First view of Plot 49

I received the call at dusk on a wet evening in early Spring.
"You're top of the list. If you're still interested?"
The question caught me off guard, like a surprise smile or a wave from some distant, only-dreamed-of lover.

"Yes, I'm still interested. Thanks."

We met at the entrance the following day, Peter with his paper folder and solitary key. Once through the scraping gates, with their timeless chain and fist-sized padlock, the site opened before me; a prospectors field, pin-pricked by shacks, distant scarecrows and medal ribbons of thick black plastic. Wind tripped through ragged flags and leaning canes as we made our way along the grassy path towards plot 49.

Upon arrival, it feels unbelievably special. A strange calm is offered by the boundaries. The neon dogs of the neighbouring stadium, frozen mid race, watch from the wings, whilst a steady thrum from the towering electricity pylon seems to blanket all in quiet industry. There is growth and renewal here, sleeping vines and rising sap.

Best of all, there are bones and shape to the plot, ten rods of thought and moments of love visible through the grass, a strawberry patch partially hidden, rhubarb crowns unfurling in a discernible row, ancient gooseberries and raspberry canes become one with a step-over tumble-down fence. At the end of the row a wind-blown plum tree, already braving it's first buds of blossom, beds down with wild brambles and a godsend of a water tank.

There is but one bright splash of colour on the plot that day, a vivid turquoise green that suggests Cuban taxis or cheap motels but belongs instead to the shed door. It's padlocked, though the door lists to one side, like a drunkard’s tie, to reveal the glimpse of a bench and a tool space at the rear. It's shelter brings promises of tea and string, jam jars of assorted tacks and nails and a home for my rusting hammer.

I thank Peter and sign the lease. The key is mine now and for the cost of one pound a week I have tenancy of plot 49 and all it reveals.