The beginnings of a pond

After nearly a month away from the allotment (holidays and the excitement of opening the Sacred Birth Centre), I finally headed back to the plot this week. I’ll admit: It was more than with a little trepidation, expecting a jungle. Instead I found beetroot that hadn’t really done much since I’d last been there, a few rogue nettles, and a harvest of beans waiting to be picked.

My son and two-and-three-quarter-year-old grandson came along. I’ve been talking about having a little pond, and they were both keen to help. So (after a quick trip to the local hardware store to get some liner) we, and I by that I mean my son, dug out a small pond. So far, it’s nothing grand, just a plastic liner, a little mud, and a hopeful shape for what will come. I’m leaving it to fill naturally with rainwater, letting time and weather do their work. Watching my grandson scoop up the last muddy spadeful felt like an initiation: three generations placing water back into the heart of the land.

It's a bit close to the beds at the moment, but in the grand design that will take place next Spring, it’s in precisely the right space.

At home, I’d given them both some baby strawberry plants from the garden, and my grandson was delighted to find more, as am I, as it’s good to know I didn’t strim them all out of existence. We also admired the neighbour’s marrows (enormous!) and came home with a pocket full of the beans I planted a couple of months ago, proof that even an untended, somewhat neglected plot can offer small treasures.

🍂 Autumn Equinox

The light is turning now, softening at the edges, settling lower on the horizon. The Autumn Equinox always feels like a pause between inhale and exhale: a moment to gather what the year has grown and prepare for the coming winter rest. On the allotment and in the garden, it’s time to have a clear up, and sow the seeds that prefer cool soil and long patience. I am also enjoying the apples from our tree. The pond, just beginning its life, mirrors that sense of stillness and new beginnings.

🌊 Why Add a Pond?

A pond is one of the simplest, most rewarding additions you can make to an allotment. Even a modest splash of water invites an astonishing variety of life: frogs, newts, dragonflies, damselflies, and a host of beneficial insects. They keep slug populations in check and help pollinate crops, as well as being very meditative.

It’s essential to have shallow edges, a few stones, and a mix of oxygenating plants, which will give the local wildlife safe places to bask, feed, and shelter. Plus, there is something so enjoyable about enjoying the shimmer of light on the surface and the dragonflies that skim across the water.

I intend to return, with some stones and earth, and plant meadowsweet, as well as possibly some water violets, hornwort, and frogbit.

🌸 Plant Note: Meadowsweet (Filipendula ulmaria)

Meadowsweet loves damp, heavy soils, especially clay, and is a perfect companion for a new pond. Once called the “Queen of the Meadow,” it’s known for frothy white flowers and a sweet, almond-vanilla scent. Traditionally used to scent rushes on cottage floors, it carries an old magic of cleansing and calm.

Plant crowns or divisions along the pond edge in early spring or autumn, spacing them about 45 cm apart. Keep the soil moist in the first season and they’ll soon settle, weaving creamy plumes through the rushes and offering nectar to bees and hoverflies.

I plan to return in the coming weeks to see how the water settles and to tuck a few plants into their new home. For now, it feels like the land has some of my attention again, and my heart is turning toward Autumn, and the joys of my favourite season. There is soup to be made with the beans, and a chance to enjoy the cooler days.

It’s been almost twelve days since I last visited the allotment, a long stretch of benign neglect while my attention was wholly given to the sacred work of the Goddess Conference. Those days were full of devotion, ceremony, and community, but the allotment has been steadfastly doing its own thing in my absence. This includes putting on even more weed growth. Part of me wants to get in there with the strimmer again, and the other part quite likes the wildness of it. In particular, it looks like I have a lovely cow parsley taking centre stage, and of course, the nettles are the great comeback kids of the patch.

Somehow, despite the lack of daily tending, the beetroot is coming along beautifully, the leaves look well established, and the roots are slowly swelling beneath the soil. The carrots and beans are less so, but they are still alive. Also, the elder tree at the edge of the plot now wears deep clusters of ripening elderberries, each one a small promise of autumn syrups and tinctures.

In the hedgerow, the blackberries are bursting into ripeness, and in my garden at home, the apples are beginning to fall. I’m a little taken aback that we’re already at that point in the year. It seems impossible that we are at the height of summer with the slow slide towards autumn heading towards us, even as the heat still presses down. The wheel turns imperceptibly while I’m busy, and suddenly the season is shifting under my feet, and I must confess it’s making me feel a little unsteady.

