Yesterday during garden.
And I know, is the unanimous objection: that the course and the course, I'll lend you my father / grandfather / father that teaches you everything you need to know!
And the answer is: I can not pretend that the father / grandfather / father gave me lessons live scratching between sowing eight to ten and a half ago, the only time I can devote to learning.
So I enrolled in a course proper, with lots of organic farming techniques as a teacher. As companions, some unrealistic beginners with some square meters of grass, like me, someone who has heritage found in a garden and hundreds of conflicting advice of neighbors, and some bed-holding cabinet made for eighty percent of bricks and clay for the winds, hoping for any crop. Even one. A tomato would be great.
In recent months I have read many books on the theory that I might call the spade, which is completely unnatural and extremely useless. The fact that last night also the teacher be held on vague worries me, was like reading an audiobook.
But then the situation has broken out between a woman who urges: yes, but when I fertilize? And another that promoted the excrement di pollo, e uno che lanciava luoghi comuni in lingua madre, un altro che si chiedeva che faccia abbia il compost, e chi consigliava di concimare con pollina (cacca di piccole galline?) e l’amica T. che riteneva, in tre metri quadri di terreno, di essere vittima di tutti i parassiti e tutte le infestanti tipiche del tropico del cancro: grillo talpa? Ce l’ho, come con la tombola.
Insomma, ho scoperto che devo muovermi a zappettare, e che se necessito di piselli, è il momento di piantarli. Obbedisco.