One potato, two potato, three potato, four …

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And here they are – the very first potatoes we’ve ever planted ourselves. It’s delightful to see them and also a considerable relief, because I thought that there wouldn’t be anything there when we dug the plants up. That’s not only because in times of trial I tend to fear the worst (Chicken Little is my alter ego); it’s also because the plants started off well, but then something ate the leaves to shreds in a sort of broderie anglais pattern. And although the books said that didn’t matter, you have to wonder – how could it not matter? And then all the plants died back without having flowered and I worried all over again; I didn’t even want to dig up one of them last weekend and learn what had happened, because I’d be miserable when I discovered disaster.

And there wasn’t a disaster after all! We’ve only dug up one plant so far but look! Three lovely ones, plus two tinies we’ve put on the compost heap and another big one that the slugs got to before we did.

Potato salad, here we come.

Five potato, six potato, seven potato more …

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