Shed Heaven
Eileen Haste
A story of an allotment garden. The site is in St Werburghs, and, with a city farm and an eco-build community and without a through-road, this is a real oasis away from the bustle of the city.
For information allotments in Bristol, go to the City Council web site (www.bristol-city.gov.uk) and search the site for “allotments”.
Transcript
It’s four years ago since I moved to Bristol. Before that I lived in Cardiff and would often make the journey through to Exeter.
It’s a funny thing but on that journey there was on valley in Bristol that would wave out to me through the window like a moon emerging from between some clouds for a second before disappearing again. It’s a place I stumbled in to once I did move to Bristol and recognised without realising why, until spotting the passing Pendolinos much later.
It’s a valley near a motorway and through a tunnel. It’s an oasis, and it’s where my allotment is.
It took a while, but the then secretary offered me a plot at the top of the hill. It would be very hard work up that hill, and the soil would be drained dry to concrete, and I would probably not really be able to do it but I could have a look anyway.
And then I was there at the top of the hill, the valley below with the sheep baah-ing, the ducks gaggling and copper roves glinting, and Bristol stretched out to the horizon.
On the plot there were two plum trees hammock distance apart and a shed with a view. It was official – I was in heaven. I quickly set to covering the land in rotting carpets.
Now that eighth of an acre of Bristol has a history for me: I’ve shared camp fires and charred potatoes, fireworks and toffee apples, big red moons, breeze-brushed rocks in the hammock, and mugs of tea in the shed.
It’s where, once my hands are in the soil, I’m reminded of what it’s all about. It’s where I can get to know every plant, and look forward to visiting them in the drawn-out summer evenings, and where I find solitude, with the rain on the corrugated roof while the rest of the world hums on.
I shudder to think now, that the future of the shed was once threatened: A trench was to be dug across nine of the plots for a new sewer to be laid. The shed was in direct line of the trench. The architect assured me that he would replace the tumble-down shed with a nice new one. Appalled at the idea of a new shed, I pleaded for it to be saved. I’m sure the rats are as grateful as I am that the trench was indeed dug around the shed.
The shed is, after all, heaven headquarters. It administers seeds, tools, shelter and mulled wine. Its worn surfaces and innovative architectural features tell the stories of gardeners past. It’s telling my story, and will tell those of gardeners yet to arrive.
Whenever I’m on a Pendolino passing that valley, I look out for the shed at the top of the hill and think of my fellow passengers, blissfully ignorant of the astounding fact that we are actually passing the top of the world.
