Gardener's gold

The pong of manure is all around, hovering over the fields as the farmers rush to spread it before the grass begins to grow in earnest, relays of tractors loading up from the large, dark pile that has slowly grown and matured since last year. And every self respecting garden around has its own heap of crumbly, chocolate coloured, rich farmyard manure, gardeners gold! That is, all except mine.  I have been looking with longing at these heaps for the last two summers and making do with the small, green plastic compost bin that was handed out by the town council which is working well enough, but really can’t compare.

So I pluck up courage and approach the farmer in his tractor cab, unfiltered cigarette hanging from his lips, he shakes my hand and says ‘bien sur’, I can help myself, there is both fresh and old, ‘old is what I would like’ I say. ‘No problem.’  I rush back, really pleased with myself, ‘we can take the trailer down and help ourselves’ I say, but surprisingly, this does not meet with much immediate enthusiasm.

Several days later, with an extra pair of hands on board we hitch up the trailer, load both wheelbarrows and assorted forks, and bounce down the lane towards the rapidly diminishing pile. Just in time I think. The farmhand grins at us as he swings the scoop of his digger in and out.

‘We're in luck’ says Robert, ‘ask him to dump a load in the trailer, save us all that hard work.’

So I do, and the digger advances towards the trailer and tips a very large load of still steaming, fresh from yesterday, manure into the back. This isn’t what I wanted!

Once again I am resigned to envious glances at my neighbours’ rich soil, while our very pongy heap in the corner of the garden slowly, slowly turns into that crumbly magic.