Seedy Saturday on February 17th in Northampton
from 10am – 4pm at Castle Hill United Reform Church, Doddridge Street, Northampton NN1 2RN. Entrance fee £1
Dates for your Diary – our 100th AGM
2018 AGM is on a Wednesday!
A real break with tradition – (the Corn Market Hall was not available on our usual Tuesday)
This is our 100th AGM! – on
Wednesday 14th March at 7:45pm at Corn Market Hall
More details on our website – link below
Bagged Alpaca Manure for Sale
Bags of alpaca manure, commonly referred to as ‘Black Gold’ for sale.
Alpaca manure is said to be one of the richest organic manures available, with high levels of nitrogen and potassium. It does not need to be composted before using and can be placed directly on or around even the most delicate plants.
Bags weigh approximately 12lb and I charge £1 per bag, collection is from Broughton. To arrange purchase, contact Rachel either via email or on 07590 610056. email address
Other manure available – see website
For other suppliers of manure, see our website page
To dig or not to dig, that is the question
“To dig or not to dig, that is the question. Whether it is nobler for the veg for soil to suffer the outrageous fortune of spades and forks, or to take up mulching against a sea of weeds and by smothering end them?”
No doubt if Hamlet had an allotment he would be pondering this dilemma. Several of our members have reported interest in the “no-dig” gardening methods as extolled by Charles Dowding. There is a lot of information on his website
The evidence is strong that “no-dig” give better crops, is better for the soil and easier than digging or rotovating. The TV programme Beechgrove Garden also did a trial last year and found the vegetables in the “no-dig” plot were bigger than the dug plot.
See page 7 of the factsheet (link below)
So perhaps it is a case of “mulchers of Kettering unite, you have nothing to lose except your spades”
But let’s leave the final words to the poet Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.