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Where the wild things are
Actually there werent that many wild things, unless you count Jean, for this was a tour of the Dingle Vale allotments.

We walked past the newly renamed Starr Fields yes, a playing field named after Ringo. Some took exception to this on the grounds that Ringo has deserted the City. But then we realised that none of those present was in the city of their birth. We had all come to Liverpool for different reasons at different times, and for different reasons decided to stay. Now we are advocates for our places of birth as well as our city of choice.

Just as many London residents question the wisdom of tearing up football grounds to make car parks for the Olympics, we wonder if this year of Culture includes Horticulture let alone Agriculture.

We met Malcolm, who has been in charge of the allotments for twenty five years. His container shed is warm and welcoming and reminiscent of a 70s living room.

The site used to run right down to the river and once upon a time there was a golf course allotments were clearly for the middle classes in those days. When the Garden Festival came, things changed, but there was no direct access for the people living just over the fence from the Festival site. No riff-raff thank you! Then they built posh houses where the landfill had been. At least we still have a bit of a wildflower meadow down near the river but thats a different picnic.

If you fancy taking a plot, forget it. The waiting list is capped at 50 and there is a four-year wait to join. Yet some tenants do not take care of their plots. There the wild things are! The land is rented by the Society from the Council, who own it therefore it takes a Dickensian length of time to get rid of anybody. Good protection for good tenants, and proper processes, but infuriating that bad ones cannot be ousted to make room for people on the waiting list.

We saw the Big Issue garden which has a wind turbine enough to charge a few mobile phones and boil a kettle. The latter much needed on a day like that Saturday, perfect for a winter walk, blue blue sky and little wind, but chilly on the fingertips. The various tubs, butts and baths had solid ice on them even at midday.

We walked down little streets of sheds where two rows of plots meet, saw a Rastafarians herb garden, a garden full of Brussels sprouts far too numerous for its family of four to consume, a cosy greenhouse with a sofa, three allotment cats, a specialist fruit grower, weird cabbages growing from the bloated remains of last years crop, neat little lawns, sheds as small as cupboards, a whole family digging over some raised beds, another family just starting work on their plot, a tree with railings growing through it, tidy gardens, terraced gardens, vegetables, flowers, wishful thinking, abandoned ambitions. Allotments are a lesson in recycling and prove that some people dont need a blue bin or a war to make them reuse every last thing. Oh, and I forgot the greenhouse made out of old chairs and bubble wrap and the discarded piece of public art from the Liverpool Biennial in the school bin yard.

There was soup and quiche for all which we had outside sitting on benches rescued from the Royal Daffodil, very comfortable, very warming. Tomkes pastry is the best you have ever tasted.

And the Pool? Well, springs run under the land out to the river

Our conclusion? There arent enough places for people to grow things. David Charters wrote an article about Jean and her work in the Daily Post. He said we need dreamers to help the cause. We disagree we need planters and growers and distributors and customers. Dreamers need not apply.

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