An Update on my Survival Garden

In a recent post I wrote of my dilemma of having to decide between replacing my sofa and starting a survival garden. Today I give you the Update. I know you’ve been on the edge of your seats waiting for this. 

So. Here’s the thing: we’ve spent a whole year in our homes. Granted, I didn’t have a home before lockdown and was aimlessly wandering the earth as a digital nomad, and now I’ve moved twice during the pandemic. But hey, I’m a renter now. Woo! Capitalism got one over on me. 

It was an unfurnished house, and we scraped together what we could to furnish it as quickly as we could, given, you know, lockdown. The sofa we got was diabolical. It looked gorgeous, all Scandi minimalism and low key stylish. And of course I paid a lockdown price for it, even second hand.

Nationwide restrictions meant shopping around was off the cards, and even popping by someone’s house to see if we liked something was most likely illegal. Because I’ve bought a few furniture pieces online only to be disappointed, this time, I went straight to the online marketplaces, ready to take seller’s words for gospel. I saw this sofa, committed to it, got it, regretted it. Oh well.

I spent every single day after that on the hunt for a new sofa. This is my life now. The last 12 months have changed me. A whole year in our homes. Staring at these four walls and some garden (if you’re lucky enough to have one). Something I don’t often consider when I’m lamenting about lockdown is how this is normality for many — the unseen, unheard, under-represented. In my learning, I try to remember this, especially when I start down the path of griping about how challenging this year has been. In truth, lockdown has been a lesson, a wake up call, and a taste of what life feels like with your freedom curtailed, when existential threats chase you down and back you into a corner.

But more on that another time. I need to tell you about the fate of my survival garden. And before I do that, I want to tell you, remind you even, about how much anxiety I have over gardening. This was a surprise to me, because I thought gardening was meant to be relaxing, soothing: a Nice Thing. 

Maybe I don’t listen to Gardener’s Question Time or read Gardener’s World enough. Maybe I am consuming too much social media and got a bit of the old gardening dysmorphia. 

Anyway. Some notes from my gardening anxiety to bring you up to speed.

My first lockdown home (and the first home I’ve had in three years) had a garden. There was a large lawn enclosed by ugly stone chip borders, a barren drive, and a surprisingly charming summer house. It also had a cute little patio with some privacy afforded by a wild, untamed, brazen clematis hedge. And — possibly the reason I jumped at the chance to sign the lease — a veg patch, complete with rows and rows of somewhat neglected strawberries. 

I loved that tiny plot. But for the first few weeks after we had moved in, anxiety stemming from a very real and imminent fear of failure gripped me. It had been years since I’d tended a garden, and at this point, we were living in a town where people took their gardens very seriously. Growing vegetables could mark me as a complete hippy: very, very different from my neighbours with their attractive display flower beds. Indeed, shortly before we moved out, our landlord appeared to apply weedkiller liberally all over the gravel driveway and borders. My guess was that a neighbour had taken umbrage with the explosion of wild poppies and other bee-friendly weeds in our garden and reported our heathen ways to the authorities.

Anyway. That garden, a year ago. I was terrified of getting it wrong. Planting the wrong things, at the wrong time, in the wrong place. As I writhed in anxious agony, the rest of the UK leapt right into gardening and all over again everything became difficult to procure. By the time I made a decision, the spinach seeds that I had been eying up were out of stock. I mass sowed some kale in a bid to protect myself from any future shortages.

And so I had begun my garden. In my little 2m x 2m plot, I sowed rocket, radishes, peas, kale, spinach, spring onions, beetroot, and some orache that my mum sent from France. They grew, give or take. The peas were a huge success. I got 3 or 4 crops of spinach and radishes by planting in succession.

I lost the kale to the birds. 

The thing I loved most though was the strawberries. We got kilos and kilos of them. 

And then we moved. 

Well, we moved in December. Long after the last harvest. But the place we moved into did not have an established veg plot. It had a lumpy, mossy, uneven weedy patch of grass that flooded when the meltwater after heavy snow caused the loch next to us to encroach into our garden.

All through winter I wondered what to do. I was deep into my familiar anxiety and agonising and indecision over all things homegrown. 

I wanted that homestead life, but this was not a homestead. 

As the anniversary of the pandemic approached and spring was upon us, I knew I had to make a decision. At one point I thought I had: I ruled there would be no garden. There would be no veg plot this year. I knew we would want to travel again once lockdown lifted. That would make it difficult to tend to the plants, stay on top of weeding, and likely everything would wilt, wither, bolt, or otherwise not thrive, and that would make me sad. But it was for the best. Plus — our local town has a community garden that I could either join, or at least buy from. Local, organic produce-sourcing problem solved!

With that, we got a new sofa. We sold the offending one and replaced it with a couch you could sink into. Happily we picked up some new shows, indulged in our streaming habits, and snuggled. Life was good. 

Then without warning, I reversed my decision. On impulse, I planted peas indoors in a DIY propagator (my favourite multipurpose plastic tub, relinquished from its former duties as an under-bed storage box). I also planted coriander (not doing so well right now) and basil. I bought the raised beds. I ordered the compost. I panicked and bought a rhubarb crown. (I love rhubarb). 

The rhubarb is a kicker, though, because I won’t be able to harvest any the first year. Doing so would weaken the plant. Mwahaha! I have committed to this house, and this garden, for a minimum of two growing seasons now. How do you like them apples, ya former digital nomad? 

And I bought some infant strawberry plants. These poor guys have had a difficult start in life because I ordered them and then had to collect them way before my raised beds arrived. I started them out in a bag of compost, and the day we built the raised beds and decided to transplant them - it started out sunny but then we got snow and sub zero temperatures. I love Scotland, and oh yeah f*ck you climate change.

So now the garden is started. I’m not sure the strawberries will survive this cold snap, and even if they do, I’m not sure I could survive on strawberries. But we will see. I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit and let the garden space go vacant. And it had felt very vacant, despite the red squirrels using every last inch of it for caching and scampering. I love red squirrels — I truly do — but if they so much as look at my raised beds, I’m gonna raise squirrel hell. I know it. 

Right now as I’m writing, I’m watching snow start to fall again. The squirrels have emptied their little squirrel feeder and they’ve scuttled back to their dreys somewhere out there in the woods. There are siskins and chaffinches all over the bird feeders. I’m reflecting on the garden accomplishments and fantasising about future harvests, but I’m ruminating too, falling into that familiar trap of repetitive thoughts, starting to wonder if I’ve done the right thing, or if I should do more. My first thought when we installed the three raised beds was, should I have ordered more? Or gone bigger? I’m not sure kale and spinach will cut it for my survival garden. I can’t help thinking I should have got some potatoes and a willow bed in there. 

I oscillate wildly between ‘the apocalypse is coming and I need to prepare’, and ‘it’ll be ok as long as I’ve got some micro greens for my millennial salads this summer.’ And of course, I’d quite like a ton of strawberries to serve my new jam-making hobby. 

But this is where we are, folks. I’ll grow what I can, and it’ll be an experiment. If it goes well, perhaps I can expand next year. The wild garlic is out along the riverbanks and I’ve already snaffled some. The elder is beginning to bud, and I hope next month I’ll be able to gather some flower heads and brew up some elderflower wine. I did that last year up north, and it was fabulous. I also made some elderflower vinegar, and it was pretty, but - understandably I think - I preferred the fizz.

Perhaps this year I’ll even build my foraging skills and won’t need to rely so heavily on a survival garden.

Fuck it, I might even plant a willow grove and take up basket weaving.

Who knows what’s going to happen in 2021.