Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubarb

This is meant to be a light hearted blog about the joys of running a (very) small allotment.

But there is a dark side.

After a few weeks ruminating about it I have been persuaded, by my son Nigel, to come clean about the rhubarb.

I have happy memories of the wonderful rhubarb and custard of my childhood in the UK. And that was the time when anybody who took rhubarb growing seriously followed the horses round the street with a bucket and shovel in their hands and a hopeful look on their face. Local kids who got lucky could sell horse poo to their neighbourhood rhubarb growers.

So there is a long history of us dedicated gardeners and rhubarb lovers.

And I want to grow rhubarb!  I want great arms full of it!

So I bought a plant from Bunnings and fed it up and nurtured it and kept it weed free.  And this is my reward. The label is a bit bigger than a matchbox.

I even went as far as showing this to gardening guru Annette McFarlane who came up with the answer. “It want’s to live in Tasmania”.

So there you have it.

You want decent rhubarb. Move south.

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