Several years ago I’d had success, the Vigna caracalla seeds I’d bought on a whim tropically twisting out of the soil with very little bidding. But in a rush of overconfidence that all would be fine during a week away, they perished, and refused to be resurrected.
In guilt but also confidence in that initial, easy germination, I bought another pack of seeds the next season, then promptly forgot about them. Another pack followed in the midwinter seed spree, and when sorting out my seeds this year it was clear that their time had come – no-one needs 2 packets of the same years-old seed, especially the seed of a conservatory plant in a flat with no conservatory.
The first batch sown did nothing, sitting dryly on the surface of the soil, desiccating slowly. The second followed suit, though I thought I saw hints of life, only to disappear days later. With my initial confidence waning and the glowing reviews of easy germination a taunt on the supplier’s website, I gathered the seeds into a cup of water, set it the side and waited.
A tea slick film soon coated the surface, and the daily water change gave me a chance to monitor their progress. I thought I could see swelling, then maybe the mottled coating was shrinking slightly, splitting at the seam. Then, finally, there was green life visible, the very start of a root working its way out. Back into soil they went, nestled down carefully.
Perhaps it’s all the sweeter for the missteps. Now, just above the surface of the soil poke two peridot arrows, like the detachable candles from my Sylvanian Families birthday cake. Almost translucent, the seeds are being tugged vertically behind them, the true snail shells for my little snail beans.
As if to make sure the lesson has been truly learnt, the seeds have germinated with a holiday in sight. This time there’s a watering proxy on hand with the greenest thumbs, and I am confident that on our return their shaky start will be forgotten in a jack-and-the-beanstalk transformation.
a year in the garden 