There was something of an argument about whether it should live by the back door so somebody could see it every day when they went to let themselves in, or by the fence, where it would get better sun, but where, wheeled one voice petulantly, “it would look like… like a compost bin having an identity crisis.” We never reached a conclusion on this matter. Instead the decision was made for us when a fence panel got knocked down in the February storms, along with most of the fence-line shade at the sunny spot, so we took the easy option and moved the bed to where we could see it out of sheer self-preservation and haven’t heard the aesthetics argument since, because let’s be honest, you water things dramatically more when you walk past them eight times a day than you do when you have to wander down into the garden in your socks two hours later to remember they existed.
And really, that’s what sells you on one of these. Not the wood it’s made from, not what finish you slap on it, not how the bits connect – though we will say the corners of the cheap version we got initially started bowing outwards in August like it wanted to fling itself into the lawn, never to be seen again – but the simple fact that it’s raised up to a point where you can see what’s happening inside it without actually having to lean down and give your knee joints a pep talk. One of us keeps chillies in there that the other two didn’t know you could. Another of us reserves two thirds of it for salad leaves that get consumed roughly the same week they’re harvested, which feels less like gardening and more like… well, I don’t know what it feels like, it’s gardening.
We will likely never agree on whether it needs lining. Some of us are of the opinion it’s a faff for something that’s only going to break down eventually anyway so what’s the point in putting it off?
Others will assert that this continent-sized-
yawn – bed lasted two whole summers before we started-using-it-for-real growing without a liner, and by summer three it was starting to get a bit sad at the bottom edges, quickest route to soggy compost being right where it sat wettest.
You use it all the time, which is another thing they don’t tell you.
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You think “planter” and you don’t realise you’re also buying yourself a small daily chore. Every day you go to fetch some parsley or pop some lettuce seeds in, when you were sure you HATED chores.
Suspicious.
Suspect also the tomato plant it currently houses, which we butchered from a windowsill back in the spring and have been compassionately nursing in the raised bed ever since.
Also contained at various points: several fistfuls of bulbs that simply refused to grow despite our efforts and best intentions; a cat who thought it was a good place to sleep; and at one point, an entire population of slugs who were convinced our garden was their holiday camp. Love it still.
Incidentally the fence got fixed eventually but somehow nobody cares. It’s by the back door now and really, that argument was always obsolete.
