do down on the allotment than tend to his wife's needs as they strapped her into the stirrups. She soon accepted his behaviour as normal and even opted to have her sixth child in Roy's shed. The midwife admitted that the facilities on offer amongst the plant pots and compost was far more sterile than the local maternity ward and Roy's shed, after some fine tuning of the Allotment Regulations, went on to become a viable alternative to giving birth in hospital.
It is a pretty safe bet that the Moon landings, the Coronation, England's World Cup triumph and Carol Vorderman's last appearance on Countdown were all missed by members of the allotment movement.
There's an old saying in the growing world and it's as true today as it's ever been. "When your carrots are ready, be ready yourself". You can't argue with that.
There are exceptions of course and the allotment world stood still on March 18th 1988 when news of the demise of Percy Thrower reached us all. It was a mere pause however as the last thing Percy would have wanted was the neglect of an allotment in favour of his memory.
It is rare then that an event should tear myself in particular away from the land but this was special, a one-off, an event of such magnitude that those who weren't there would go to their graves stricken with regret.
I had seen all the signs, understood all the messages and now I was to see it for myself - The Second Coming.
Those of you who have no interest in football should perhaps leave now as you may not be able to grasp the enormity of what was presented to Oldham Athletic fans on Saturday before the game.
For years, we have trodden the dusty road of defeat and despair, desperate for some glimmer of success but it has evaded us. We have tried all manner of managers, players and directors but only one man was ever able to unite the team, the club and the supporters and put silverware in the embarrassingly barren trophy cabinet,
That man was Joe Royle, our saviour and our hero. His exploits in the 1990's put Oldham on the footballing map and if you visit the borough you'll discover that there are a rather large number of 19-year-old youths called Joe. It is no coincidence.
Like many a manager with thoughts of their futures, Joe moved on but his heart was always there with the team that snuggles at the foot of the Pennines. Many said we would never see him again but on Saturday, after a suitable build up of tension, he was introduced again to his adoring fans before the game.
I was convinced that the steam from my meat pie made my eyes water but as I looked around, grown men were dabbing their eyes with their scarfs. It was an emotional moment. Joe was back, a little more grey and a little more lined but that rotund figure couldn't have been anyone else.
The scene was set then for Joe to lead his team to glory but the only people not to have read that days script were the most important ones - the players, As we sang Joe's praises, Tranmere proceeded to rattle in two goals without reply and our great day was in tatters.
With only a handful of games remaining, Joe's chances of steering us into the promised land are looking slim but are we downcast or downhearted?
Actually, yes we are and while I was away the damn pigeons pulled all my onions up. Guess I should have listened to Roy Hislop.

Digging up the Lawns

I've long been a supporter and member of the National Trust, an organisation which has come in for some unwarranted criticism by those who assume it exists merely to maintain the former homes in Gloucestershire of rich Victorian landowners and ignore everything else. This is not true of course, as the Trust maintains miles of Britain's coastline as well as the childhood homes of Paul McCartney and John Lennon. It has a rather magnificent lighthouse at Whitburn, Tyne and Wear, several castles and is no doubt ready, given the worrying financial climate, to push back into service, the Workhouse at Southwell in Nottinghamshire.
So why you may ask, am I, a man who Allotment and Smallholding Monthly once dubbed the 'Lincolnshire Cress Warrior' extolling the virtues of what is commonly accepted to be a very middle class British institution?
If you are one of the 100,000 people in the country on the waiting list for an allotment, you'll be pleased to hear that the National Trust, in association with Landshare are creating 1000 new allotments on NT land over the next three years.
That is obviously excellent news and I wasted no time in putting my name forward should the Trust need any expert advice. I have one minor misgiving however, as some of the Trust land may seem unsuitable for growing veg. Take the garden at nearby Belton House (pictured) for instance. Personally, I would dig up the row of dwarf conifers and get some potatoes in as soon as possible but there will be those who baulk at the idea of ordinary folk wheeling barrowloads of manure over the closely tended lawns.
It is worth mentioning that on my last visit to Belton House, a large portion of the car park was taken up by a Bentley Brooklands, the only one I've ever set eyes upon and a mere snip at £225,000 in these credit crunch days. Nearby but at a safe distance from the Fortnum and Mason's Hamper, Toby and Jocasta, presumably bored by their bum-numbing trip in the Bentley were being entertained by a tired looking nanny.
I suspect that the initiative may encounter stormy water before becoming accepted but it is well worth supporting. Who knows, I may have been wrong about the Bentley family, they could have been having a spot of lunch before getting the rotovator out of the boot. One can only hope.

Anyone for coffee?

If you wanted to compile a list of essential items to take along to your new allotment, I guess that top of your list would be a spade or a fork, followed by stout boots, gloves and a hat but you would be forgetting the most vital of items, the kettle.
You wouldn't believe some of the foul language I've heard when one of our members realises they've forgotten the gas canister for the stove or left the Thermos on the kitchen table but the most pitiful sight is that of the new allotment holder, triumphant one minute with their efforts in cultivating new ground and despondent the next when they realise they'll have to get in the car and drive all the way home to get that well earned cuppa.
Needless to say, I have for years made sure that a jar of instant coffee is at hand in the shed. I don't put a lot of faith in flasks, just in case the quick hour on the plot turns into a full day session. Running out of fluids when you've been tackling deep-rooted parsnips can be lethal. Consequently, I have never felt the need to buy coffee beans or a coffee maker as the process of grinding and waiting around while the machine gurgles away in the background always seemed annoyingly time consuming.
I was a little concerned therefore when those nice people at Fuel My Blog arranged for The Coffee Bean Shop to send me a sample of their product. Now I am not so naive to realise that you can't just spoon ground coffee into a cup and pour hot water on it. Well you can but your next coffee evening might be a bit sparsely attended. Luckily, at the back of a cupboard at home, hidden behind the fondue set, was a long forgotten coffee maker.
The sample I had been sent was the exotically-named Monsoon Malabar and I was soon delighted that the coffee maker had not been outed to the local charity shop as the taste was excellent.
The Coffee Bean Shop website describes their product as the most famous of the 'monsooned' coffee beans, so called because in the Indian town of Malabar, the coffee growers store their green coffee harvest in large warehouses where it waits for the monsoon rains. When the rains arrive, the warehouse doors are opened and the moist monsoon air circulates around the coffee beans, making them swell and take on a slight yellow colouring.
The result is a coffee that is smooth and velvety with a long and satisfying finish.
I intend to introduce our allotment members to Monsoon Malabar and hopefully adopt the Indian growers method of ageing with our courgette crop. Heaven knows we get enough rain for the purpose, and there is the added bonus of being able to compost the coffee grounds. Cheers!