If you move to Crews Hill, you must grow something. It’s not a law, but it might as well be. The local social hierarchy is defined by who has the most impressive greenhouse or the cleverest irrigation system. I met a man who built a water wheel in his back garden using old bicycle parts and an IKEA shelf—he’s basically a legend. You’ll see retired couples arguing at the monthly gardening club like they’re debating Brexit: “Your runner beans are too stringy!” “Oh, and your roses are a tragic display of neglect!” It’s wholesome, terrifying, and absolutely hilarious.
But here’s the funny part: because everyone grows so much stuff, nobody actually buys vegetables at the supermarket. No joke—you can walk down the road and people will just hand you courgettes like they’re apologies: “Sorry, my allotment produced sixty more this week. Please take them before I cry.” I once came home with a carrier bag full of rhubarb and a mysterious squash I still can’t identify.
