The land of the Giant Vegetables

This tale of rot and hume begins in a pilgrimage to a small isolated community in Northern Scotland. I'd read about it in a cookbook and was astonished not so much by the recipes but by photos of a group of gardeners and their

. . . . . . . . . . giant vegetables.

The secret to such gardening loadstone success apparently was they talked to the “divas” or nature spirits of the plants. I was intrigued and decided I'd go and check it out.

Sandwiched between a small fishing village and an RAF air base, the walk to Findhorn is a mighty long one if you are hitching. Not to mention the inquisition from the (friendly) air base personal who are your most likely source of a lift along the road. “What are you doing here?” “I'm going to Findhorn – to see the the giant vegetables”. A laugh, a look of paternalistic concern over my apparent mental state and I was saved the long walk. As we drove past their place, I noticed the RAF obviously weren't going to be show stoppers in the gardening shows that year. Beyond the erection of some large metal mesh fences to prop up some struggling grasses at the road side they appeared to have put little effort into supporting local vegetation. I suspected even the straggly grasses were about to get a regulation chop. And as we drove along the road I was surprised at just how much sand there was! Well (obviously the RAF gentleman was correct about my cognitive abilities) what had I expected? Findhorn is located on a sand spit which is miles long.

With another friendly laugh from my driver, I was deposited at the driveway entrance . Here I was at last. I was really going to meet the people who coaxed green life from nothing. I was greeted and welcomed by a youngish American chap (mild surprise – I obviously had some unconscious expectation of a Northern brogue) and asked to sign into a book in the temple (a temple in Scotland? Where was I ?). After travelling more than half way around the world on a whim (no – he hadn't heard of New Zealand, and politely listened to my explanation of the Dunedin connection), I could stand it no longer. “Can you take me to your gardens ?”, I asked politely,” I want to see the giant vegetables.” The young man looked at me, with the same apparent concern as the RAF gentleman, and said, “We don't go in for that 'kind of thing' anymore. Those people have gone to Eigg”. Well I was buggered if I was going to sit around staring at my navel doing transactional psychoanalysis all day. I left and walked back to the mainland.

It's a bloody sight harder to hitch to Eigg and in fact I ended up in Edinburgh in time for the Arts Festival and scored a spot in the Fringe Art Market, so it wasn't a completely wasted journey.

Eventually I did get to learn a few tricks about growing vegetables in sandy (soil) and I only had to travel a short way along the road from where I live to learn them.

To be continued