Finally, not everything was as I left it. On arrival, I found a small patch of weed matting had been burnt. A minor act of arson, I suppose, though “minor” feels too light for something so careless. Thankfully, someone, perhaps one of the angels of the allotment, had replaced the damaged section, and all is safe for now. Still, it’s a strange reminder that land is not just shaped by those who tend it lovingly, but also by the occasional unexpected hand.

We’re due another heatwave this week, and I can already feel the soil beginning to tighten and crack. Planting here is a lesson in working with clay soil, heavy, slow to drain, and prone to baking hard under the summer sun. I’m tempted to plant directly into the soil, but I know my heart leans towards compost-rich raised beds, where the soil is lighter, richer, and easier to shape. The more I work here, the more I understand that the allotment and I will need to meet somewhere in the middle, it’s clay roots, my compost dreams.

🌱 Plant Note: Beetroot (Beta vulgaris)

Beetroot is a deeply nourishing root vegetable, prized for both its earthy sweetness and its remarkable health benefits. Easy to grow in most soils, it thrives with regular watering and rewards patience with a rich, jewel-toned harvest.

Mythically, beetroot has been associated with vitality, fertility, and even love. In ancient Greek and Roman times, it was considered an offering to Aphrodite, and in various European folk traditions, it symbolised abundance and the sustenance of the household.

Medicinally, beetroot is rich in iron, folate, and antioxidants. Its deep colour comes from betalains—compounds known for their anti-inflammatory and detoxifying properties. Regular consumption supports healthy blood pressure, boosts stamina, and helps nourish the liver. Both the root and the leaves are edible, with the greens being a good source of vitamins A, C, and K.

From soil to table, beetroot is a reminder of the sweet, sustaining gifts that grow beneath the surface.

This week and next, the allotment will have to patiently wait for my return, as my hands and heart are fully immersed in preparation for and the week of the Goddess Conference. Tending land, I’m reminded, happens in many forms. This week, my tending has been internal—gathering ritual materials, preparing ceremony, and holding space in my heart for those who will gather in community, and come to Glastonbury to experience the Goddess as part of this sacred place.

The conference theme this year is sacred union. It’s easy to think of sacred union only in terms of the masculine and feminine, but for me, it also speaks to union with nature and, in particular, the land.

There's a parallel, I think, between preparing sacred space and tending a garden. Both require clearing, intention, patience, and trust in the unseen. Both call on us to hold space for growth, transformation, and the possibility of renewal.

Outside in my garden at home, the sunflowers have burst into full bloom. Their presence feels synchronistic—a timely reminder of joy, celebration, and sacred radiance just as the Goddess Conference begins.

I must admit to being a little trepidatious about how many weeds might be waiting for me at the allotment when I return, but I’ll get some insight, as there is not much rain forecast, meaning that I will need to head there at least once or twice to water.

What I know is that after the ceremony and the gathering of earth-loving people, I will have new insights and perhaps a refreshed sense of what it means to tend both land and life. Until then, my sunflower friends reflect the sun’s warmth and remind me of community, abundance, and the simple joy of blooming exactly where you are.

🌻 Plant Note: Sunflower (Helianthus annuus)

Sunflowers are bright companions of summer, tall and confident as they turn their radiant faces towards the sun. They embody warmth, generosity, and resilience, growing easily in most soils, yet always stretching towards the light.

Mythically, sunflowers have long symbolised vitality, joy, and devotion. In many cultures, they represent the sun itself, embodying its life-giving properties and radiance. Greek mythology tells of Clytie, who transformed into a sunflower, forever turning her face to follow her beloved sun god, Helios—an enduring symbol of loyalty and unwavering devotion.

Medicinally, sunflower seeds and oil offer nourishment rich in vitamin E, antioxidants, and healthy fats. Sunflower petals and leaves have traditionally been used in herbal infusions to soothe fevers and ease mild respiratory symptoms. The flower essence of sunflower gently supports self-esteem, courage, and a sense of inner strength.

To plant sunflowers is to cultivate joy, courage, and radiant, simple abundance.

Today I’ve been creating a second planting bed at the allotment. Hands deep in compost, levelling the ground and ripping up the old failed weed mat.

