I have been going through some old photo albums this week and once you start wandering down memory lane, it’s hard to stop. Especially when you realise your love of food gardening started way back when - with your dear old Dad. .

Growing up in the 1970s, one of my fondest memories was trudging along to the allotment my Dad (Joe) shared with my Uncle. Think ‘Good Life’ crossed with a dash of ‘Dad’s Army’. Usually armed with nothing except an unfounded sense of optimism, we would merrily set off on our weekly horticultural adventure, eager to get growing.

Once there, Uncle Nobby (yes, that really was his name), would bark out orders like we were on the beaches of Normandy. “Get that spade moving, Joe” he’d say, while Dad, a man much happier raising a nice cold pint than a vegetable, provided a running commentary on all the goings-on to keep me smiling. “Looks like we’re planting spuds in the trenches again, Katie” he’d quip, before lacing his boots tight, taking a puff of his Old Holborn, and getting on with digging duty.

I remember the allotment site itself being a patchwork quilt of organised chaos. Each plot bore the distinct mark of its owner’s personality, from Mr Hodges’ regimented rows of carrots to Mrs Saville’s haphazard herb garden. Our own plot? Well, it was an eclectic mix of wonky runner beans, rebellious raspberry canes, fairy gardens, and Uncle Nobby’s prized Dahlias, all punctuated by Dad’s latest attempt at growing giant marrows, which always seem to end up more like oversized cucumbers.

Tea breaks were always the highlight, with flasks of stewed tea, homemade sandwiches, and if we were lucky, a few jammy dodgers thrown in by Mum for good measure. Uncle Nobby and Dad would reminisce about childhoods growing up during the Blitz, and observe how, in comparison, a bit of rain down on the plot never really hurt anyone. By the end of the day, Dad and I would be caked in mud, exhausted but triumphant, ready to return home with our haul (usually slug-nibbled cabbages and oddly shaped beetroots) and regale Mum with tales of our heroic hunter-gatherer deeds - as the poor woman looked down at our veggie oddballs and tried desperately to work out what concoction she could throw together, without poisoning the family.

But for me, those days at the allotment were more than just gardening and learning how to grow vegetables, fruit, and herbs - they were a rite of passage and a great lesson in perseverance, all wrapped up in a bundle of fatherly love, laughs, fun and muddy wellies.

Precious times. Precious memories.

Plus, the digging duo always managed to squeeze in a quick pint on the way home, which meant I could stop snacking on the bruised, windfall apples and end the day instead with my ultimate prize: a Coke and a packet of Hula Hoops. Heaven.