My first vegetable plot at Drovers was a front garden no bigger than a car park space. It was tucked between a homemade brick path that went to our front door, in a motion that can only be described as seasick, and a patio. The patio barely fitted the garden bench that my wife, Carol and I bought from a store in town and carted back on the bus to the amusement of everyone there.
Drovers was our first home and our introduction to the peer pressures that come with owning a piece of land that can be seen by others. Though we loved sitting on that bench behind our new picket fence, anyone and everyone who passed also loved stopping, leaning on our new fence, and gossiping withyour knees planting herbs and feel a dog panting in your ear, and the owner of the dog tells you, ‘Ooh, you don’t want to plant rosemary there,’ cue dog, cue cocked leg, cue reason why you don’t want to put rosemary there, your patience wears thin.