It feels good to plant seeds of carrot, beetroot, Brussels sprouts*, and more beans into the fresh compost. Brussels sprouts are a bit of an outlier. I'm not sure they will grow this late in the season (they are better planted from May to early June), but I had some seeds left, so I took the opportunity, particularly as those in my garden have been eaten by Cabbage White caterpillars.

Bindweed is coming back with a vengeance. It really is my nemesis this year. I have a real bindweed problem in my garden as well. I noticed that it was already wrapping itself around the new beans. Bindweed is a poignant reminder that tending to the land is never finished; it’s an ongoing relationship, an ongoing negotiation with the wild.

But there’s satisfaction too, and an absolute joy in having dirt under my nails. Gardening isn’t something I simply enjoy; it feels part of my DNA, a thread that connects me to generations of land-tenders before me. To sow, plant, nurture, and wait, these are rhythms I recognise, like old songs carried in the bones.

I also met another neighbour today, a lovely woman who has also just taken on a plot and was delighted to accept some carrot seeds. Sharing seeds feels like a generous and straightforward exchange. A little gift that carries possibilities. I also spent some time admiring her small plot. Whilst I was otherwise occupied, Elsa took the opportunity to run to the bottom of the plots, and dive into the very smelly water-filled ditch. She now has an odour similar to cow manure, and I will have the pleasure of bathing her later.

🌳 Winter Tree-Planting Reflections

As I worked, my thoughts drifted across the globe to Western Australia, where it's winter and tree-planting season is underway at Carbon Positive Australia. Although I left Australia just last year and stepped away from my role as CEO earlier this year, my heart remains deeply invested in this vital work. I continue to support the organisation as a Board Director, and at this time of year, part of me longs to be there, hands back in the soil.

The planting happening now in Western Australia’s Wheatbelt is deeply important, not just for the land itself, but for biodiversity, climate resilience, and the wellbeing of local communities. Decades of intensive agriculture have left lasting scars in the soil, threatening ecosystems and the livelihoods of local communities. Reforestation here means restoration, reviving degraded landscapes, returning habitats to wildlife, and reconnecting communities to a thriving, biodiverse land.

Perhaps that’s why the work of planting trees there still feels so alive within me, even now, thousands of miles away in my small allotment.

Our plots and gardens begin to reflect us, I think. And if that’s true, my own is weeds and wild things, brambles and bindweed, persistence and resilience all tangled together. Perhaps that’s what it means to tend: to nurture the wild in ourselves as much as in the land we love.

🌼 Chamomile & Simple Joys

Back home in my own little garden, the chamomile I planted earlier in the season has flourished beautifully. It’s finally ready to harvest for tea, simple joy in a cup.

🌿 Plant Note: Chamomile (Matricaria chamomilla)

Chamomile is a gentle healer—soft flowers with quiet strength. It grows generously, spreading out like a small carpet of calm beneath the sun. Its fragrance, sweet and apple-like, has a remarkable ability to soothe and comfort.

Mythically, chamomile has long been associated with peace, tranquillity, and resilience. Historically, it was dedicated to sun gods and goddesses, symbolising healing, vitality, and restful sleep. Folklore suggests planting chamomile near doors and windows to bring harmony and peace into the household.

Medicinally, chamomile is one of nature’s gentle healers, calming the nervous system, easing anxiety, and supporting digestion. Its flowers are dried and steeped as tea, known for its soothing properties and mild sedative effects. Ideal for a bedtime ritual, chamomile tea helps quiet the mind and invites restful sleep.

To drink chamomile tea is to welcome quiet, peace, and the gentle comfort of the earth.

* Brussels Sprouts, more commonly referred to as the Brussel Sprout in my household.

Ok, so it’s hot. I’ve spent the last ten years living in Australia, so you’d think I’d be used to it. Although the mercury may only reach 31 to 32°C, it feels significantly hotter, so we decided to escape to the coast for the weekend to get some much-needed cooler sea air and dip our bodies into the English Channel. This has meant that my allotment visits this week have mostly been quick watering stops rather than more needed tasks. However, I did manage to get another bed built and dropped off. Essentially, the heat demands respect, and my plans have had to wait.

So this week, rather than tales of my escapades, I’ve recorded a short video to share a glimpse of Nonno’s neighbouring plot. His garden is lush and abundant, despite the weather, with incredible runner beans climbing skyward. He holds secrets, or perhaps just decades of quiet, patient experience.

