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| The self-sufficiency movement blossomed during the second world war, above, but continues to attract followers in both rural and city locations (pictured below right) |
As I stand in our vegetable garden, trying to decide whether to pick french beans, peas, courgettes, lettuce, beetroot or artichokes, I reflect on the fact that now, more than ever, people are keen to grow their own food. With queues for allotments lengthening and the UK Garden Industry Monitor reporting an increase in sales of seeds and edible plants of 31 per cent over the past five years, the desire for self-sufficiency has surfaced again.
The recession, of course, is largely responsible but there is also an increasing desire to bypass supermarkets. And when you add to this the deeply human, almost spiritual, satisfaction of providing food for the family, you can see why people are hooked.
This is not just a fad, as illustrated by The Good Life: 100 Years of Growing Your Own, an exhibition that opened this week at the Museum of Garden History in London. On display are personal accounts, paintings, photographs and artefacts.
Allotments have long been essential to many people wanting to grow food. The UK’s Smallholdings and Allotments Act of 1908 did much to initiate the “grow your own” movement by giving the poor the opportunity to taste their own freshly harvested produce for the first time since the enclosure of common land in the 18th century. Even more importantly, it brought fruit- and vegetable-growing within the reach of city dwellers. As is movingly illustrated in the exhibition, the 80 plots of Manor Garden Allotments near the River Lea, served east Londoners from 1924 until their closure recently to make way for the Olympic Park. Understandably, feelings ran high over this decision and sheds were burnt in protest.
During both world wars governments encouraged the public to grow as much of their own food as possible. During the second world war, not only were citizens encouraged to “Dig for Victory” but to keep chickens and rabbits for meat. I remember my mother running across the road to ask a less squeamish neighbour to come and dispatch the chicken destined for a celebratory meal.
The very British tradition of the village show began in the 18th century at a time when many horticultural societies were founded. It continued through the Victorian period, when most of the entries came from the head gardeners of great estates. Gradually, as society became more democratic, villagers joined in, which led to the competitive produce shows that are still popular today. We are reminded by the brochure of the National Pot Leek Society that a pot leek is “a short thick leek of which the white part of the stem must be less than 15cm” but the circumference should be as large as possible. Such shows resound with words such as “colossal” and “mammoth” – it is an odd phenomenon indeed that vegetables are judged mainly on size rather than taste.
John Seymour would not have approved of this criterion. He wrote a series of books in the 1970s that helped spur on the self-sufficiency movement. At a time when many people were becoming disillusioned with the “rat race” and dreaming of a simpler, more productive lifestyle, Seymour’s The Fat of the Land was an inspiring story of how he had achieved this dream himself while the Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency was, and still is, a bible for those hoping to achieve the same.
Inspired by Seymour, couples did such unlikely things as give up their city jobs to keep pigs. Widely seen as a middle-class fad, the trend became an ideal vehicle for comedy, as depicted in the popular 1970s BBC television series The Good Life, in which delightful but naive Tom and Barbara turn their suburban garden into a smallholding. Their activities are initially viewed with horror but ultimately with some admiration by their posh neighbours, Jerry and Margot.
The smallholders whose lives are documented in this exhibition – if they even had a television – were probably too tired to watch the show themselves. The Bullock Family, who had led a prosperous life in England’s West Midlands before decamping to Wales, set up their smallholding in 1978. A handful of photographs of the family, their farm, stables, poultry and vegetables are displayed. There are not more images, according to Marjorie Bullock, because they could rarely afford the film. Nevertheless, they kept the smallholding for 26 years.
Here, I must declare an interest. In 1971, my husband Dennis and I with our two, soon to be three, young children established our smallholding, The Five Acre Farm (diaries, photos and knitwear made from our sheep’s wool are featured in the exhibition). In many ways we did fit the typical middle-class image but we did not see ourselves as blindly following a trend – it was more that we were doing what country people had always done.
And we are still doing it today. I believe that one of the reasons for our survival was good planning. We knew we would need a cash income and so ran a boarding kennels. We already bred Irish Wolfhounds and were lucky enough to find a run-down kennels with five acres of land.
With John Seymour’s tome in hand we moved in and began clearing the land and repairing the kennels. At the outset we had one lone boarder, a boxer called Rufus, but by a stroke of luck we were approached by the local police to board “lost” dogs, which gave us a small but regular income.
We bought hens, ducks, geese, Jacob sheep and a cow, which we milked and then churned the milk for butter. We had two pigs and smoked our own bacon. We kept bees, spun wool, wove cloth, made apple wine (lethally potent and popular with neighbouring farmers) and brewed beer.
Now, almost 40 years later, I am happy to say one of our sons has chosen this way of life and runs Five Acre Farm.
For, as this exhibition illustrates, there is and always will be, a continuing desire to grow your own produce. It might peak at times of economic downturn but it is an underlying part of the human condition. The tradition continues today; London’s city farms are ever popular; the Slow Food movement promotes sustainable agriculture and local produce; the organic movement is flourishing and the UK’s Transition Towns are raising awareness about sustainable living. And now even the Queen and Michelle Obama have vegetable gardens.
‘The Good Life: 100 Years of Growing Your Own’, until March 7 2010, Museum of Garden History, London SE1; tel: +44 (0)20-7401 8865; www.museumgardenhistory.org
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Garden gear: Leaf gatherers
The modern fashion for leaf blowers has always puzzled me. Instead of the peaceful rhythm of a garden rake, leafblowers fill gardens with the blistering roar and stench of a two-stroke engine or the irritating whine of an electric one. Why? The cheapest electric blower costs about £50 while swanky petrol-driven ones can cost up to £400. The smartest rakes cost about £25 and can last a lifetime – without maintenance, writes Jane Owen.
Rakes also have the advantage when it comes to damp leaves. They soldier on whether leaves are damp, wet or dry, whereas leaf blowers are really only effective on dry leaves. Which, in the case of the UK, cuts leaf-blowing days down to a handful a year.
Anyone who argues that leaf blowers cover a larger area faster than a rake should try wielding one for more than half an hour. Even with the correct harness, they are not easy on the back.
However, one gardener friend tells me that the harness, goggles, straps and belts that come with most blowers bring an erotic frisson to an otherwise dull activity. Each to his own.
Anyone interested in leaf clearing alone should try the following for large areas. Forget the blower and rev up the lawnmower. Set the mower blades to their highest position and “mow” the leaf-covered lawn. The whirling blades gather and chop the leaves, thus compressing their volume and speeding the composting process.
Smaller areas need a leaf rake. These have tines arranged in a wide curve rather than a line. Avoid the plastic or fibreglass ones. They bend over conkers and even leaves – and the tines crack after a few years. Stainless steel-pronged leaf rakes from brand leaders such as Fiskars and Spear & Jackson cost £25-£30 and make the job easy. And this gives time to find erotic thrills elsewhere.
