So here I was, standing in my flat’s “patio,” which was literally a 2×2.5 metre concrete slab between my sliding glass doors and a chain link fence. The previous tenant had essentially used it as a storage area for empty Stella bottles and cigarette butts. When my mum came to visit me during my first week in the flat, she took one look at this uninviting rectangle and said, “You know what would really improve this?” “A nice cactus,” she added with a chuckle. I should have listened. I guess you can say I was caught up in this idea of just “growing some plants.”
In reality, what transpired over the course of the next 18 months was a lot more than simply me growing some plants. It became a complete, accidentally brilliant, experiment in urban permaculture that transformed how I view city life entirely. And I am saying this knowing full well that you may be reading this thinking, “Oh boy, I can already tell this is going to be too complicated and/or too greeny for me.” Well, let me assure you, I had no prior knowledge of the term “permaculture” prior to starting this journey, so you shouldn’t be worried at all if you’re rolling your eyes thinking this is all too much to take in.
By the time I had to vacate the premises (as in, due to a rent increase) that dingy little concrete space was providing me with enough herbs to cook all of my meals, enough salad greens throughout the majority of the year, enough cherry tomatoes, and yes, even enough strawberries to eat a few each week. I had three separate rainwater collection containers set up, a worm bin tucked under a bench I had built using scrap timber, and I kid you not, there was a bee that visited me every single morning, as if to check in on me.
My neighbours thought I had gone totally bonkers, but I saw a huge reduction in my food shop bill, and I actually began to enjoy sitting outside rather than dreading that bleak space.
This whole thing started when I was skint and fed up. I had been purchasing those ridiculously overpriced pre-cut herb packs from Tesco, you know, the ones that cost £2.50 and wilt in your fridge within 48 hours? I was wasting so much cash on dead basil and wilted coriander that never got eaten. One day I simply said to myself, “Sod this, I’m going to try to grow my own.” How difficult could it possibly be to grow some herbs?
It turns out, quite difficult when you have absolutely no clue what you are doing. My initial effort was disastrous. I purchased various plants from the garden centre, plopped them into whatever containers I could scrounge up, and promptly killed most of them within a month. The basil developed some sort of fungus, the tomatoes produced nothing, and something ate my lettuce down to nothing overnight. I was ready to concede defeat and accept that I was simply lacking whatever genetic makeup makes people capable of growing things.
However, I stumbled upon an article about permaculture, which, if you are unfamiliar with the concept, is essentially an approach to designing spaces that emulate the functions of natural ecosystems. A vast majority of the information I was able to locate online was geared towards individuals who possessed actual land, discussing food forests and livestock and water catchment systems that assumed you had acres and acres of land. Not exactly what I needed since my “land” consisted of a concrete rectangle in a block of flats.
However, the underlying principles of permaculture still applied to my limited space. The first principle that resonated with me was… simply watch. Spend as much time as possible simply observing what is actually occurring in your space. What areas receive sunlight throughout the day? How does water flow when it rains? Which areas remain moist, and which dry quickly?
At first, I felt embarrassed to be simply sitting on my patio scribbling down observations regarding the presence or absence of light and puddling, but those first several weeks of merely paying attention ended up saving me from countless trial and error attempts later on. I discovered that the back corner received direct morning sunlight, however it was shaded by the adjacent building by approximately 2pm daily. The area immediately adjacent to my entrance remained largely shaded throughout the entire day, however it remained cooler, and many plants actually thrive in cooler temperatures. I noticed that there existed a location where water naturally accumulated when it rained, likely because of the settling of the concrete.
As soon as I comprehended the actual conditions I was operating under, I could make better decisions about what to plant where. Plants requiring direct sunlight such as tomatoes and peppers were placed in that sunny back corner. Herbs requiring partial shade were situated along the shaded wall. Rather than attempting to fight the depression that occurred where water naturally accumulated, I decided to utilise it as a feature. I located a large ceramic bowl at a local charity shop, dug it into that depression, and created a mini water garden that captured rainwater and attracted birds.
The rainwater collection became somewhat of an obsession, I confess. We get periods of weeks without precipitation, followed by days that dump several inches of rain in short order and flood everything. It made perfect sense to attempt to collect some of this excess rainfall rather than allowing it to all drain into the storm drains. I initially attempted to capture rainfall using a couple of buckets positioned to collect water from the roof overhang above my patio, and then eventually upgraded to a proper water butt attached to the downspout from the building’s roof.