But there have also been small joys, even in this slowed-down state. My beans, despite the heat, are stretching upwards, determined and green. They seem almost unbothered by the fierce sun, and back at home, I’ve been harvesting and drying calendula from my small garden. This bright, cheerful flower, vibrant with oranges and yellows, carries an energy that seems to soothe the intensity of the heatwave.

🌼 Harvesting and Drying Calendula

Calendula flowers are at their best when harvested in the morning, once the dew has dried. I pick them, after first asking the plant for permission, and honestly, some mornings I get a NO. I’ve then been drying them in my insanely hot conservatory. Drying herbs and washing are about all it can currently be used for. It’s been so warm that I’ve been concerned they are drying too quickly. Once dried (about 20 minutes, OK, a few days), the flower petals are crisp and ready to be stored in a glass jar in my kitchen cupboard. They are little bursts of sunshine preserved for future use.

This is the recipe I plan to use to make a soothing cream. Ideal for my now dry and sun-damaged skin. (I do have to add that normal service is resuming, rain is forecast all week.)

🥣 A Simple Calendula Balm Recipe

Ingredients:

• 100 ml organic shea butter

• 1/4 cup olive oil

• 25 ml Beeswax

• A generous handful of dried calendula flowers

• 10-12 drops lavender essential oil (optional, but delightful)

Method:

1. Infuse your calendula flowers in olive oil, at least overnight but longer if possible.

2. Gently melt shea butter and beeswax in a glass bowl set over a pan of simmering water.

3. Strain the calendula mixture through fine muslin or a sieve, discarding flower petals. Squeeze out every drop.

4. Add dried calendula flower oil into the melted butter.

5. Add lavender essential oil to the infused butter and stir gently.

6. Pour into small sterilised jars, sprinkle some petals on top, and leave to cool completely.

This balm is gentle enough for everyday use, soothing dry skin, minor irritations, and bringing a little of calendula’s sunshine to your day. I’ll let you know how it goes next week. If you beat me to it, please let me know in the comments how it went.

🌿 Plant Note: Calendula (Calendula officinalis)

Calendula, often known as “pot marigold," is a flower of warmth, resilience, and healing properties. She thrives under full sun, blooming generously from summer through autumn, offering cheerful beauty even in the driest days. Calendula is a great companion plant and attracts pollinators to the garden.

Mythically, Calendula is traditionally associated with the sun, embodying warmth, renewal, and optimism. Historically, its flowers have been used to honour solar deities and celebrate the turning of seasons, particularly around midsummer festivals. In European folklore, Calendula was believed to bring protection and clarity, often planted in gardens to ward off negativity and promote prosperity. Its name derives from the Latin calendae, referencing the flower’s ability to bloom nearly every month, symbolising continuous renewal and resilience.

Medicinally, Calendula is renowned for her skin-healing properties. Rich in anti-inflammatory and antimicrobial compounds, calendula soothes wounds, burns, rashes, and dryness, helping the skin regenerate gently and naturally.

The UK heat wave has made most of my recent visits to the allotment short and purposeful. Watering, of course, a quick check-in, and back to the shade. But today, the rain came. And with it, a desire to do more structural work on the plot.

I built a pathway today, a very satisfying landscape job. It’s made from the wood chip mulch delivered for free by a local tree surgeon to the allotment. I laid it over more weed-suppressing matting. The rain made the job messy and slippery, but also strangely delightful. I felt like a kid all alone, at the allotment, getting soaked and stamping down mulch. Shovelling and spreading many wheelbarrow loads of mulch in the drizzle also felt like a proper workout, so no gym for me. It was also a playful collaboration with the land, and it made a lot of sense because the rain dampened the mulch down, meaning I didn’t lose any to the wind.

The beans and greens I planted are beginning to sprout; they’re pushing up through the compost like they know what they’re doing. It’s always a little miracle to me that seeds remember how to become themselves. A lesson for us all I think.

The Home Garden Harvest

Not all of my tending happens at the allotment. My home garden vegetable plot, tiny as it is, has begun to offer its own midsummer harvest. Courgettes that seem to grow back overnight. Heads of cabbage, crisp and firm. I love to celebrate harvesting what I’ve grown, no matter how humble. And my potatoes were very humble this year. Not many in each black grow bag. Probably the heat, combined with insufficient watering.

