Time to read 3 minutes
I grew up in a suburb of West London. In a three bed terraced house with a large garden. I remember it had a metre-wide border that flanked the length of it to the left and an expansive low fenced area to the right.
Within these diligently tilled cordons, my father grew all manner of vegetables for the family.
Growing up, my brothers and I were left with a slither of land in the middle of the garden that was divided into a narrow crazy-paved path leading from the house to my dad’s wooden ramshackle shed that stood unassuming at the bottom of the garden.
Alongside the path ran a landing strip of lawn where I sat and played with dolls, or worms, on alternate days.
Though most of the garden was designated father’s allotment, as children, we made do with what we had. The youngest of 5, I was frequently regaled with reports of rabbit keeping in the garden in the years before I was born.
Still, I had ample space to ride my bicycle, the washing line tether that stood in front of the shed made a perfectly adequate roundabout on my cycle routes or an obstacle to run rings around for no apparent reason.
It was a childhood spent in the garden. I am thankful for these times. Curiously, I do not remember explicitly helping my father in the garden as he planted or weeded.
Nor did I especially take an interest in the process of vegetable growing prior to them being introduced to me on my plate.
Fruits on the other hand were another matter. I remember as a very young child I loved to pick the small, hard and tart apples that grew on the skinny tree and blackberries that grew on a trellis between our house and a neighbour’s.
When I was about ten, we also inexplicably found a trail of strawberries growing under a garden fence which I subsequently took ownership of.
I would also have the odd garden chore. My mother, whose domain was primarily the kitchen, would frequently instruct me to pick fresh onions and garlic bulbs from where they hung in bunches, from a nail inside of the door frame in the shed.
I would also have to chuck the organic peelings in the compost heap in the corner of the garden.
These memories live in pockets in my mind. I played, often alone, in the garden and carried out rushed chores, while my father always quietly tending to something or other in his vegetable patches, inspired my love of growing fruit and vegetables in my own garden, nourishing my own family in the same way his duty, love and knowledge of the garden did for me.
All Homesteading 
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