I went to the Edible Garden Show last Friday.
I was going to tell you all about it. On, say, about Saturday.
Then Sunday came along and it was lovely and sunny outside and my first earlies were just itching to get in the ground and… well….
So it turned into Monday. And there was a big deadline going on and panicky emails flying.
And then Tuesday came around and…. well, you get the picture.
So I meant to write a much better, more pertinent, more insightful post; one which highlighted a few of the rather gorgeous things at the show, like Joy Michaud’s covetable dark purple leaved chilli seedlings (new variety: ‘Fairy Lights’ – one of which is now snuggled down in a 10cm pot in my greenhouse) and the funky (but possibly rather impractical) water butt on show at the Urban Allotment stand.
I meant to give some pithy comments about how the show had a bit of growing into itself to do: the venue was small and a little on the gloomy side (taking pictures was an interesting exercise in holding the camera still long enough for the agonisingly slow shutter speed to go through its paces).
And it tried to be all things to all (wo)men: cookery shows jostled shoulders with James Wong and his Incredible Edibles, just a short stone’s throw from a tiny marquee full of snuffly pigs, impossibly fluffy chickens and slightly smelly goats (are there any other kind?). And for me there wasn’t enough of anything.
I meant to express the hope that next year, they’ll do the same thing again, but this time they won’t dramatically underestimate the level of interest: when I arrived, ten minutes before the show even opened, the carpark was already packed and there was a queue out of the door. So much for the GYO movement peaking. Next year I’m hoping to see a venue triple the size (and preferably at least partly outside in deference to people taking photographs).
Instead you will have to read the eminent Emma Cooper, who was also there and got her act together far better than me, as well as bagging the most adorable piggy photo ever (although I think her other half may have had something to do with that).
And if you didn’t make it to Stoneleigh Park yourself, you can be transported right there, courtesy of the National Farmers’ Union, with a little film which I shall now shamelessly borrow.
But although it’s a week out of date, and like too-old cheeses the joke is a little stale, I couldn’t resist sharing this: it tickled me pink (though I am easily tickled).