Grandad used to love being in his greenhouse. He’d spend hours in it, potting plants and growing his tomatoes. One year I persuaded him to grow sweet peppers, although he wasn’t exactly sure what they were for. If he wasn’t in that sweaty glass construction, he’d be toiling away in the huge vegetable patch at the bottom of the lawn, happily fettling to himself in the full beam of the sun without so much as a cursory nod to suntan lotion. Sweet peas, cabbages, onions, he could grow them all, grow anything. When I was young, we came back from a family holiday to Torquay to find the garden overrun with marrows.  I thought Granny was going to go into orbit. We ate those huge green missiles for almost a month. They turned up in curries, pickles, salads. Stuffed, mashed and steamed. He wasn’t able to do so much down… View Post