To be self-sufficient was my dream; on my hands and knees I removed every weed. My allotment was a sight to behold, dark deep rich loam rewarded my effort. Such crops grew, buckets full of strawberries, cabbages the size of footballs, my tomatoes blossomed, golden was my reward. But it was the social side which rewarded me most. Flasks of tea were shared, fresh produce swapped, conversations flowed. I had found paradise, as all who gardened here did.

Then the council man came, not to reward, but punish. We protested but lost; why why did they bury the land in concrete.

Footnote: this is a factual story, we campaigned to stop the building of an industrial complex on the best soil in the valley, but to no avail. Now a growing platform of concrete spreads across what was once one of the most beautiful valleys in the Yorkshire Dales. And they call it progress.