For weeks now, fe sacks of spuds have been looking at me. Urging me to plant them. With Easter later than expected, I’ve verb counting down towards an appropriate dry window. I may have also overestimated how many spuds I might want to sink given the space that I have.
Finding The Artist in Residence-remember him, he sunk bulbs last year-saw to making a start in this task. There are quite a few varieties of potatoes. Today, we sunk red duke of York and lady Balfour. All very old money aristocratic on the plot. I forget now when these will come up.
As you can see, The Artist in residence has a fabulous technique of digging potato trenches. Armed with the magic spade-to me it’s magic, to him “a spades a spade.” Yes he said that- trenches were dug and spuds dropped. The Artist In Residence all too amused by then ‘tentacles’ and very discerning in sinking those spuds he thought were decent. They were all going to go in, regardless.
There had been an ambitious plan to get potatoes planted. Didn’t get as far as kestrel, international kidney; with Maris piper and king Edwards waiting in the wings. We were thwarted by rain drops falling, a bit of wind and thunder in the distance. I had just started to dig a trench for another bag of spuds, and the last one for lady balfours was hurriedly covered over. We’ve established that I can’t really make mounds properly. And if it keeps raining, low chance of spuds. Really don’t know where I am going to put the rest. One part of the plot was still too sticky and had yet to be turned over on preparation.
But a start nonetheless.>