My flatmate thought I was becoming overly enthusiastic about the whole rainwater collection thing, but when the dry spell hit in 2022 and everyone’s water bills went through the roof as people attempted to keep plants alive, my patio ecosystem was thriving, utilising only rainwater that I had collected.
Suddenly, my strange looking bucket collection seemed far less eccentric and far more… sensible?
While the productivity component ultimately solidified my interest in this endeavour, it was a significant factor that contributed to my ongoing engagement. I had never previously considered outdoor space as a source of anything productive. It was merely… ornamental. A space to display flowers or perhaps a chair if you wanted to sit outside.
But once I started considering my patio as a functioning system that could produce food, process waste, regulate water usage, attract beneficial insects… everything shifted.
I understand that the yields were nowhere near as large as they could have been. We’re talking roughly 4 square metres of total space, and the majority of that is comprised of concrete. However, I was generating sufficient herbs to supply my cooking needs year round, basil, coriander, parsley, oregano, thyme. Sufficient salad greens for lunch most days during the spring and autumn. The cherry tomatoes were prolific once I determined the correct varieties for container production. And yes, the strawberry yield was only a handful of berries each week, but eating fresh strawberries while sitting in the middle of Bristol felt like pure magic.
However, the yields were not solely comprised of food. The plants were processing my kitchen scraps via a worm composting system I established beneath a bench I had constructed from scrap timber. The flowers were attracting pollinators. I counted at least six different bee species during one summer season. Honestly, having living green space directly outside my door reduced my stress level enormously. I began eating lunch outdoors instead of scrolling social media at my kitchen table.
The entire experience evolved into this trial by fire of making every element of this endeavour multi-functional, another fundamental tenet of permaculture. The bench served as both seating and storage for tools and the worm bin. The trellis for climbing beans served as both a support structure and a screen from the neighbour’s line of sight. The containers served as both a functional means of growing plants, and as a physical means of breaking up the starkness of the surrounding concrete. Every component was performing at least two, if not three, roles.
I learned to embrace and utilise negative feedback rather than fighting against it. There was this fox that continuously raided my compost bin and left a mess. Rather than investing increasing amounts of time and money developing locks and barriers to protect the bin, I finally relocated the bin to an area where the fox could no longer access it, and filled a shallow dish with water in their preferred area. Problem solved; everyone was happy.
When I had to relocate last year, I was sincerely disheartened to depart the garden. However, I had acquired sufficient knowledge to establish an even superior system at my new residence. This flat includes a larger patio area, and I also gained access to a small community garden area that was completely underutilised at the time I arrived. I have been collaborating with a couple of other residents to apply the same concepts to a larger scale.
For the first several months, we merely observed how others utilised the space, what grew well in each section, and how water flowed during periods of heavy rain. Once we had obtained a sufficient understanding of the existing conditions, we began implementing small modifications, constructing a few raised beds, installing a larger rainwater collection system, establishing seating areas that were integrated with productive plants. None of it was particularly fancy or expensive; merely thoughtful design based on our collective observations.
The communal aspect of the endeavour has been incredible. It seems as though there are numerous individuals who desire to cultivate some of their own food, however lack either the knowledge or courage to begin, or feel overwhelmed by the conflicting advice they read online. By beginning with modest, shared spaces, individuals are able to feel less intimidated. We share tools, seeds, knowledge, and the harvest. And, we have created this small oasis of green space that feels almost entirely distinct from the remainder of the concrete dominated complex.
If you are contemplating attempting something similar, my greatest piece of advice is to begin incredibly small. Do not attempt to revolutionise your entire outdoor space at once. Begin with a single corner, a single function, a single issue you wish to resolve. Make that work well, learn from it, and then build outward.
Perhaps you can commence by collecting rainwater if you are already watering your plants. Or create a simple worm bin to process your discarded food scraps. Or replace one small area of your garden with edible plants rather than whatever decorative items currently reside in that space. Each successive small success will aid in the development of the subsequent successes.
Additionally, do not become discouraged by failures. They will occur. I have destroyed more plants than I can recall, had worm bins develop anaerobic conditions and become foul smelling, constructed structures that failed in the first gust of wind. All of that represents valuable information regarding what does not operate effectively in your particular environment. Your next attempt will be better informed.
The most fascinating aspect of applying these principles in an urban context is recognising that cities are not antithetical to nature. They are merely ecosystems we have not yet learned to interact with effectively. Every concrete patio, every rooftop, every neglected strip of land between buildings contains latent energy flows and opportunities for regenerative design. You simply need to pay attention and begin to think creatively about how to interact with what exists rather than continually dreaming of what does not exist.