This week, I also began a small batch of sauerkraut, an old preservation practice that feels wonderfully alchemical. Salt, massage, pressure and time, and the cabbage becomes something new.

This is the first time I’ve been successful with cabbage; usually, they get hammered by slugs, snails and cabbage whites. What has made the difference this year, though, is the borage I planted near the cabbage. A companion in the truest sense, more on this below. But frankly, it feels like a miracle plant.

Sunflowers and Small Joys

And the sunflowers! I can’t not mention them. Tall, joyous, and just beginning to open, their yellow faces bring me immense happiness alongside the calendula, which I have some plans for over the coming weeks. Overall, the garden is matching the generally very sunny summer we are having this year.

Plant Note: Borage (Borago officinalis)

Borage is sometimes called the "herb of gladness"—and with good reason. With her star-shaped blue flowers and soft, bristly leaves, she brings a wonderful radiance to any garden bed. But she’s not just a beauty. Borage is a skilled companion, particularly for brassicas like cabbage. Her presence helps deter cabbage moths and other pests, and her generous nectar feeds bees, drawing pollinators into the whole garden. In my garden, the borage has become a tiny ecosystem.

Mythically, borage has long been associated with courage. In Celtic and Roman traditions, warriors would drink borage-infused wine before battle. She strengthens the heart, not just physically but energetically—helping us face what needs to be faced.

Medicinally, borage is cooling, moistening, and anti-inflammatory. The leaves can be used in teas or tinctures to support the adrenals and ease stress. The flowers are edible too—frozen in ice cubes, scattered on salads, or just admired where they grow.

To plant borage is to invite resilience, beauty, and a quiet kind of bravery into the garden.

Well, all right — there was a sneaky Day 3½ earlier in the week, when my son helped me deliver the new planting bed and a load of compost. But today feels like the first real Day 4. A proper session on the land, and finally some planting!

Elsa is echoing my enthusiasm as she’s rediscovered her inner pup, chasing a cricket that has found its way onto the plot from the tall grass in the neighbouring plot. She’s made a new friend too — Monty, a brown cocker spaniel from a few plots down. Between games, she’s claimed the communal water trough as her own personal drinking fountain.

🌿 Groundwork

Today’s task is setting up my first planting bed using the no-dig method. We created a planting box using some spare cladding from another home improvement project. A few screws, three pieces of cladding, and a frame comes together to hold the compost in place. These types of boxes were retailing at nearly £40 in the very famous UK hardware store & that other online place, so it feels good to be able to have made my own.

I’ve also been collecting cardboard. I must admit, collecting cardboard is becoming a bit of an obsession, and I don’t think it will be long before people start dropping it off outside my house, as if I were the local recycling centre.

I am a total no-dig convert. It suits both the rhythm of the land and my own energy levels. No digging, no disruption, just layering, observing, and letting the soil life flourish.

What is No-Dig Gardening?

No-dig gardening is a regenerative growing method that preserves the structure and health of the soil. Instead of turning or digging the soil, you lay compost and organic matter directly on top. This protects the delicate web of fungi, microorganisms, and invertebrates that make soil fertile and alive.

Weeds are suppressed by smothering them (usually with cardboard and compost), while nutrients are drawn downward by the action of worms and water. Over time, this builds a deep, rich soil structure — one that’s naturally aerated, moisture-retentive, and alive. It really is a case of just building the soil layer by layer as you add more compost and more mulch.

In my case. I covered the ground for a week with an old rug. This allowed the grass and weeds to die off a bit. I then levelled the ground a bit so the frame was level. Put down the cardboard which I watered. I then added around 400 litres of compost. That’s a lot, I know, and it’s one of the drawbacks of the method, in that at the beginning, you do need a lot of compost. Over time, however, you can build up the soil, and the requirements for composting reduce. Although I am not going to lie, it is a very compost-intensive method, which means you have to make as much of your own as possible.

If you want to find out more about no-dig for your garden, Charles Dowding is your man. You can also find numerous resources on his website.

And finally, I have planted. I planted the beans and brassicas I mentioned in Day 3: Cannellini, French beans, Mizuna, Mustard, and Pak Choi. They are all tucked into the compost-rich bed and hopefully ready to thrive (and not get eaten by slugs and snails). The patch is also, of course, already productive in its own way. Elder flowers now turned to berries, and lots of fresh comfrey. The wild is most definitely ahead of the cultivated.

