One of the privileges of growing vegetables as a full time occupation is maintaining a connection with the changing seasons. This is at odds with the average modern homo sapien, who might easily move from car to office and back home again (maybe visiting a gym or shopping centre en route) without seeing much sky, let alone wild life or wild spaces. 

To be honest, sometimes this connection can feel more brutal than beneficial.
When you’re in the freezing cold all day, all week, rather than just during a bracing walk before cosying up by the fire, or when the sun is relentlessly beating down on you as you embark on a Sisyphean hoeing mission, rather than recline on the beach, there’s definitely the temptation to wish you were indoors with the radiator cranked up or a fan purring away, sipping either a hot chocolate or a tall glass of homemade lemonade, safe from biting insects, stinging nettles and the like. 

No, we’re not about to romanticise chilblains, heatstroke or any other ailment that comes from braving the elements or doing such a physically (and often emotionally!) demanding job. Actually, the topic of how environmentally sustainable growing practices can be sustainable on a human level is one to delve into another time…

However, without a doubt, consistently witnessing what’s going on in natureis a gift. In fact, as a species we seem to finally be realising that attempting to artificially separate ourselves from inevitable biological cycles and avoid all discomfort isn’t in our best interests, or even possible long term. Whether we’re talking about sea swimming, seasonal eating or simply acknowledging that productivity cannot be maintained at the same level and eternal, linear progress is a detrimental idea, it’s becoming more common to look to the wisdom of autumn, winter, summer and spring and apply it to our lives. From scientific to ‘wellness’ perspectives, we are again taking cues from the perfectly functioning, fluctuating systems we’re a part of, which obviously is much easier if you’re witnessing them first hand, rather than being starved of a relationship with the wider environment. It turns out, fossil fuels and over fished oceans are exhaustible. It turns out it’s healthy to have periods of dormancy to balance extroverted activity where our plans come to fruition. Truly, nothing does bloom forever (or there would be no seeds!) and as our compost heap testifies, decay and death are necessary to begin all over again. 

When it comes to spring, this connection to the seasons is especially significant.
We observe plants’ gradual emergence from hibernation like an advent calendar where instead of stale squares of plastic encased chocolate we are given the treat of glimpsing another leaf we haven’t seen since last year. (There are always more names to learn, from cuckoo-flower or Lady’s smock to once-and-for-all differentiating between hogweed and cow’s parsley). In a city where herbicides are sprayed on the pavements and there’s more concrete than hedgerow, the only overt evidence of winter’s dwindling grip might be the clocks changing or a sudden profusion of peach blossom at the bus stop. In contrast, at Barcombe, as soon as March arrives there is a lot to pay attention to. From catkins dispersing clouds of pollen to the cacophonous ruckus of the dawn chorus, each of these signs reassures us that spring is coming, but its eventual arrival, once last frosts are past, never ceases to feel miraculous. Mentioning things like the carpet of bluebells may be a bit cliched, but they never fail to melt away the memory of punishingly dark and chilly mornings surveying defeated looking crops. Indeed, even though spring has happened every single year we’ve been alive so far, and every single year anyone we’ve ever spoken to has been alive, and, as far as we know, every single year… ever, at points we admit doubting this one would ever arrive, that vegetation would ever recover, that temperatures would ever allow germination or persuade us to put away our thermal layers. It seemed like a long old winter, so being there to witness the first unfurling, to make the most of every additional daylit-minute is not something we take for granted. 

Rising sap and rising light levels do also trigger a rise in anxiety, as it feels like the accelerator pedal is being pressed down, and pressed down hard, so prioritising what to do first is nigh on impossible. Getting things off to a good start feels like a lot of pressure and reflecting on this spring specifically, after two dry ones, it’s been soggy. The British growing season has been delayed as tractor-drivers wait for the ground to be anywhere near suitable for planting: if you try and use machinery too soon after heavy rain it will be a messy struggle and you risk damaging precious soil structure. You may also have read about energy prices preventing heated glasshouses operations from running, and about prolonged drought and extreme heat in Spain (which, experts say without climate change would only have happened once in 40,000 years). 

All in all, it’s increasingly clear from supermarket shortages and ignorant commentary, that our food system urgently needs reform and that following Brexit and the pandemic this island must become more self-sufficient. It’s also evident that public education regarding where the ingredients we eat actually come from, and what’s involved, needs to improve and that this isn’t aided by misinformed media or misleading product packaging. We don’t think the blame or onus for change should be on individuals alone, but knowing how to contribute to tackling all this on a systemic level can feel overwhelming. We reckon we can only keep doing our best, playing our part, resolving to stay positive and not get dejected. 

Thankfully, we did manage to get our celeriac planted outside, but we’ve still been grateful to have so much space under cover, where there’s plenty to get on with to distract ourselves from other seedlings destined for the fields but currently languishing on hardening-off benches. Amazingly, we’ve now passed two big milestones in our calendar; getting our tomatoes, aubergines and peppers safely ensconced in the polytunnels and glasshouses, and sowing thousands of squash! This week we’ve been ‘broad forking’ beds, a rather cardiovascular way of aerating soil, using, well, very broad forks! It certainly makes us see why people embraced the industrial revolution so enthusiastically.

We’ve also been investing in Barcombe veg boxes to come, planting more flat-peach trees and asparagus crowns (in reality they look more like octopuses than anything members of the royal family would wear on their heads). We won’t harvest from them for some time, but we hope we’ll be sharing their bounty before too long. It’ll take serious self-control to pluck off the first tiny peaches before they swell, and to let tender, emerging asparagus spears turn into woody, energy-generating foliage, but patience will surely be rewarded and we want to encourage the plants to establish robust roots -fingers crossed- resulting in future gluts! 

Still looking ahead, but this time just around the corner to those long summer evenings (and potential summer storms!) in store, we’ve been building a new shelter over our wood-fired oven (and dreaming of pizza parties) and finally, Dan, the newest addition to our team, is about to start his apprenticeship at Plumpton. We are thrilled the college is now running a course on organic farming led by Nir Halfon, previously garden manager at Old Plawhatch farm, and are sure Dan will be gleaning lots of knowledge to apply here. We’re always learning!