Sunshine and sunflowers

Sunday afternoon. The sun steps out from the shadow in all it glory, finally flooding the plot with life-giving light and heat. You can almost hear the slow sigh of relief (ours and the plants). Our first sunflower bobs about happily. We have limited ourselves to two self-seeded giants this year, in part because it is the only height we have apart from a scantily dressed wigwam. And even there, our few surviving beans are starting to snake up the poles. The new rills of salad leaves, beetroot and radish are showing signs of promise, and we even nurture hope for a late carrot crop (but then the sun always unleashes my inner optimist). The rest of the allotment site is oddly empty, something I am often bewildered by – and often grateful for. While Howard joins Mary in excitedly exercising her new loppers, I set about netting the chard in a bid to save it from pigeons. We've never had to do this in summer before, but then this year is full of firsts. We make hoops out of hazel and thin plastic pipe, cover a couple rows of chard and rocket and hope for the best. Maybe the sun will stay, the slugs and snails recede. Maybe the pigeons will forage from a wider selection of food. Maybe we will again learn to to be grateful for whatever grows. We crop the first crimson-flowered broad beans (small pods but beautifully flavoured) for Sunday supper and head home contented. It seems we may dare hope for this year yet.