A neighbour also mentioned that a local tree surgeon has dropped off a generous pile of mulch near the main allotment gate. I want to return there over the next day or so to take full advantage, and use it as a mulch and perhaps use some of it as a path surface. I will also need to visit more frequently so that I can water the planted area. It’s very hot and humid, and we're getting rain, but that’s another thing with planters; they generally need more water, particularly since I haven’t mulched mine yet.

I am thrilled that the plot is starting to take shape, but where I haven’t covered the ground, the weeds are already staging a comeback, particularly the nettles I thought I’d cleared. Resilient little revolutionaries, they are. So today’s Plant Note feels especially apt...

🌿 Plant Note: Nettle (Urtica dioica)

Nettle is the archetypal wild teacher. Often unwanted, often misunderstood — and yet, undeniably powerful. She stings, yes. But her sting wakes us up. In the old herbal traditions, nettle was used to bring circulation back to numb limbs. Energetically, she does the same for our attention: sharp, awakening, a call to presence.

Mythically, nettle has long been associated with boundaries, protection, and transformation. In Celtic lore, she grows near places where the veil is thin. Her sting guards what is sacred.

Medicinally, nettles are nutrient-dense powerhouses — rich in iron, calcium, silica, magnesium, and vitamin C. A spring tonic, blood purifier, and anti-inflammatory, nettle supports the kidneys, joints, and skin. Infused as tea or added to soups (once boiled or dried to neutralise the sting), she nourishes the body deeply. Even her fibres were once woven into cloth.

And so, while she may be unwelcome on the paths, I’ve learned to greet her with a little more respect than frustration.

I arrive, and the plot feels very small today. Maybe it’s because a lot of it is covered. Or maybe I just have a larger sense of scale of the land than reality.

Today is warm and humid. We’ve had a lot of rain over the past couple of days. It’s our “new normal” of dry periods followed by heavy rain, a clear sign of climate change, caused by the increased humidity being experienced worldwide.

Through the strimmed grass, now much more hay-like, small strawberry plants — survivors from a previous allotment holder — are springing up through the weed matting. A lesson in resilience if ever there was one. The land still holding onto what has been grown before.

I am interested in growing what is right for the land, and that also works with the soil biome. There is a long history of Strawberry growing in Somerset, so I have found my first indigenous plant that I would like to grow on my plot. Both hungry humans and birds love the wonderful wild strawberry. The strawberries I’ve grown in my backyard are netted. Interestingly, the only fabric I had that was suitable was a rainbow-coloured piece of netting, which I think was designed for a fairy outfit. Feels appropriate for a garden in Avalon.

And there’s a quiet satisfaction too: I feel I have made good progress in just three visits. I am now confident that next week I will get a couple of planting boxes sited and begin planting up some beans and greens for the autumn.

Cannellini and French beans are great for eating fresh, but also excel as a dried ingredient for winter soups and stews. You can sow them directly outside in June, giving you a harvest in September. So if you’re looking for something you can put in the ground now, they are a great choice. I will also be planting some brassicas — Kailann, Mizuna, Mustard, and Pak Choi — which can be sown well into August, with harvests continuing into October.

🪱 The Compost Begins

Today’s task was placing the first compost bin. Over the winter, we had a home delivery, and I became the proud owner of a pallet, which I’ve been storing in my garden for just such an occasion. A few screws, a little repurposing, and it has become a simple cold compost heap holder.

What is cold compost?

It’s compost made at nature’s own pace, slow, patient, forgiving. Unlike hot composting, which requires precise balancing, turning, and careful monitoring, cold composting works quietly over several months. Pile on the layers of grass clippings, cuttings, and allow the micro-life to do its invisible work. Fungi, bacteria, worms, and insects gradually transform decay into nourishment.

Composting is more than waste management. It is the garden’s great act of faith: that what breaks down becomes what feeds. Soil is not inert. It is alive — a web of interconnection that sustains life above and below the surface. In tending the compost heap, I am not managing waste; I am preparing for abundance.

🌿 Plant Note: Strawberry (Fragaria × ananassa and Fragaria vesca)

Small but determined, strawberries embody both sweetness and resilience. Even when covered or cut back, they find a way to push through, sending runners and roots wherever they can. Their bright red fruit offers joy and nourishment, while their persistence shows their tenacity. In the language of the land, they remind us that even after disruption, life seeks to grow again.

