Asparagus

The hoar frost hangs in the trees, bright against the dull grey cloud of a winter sky. But, for the first time in ten days, the ground frost has lifted. My asparagus crowns arrived unexpectedly on Christmas Eve, fleshy-rooted with sturdy growing tips, needing to be planted as soon as possible. They are the finest I have ever received in twenty years of professional gardening. I managed half of them on 28 December and have been waiting impatiently ever since to finish the job. As I wasn’t expecting the crowns so soon, some of my ground was unprepared. The weeds which germinate even in cold temperatures had germinated and were growing, albeit slowly, in my future asparagus bed. The soil had not been workable since mid-September due to the heavy rain. I believed it would be workable now.

And so it was. Perfectly so. It is a clay loam with a high percentage of organic matter, dark and rich. It inclines to wetness, but only because it is on a plain below a hill. As I pressed the spade into the soil I felt and I heard the solid mineral element of it against the blade – the sand and the grit. It yielded easily and fell from the spade cleanly. It could not be more perfect.

I dug my trench and raised a ridge down the centre of it. I placed the growing points of the plants on the peak of the ridge, and spread the roots down each side, one per foot or three per metre: imperial and metric are human constructs which mean nothing in the vegetable world. I cover the fleshy tips by crumbling the soil through my hands above them, then a little more to anchor the roots. I return the rest of the soil with a rake, and it mounds over the trench. In future years, this will be the locus of the organic matter, which will enlarge the mound year on year.

As ever, I’m thinking about time. The time these plants have been growing in Italy before they were lifted and posted to me. The short interlude I have had to plant them, before all the accumulated strength of their previous life is wasted. The time it will be before a harvest can be taken. Asparagus usually takes three years, but these crowns are so strong that it may only be two. Time will tell.

There is no beginning or end to the gardening calendar, but the solstices and equinoxes seem like turning points all the same. It is comforting, in the coldest, darkest time of the year, to be planting for a harvest which is the epitome of summer.