As the Harvest Party comes around, and the beer starts to flow, Dominic Utton ponders the new life all around…
I
t’s a Sunday afternoon, at the end of summer. On a stretch of grass surrounded by vegetable plots, some 50 or so people are gathered – most balancing paper plates piled precariously high with homemade curry, some managing to hold a glass of beer too. Conversation is light and lively. There is a debate about composting techniques, and a challenge to grow the biggest marrow next year.
Heidi and Eithne and I are there too. I’m one of the daring (or foolish, or greedy) ones attempting to keep hold of both curry plate and pint glass, Heidi has managed a bit of food but become embroiled in a discussion about organic slug control. Eithne, meanwhile, is seated firmly in the middle of the assembly, holding court to a noisy collection of other babies, addressing them in her sing-song voice, occasionally laughing, screaming or banging a little fist into the ground to make her point.
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