In Britain, the native wild strawberry (Fragaria vesca) often grows at woodland edges and along pathways. Its fruit is smaller, intensely sweet, and beloved by birds and animals as well as humans. The cultivated garden strawberry (Fragaria × ananassa) descends from hybrid varieties but carries the same enduring energy of delight and renewal, and of course, is also delicious.

Mythic associations:
In many traditions, strawberries are symbols of love, fertility, and abundance. Wild strawberries growing low to the ground have long been seen as gifts offered abundantly by the land.

Medicinal uses:
Strawberries have long been valued for their health benefits. The berries are rich in vitamin C and antioxidants, supporting immunity, heart health, and skin vitality. Traditionally, the leaves (particularly of Fragaria vesca) were used in teas for their mild astringent properties, soothing digestive issues, supporting the urinary system, and acting as a gentle tonic.

I did feel very concerned as I headed out for Day 2. If the brush cutter didn’t work, I was out of ideas. I am new to power tools; I have never even used a petrol mower. The brush cutter arrived in a box, with everything you need, including a toolkit. I headed to the fuel station to get the petrol, and knew it was time to call in some assistance. My husband very kindly spent two hours of his Saturday helping me put it together. I could also sense his nervousness about letting me loose with it. It does feel a bit brutal, but at the same time, I know that if I am to utilise this plot and build a relationship with it, then I must do the necessary work.

So, brush cutter at the ready, I arrived at the allotment. On arriving, I had this real felt sense from this little patch of land that it might, after all, surrender its wildness one careful step at a time. And that it was doing so gladly and welcoming me here. The sun was also out for the first time in many days, which may have also helped both my mood and optimism.

Due to the rain, and this being the first day I've been able to get out and do any work, I've been busy planning my dream space. After totalling up the spend, though, for the time being it might remain a dream, as otherwise I may be eating the most expensive produce on the planet.

Still, as a good permaculturalist, I know a plan is essential, as is understanding the direction of the plot. I discovered that it faces north-west, the direction of the Crone in Avalonian tradition. The crone of Samhain, of endings, wisdom, and the elder mysteries. It feels appropriate to take on this plot in my wise woman years. This little patch may become more than just vegetables. Perhaps it will lend itself to herbs, to medicines, teas and tinctures, to the plants that have always whispered to women who tend the land. Something is fitting about beginning this next cycle of life with plants that heal, soothe, and root me back into place. This place of the Witch, the Wise Woman. Somehow, it all feels exactly right.

I will also be watching the plot over the coming weeks for wind direction and how the light travels across the land. This isn’t about quick planting. It’s about learning and understanding so that I can act with knowledge and good timing.

As I thought, my husband decided to join me. Being independent is a good thing, but I was grateful, and together we tackled the thick growth that my small battery-powered strimmer had only lightly grazed the last time. The brambles fell back. The dead bush that was next to the Elder tree was cleared. And at the end of it all, a 6 metre by 5 metre patch now lies beneath weed suppressant, a small, hard-won island of order.

Along the way, the land continues to reveal itself. Beneath the tangled growth, we found more old pavers waiting to become a path. As if the bones of the allotment were already laid, holding their form beneath the chaos. A reminder that the structure often exists before we know it.

There were helpers, too. My next-door neighbour — an older gentleman originally from Italy - I can’t believe my luck, I will be gardening next door to an Italian Nonno! - all of that knowledge, that I hope he will be willing to share. There was a book I loved reading called “Garden like a Nonno, by Jaclyn Crupi. I now have access to all this incredible wisdom from the elders. As we chatted, I had a peek at what he’s growing, and it looks good. Beans, squash, potatoes, and of course, tomatoes.

And my other neighbour, whom I met on day 1, is already proving himself an angel in disguise, having kindly cleared rubbish from the boundary, saving me a considerable amount of time and effort. Finally, one of the other neighbours walked by and offered to mow the top end of the allotment for me, when he does his. These small kindnesses feel like offerings from the land itself, and I am joining a community which feels very welcoming.

Elsa has fully claimed the space. She moves through it like she already understands what I’m only beginning to learn, and is making herself entirely at home. As this will be the final destination of our evening walks, I am thrilled that she likes it here.

And as we worked, a new idea was born: to build a shed from old doors, inspired by a charmingly ramshackle one further up the site. It’s remarkable how much has shifted in only two visits. What felt overwhelming on Day 1 is already starting to soften. The plot is opening, and I am learning to meet it with patience and good tools. I also took some well-earned time out to sit and enjoy the space.

The vegetables, for the moment, remain a distant dream. But one that is coming into focus.

🌿 Plant Note: Elder (Sambucus nigra)

The Elder tree stands as the guardian of thresholds. In folklore, she is the Elder Mother, associated with protection, magic, and the wise woman’s craft. Her blossoms bring healing teas and sweet cordials, while her dark berries offer medicine for the winter months. Often linked with the Crone, the Elder holds the mysteries of death and renewal, as well as the transitions between endings and beginnings. She reminds us that profound wisdom is gathered slowly, season by season, and that medicine lives not only in the bloom, but in the dark fruit as well.

Elder offers:

• Immune support: Elderberries are rich in antioxidants and traditionally used to support immunity, especially in winter.

• Respiratory relief: Elderflower teas can help ease colds, coughs, and congestion.

• Anti-inflammatory support: Elder’s compounds may gently reduce inflammation and soothe aches.

Always harvest and prepare with care, as certain parts of the elder (such as leaves, bark, and unripe berries) are toxic if consumed improperly.

Today was my first real day on the allotment. I arrived with a heart full of good intentions and an image in my mind of sacred connection. The land, however, had other ideas.

Today was largely spent getting acquainted with my new companion: the battery-powered strimmer. We have, after just one day, developed a somewhat complicated relationship. I lost count after the sixth battery change. Every time I felt I was making progress, it would sigh, give up, and blink its little red light at me. I can only assume it was as exhausted as I was.

The brambles and grasses have clearly been running the show for quite some time and did not appreciate my attempts to interrupt their reign. I suspect they’re regrouping even as I write this.

In between wrestling brambles and recharging, a few of my fellow allotmenteers passed by with the friendly but faintly amusing advice that only seasoned veterans can offer. One cheerfully informed me, “That looks like hard work, love.” Another suggested that I really ought to have got the council to clear it for me before I took it on. I smiled, thanked them, and kept on wrestling with the undergrowth—initiation by bramble.

On a brighter note, I did meet my immediate neighbour, who was kind and encouraging. After learning that he had only had his allotment for fifteen days and was already planting, I felt much more encouraged. He has also inherited a greenhouse and a shed!

And the land offered a few small gifts, as if to say, keep going. A beautiful patch of comfrey revealed itself. I have been after some comfrey for the garden for ages, and I had a vague thought that if I gave up now, I could dig up some Comfrey, and put my £30 annual fee down to experience and a comfrey plant. And standing quietly at the edge, the Elder tree is magnificent. Full of presence, as if it’s seen many allotment holders come and go and is quietly assessing whether I have what it takes. I’m not sure I impressed it much today.

Of course, in the spirit of sacred practice, I tried to pause occasionally to listen, to honour the earth, to tread with care. Almost immediately, a stinging nettle bit me. I’m not sure what message the land was offering with that, but I’ve taken note.

By late afternoon, it was clear that my strimmer was no match for what lies ahead. Luckily, there wasn’t too much hiding under the grass. Some weed suppressing mat, the irony, some wood and a couple of pavers. Based on some of the horror stories I’ve heard, part of me thinks I’ve got off lightly.

By the end of the day, I had cleared a respectable patch, uncovered a few muscles I’d forgotten I had, and written "brush cutter" firmly at the top of the shopping list. The vision of planting vegetables still seems a distant prospect. Right now, it's a matter of turning up, learning the rhythm of the land, and accepting that sometimes the sacred looks very much like hard work.

Tomorrow, no doubt, I will ache. But for today, I’ve begun.

🌿 A note on Comfrey (Symphytum officinale)
Comfrey has long been known as a healer of both soil and skin. Comfrey tea makes an excellent fertiliser. Its deep roots draw nutrients up from the subsoil, enriching composts and feeding the garden as a natural fertiliser. Traditionally called "knitbone," comfrey has also been used to support bone and tissue healing. Here on the allotment, it feels like a quiet ally, restoring what has been depleted and offering its deep medicine to both land and hand.

• Soil healer; dynamic accumulator; feeds compost and soil.

• Traditional herbal medicine for bones, bruises, tissue repair.

• Message: Restoration. Drawing strength from depth.