Sunday started early - VERY early. 7am at Aid Station 4 on the Hackney Half Marathon Route (just by Broadway Market!). There were plenty of bleary eyes, but thankfully the sun was already shining as we arrived ready for the day ahead.

Our first mission: water station setup. And if there’s one thing permanently burnt into our minds now, it’s the maths of the tables - 20 by 8 cups on each layer, 5 layers high, over and over and over again. Tables after tables after tables. Somewhere between the endless cup stacking and chatting away, the morning flew by! The best part was meeting so many brilliant Goodgymers from all over London - and, naturally, we even ended up recruiting new members whilst we were at it!

Then the motorcade arrived and the first runners appeared… From that point on it just never stopped for the next 2–3 hours. Thousands of runners streamed past as we handed out water as fast as humanly possible, cheered people on, tried to decipher names scribbled across bibs, shouted encouragement at every fancy dress costume we spotted, and kept our eyes peeled for our fellow GoodGym runners amongst the crowds. There were even a few famous faces mixed in too. Some runners just wanted a sip, others their bottles filling, others wanted us to throw a cup of water over them!

It was loud, sunny, exhausting, and genuinely brilliant - such a fantastic community vibe. Before we knew it, the runners had passed through, the cups had disappeared, the tables were packed away, and by around 1pm we were wrapped up after an amazing morning.

A huge well done to everyone who ran, volunteered, organised, cheered, stacked cups, handed out water, and kept the energy going all morning long!

Until next year! And who knows — you might even spot some of the people handing out your water this time swapping volunteer bibs for running bibs and taking on the 13.1 miles through the streets of Hackney themselves…

Have you ever had an unexpected, extraordinary encounter?

Maybe you were invited to dinner at a friend's house, where you were introduced to their pair of pet pythons. Maybe you went to some work drinks at the nearby pub, where the live music entertainment that night was some band called Oasis. Maybe you've attended a summer fête, where the celebrity calling out your winning raffle ticket number was Geri Haliwell.

The near total astoundment that prompts you to believe that your situation is, perhaps, a delusion.

Such was my dumbfounding surprise, even slight jittery trepidation, when Mrs J., a gentle soul with a delicate frame, revealed the mighty presence of an 8-metre high palm tree in her backyard, which she had been fully expecting me to tidy up a little, on a mid-May Saturday morning, in Hackney.

So it was, the "weeding" that had been casually presented in the Goodgym mission description turned out to be the maintenance of this towering tropical treat, trunk and fronds so magnificent, it would rival its sister palms displayed in front of nearby HackneyTown Hall.

If you have read reports of other Goodgym weeding work, you will know I, Dan, am forever trying to remain open-minded to what constitutes a weed. Nevertheless, I acknowledge that I'd been expecting to be picking out stray grass from burgeoning flowerbeds, or perhaps grappling with a hardy dandelion or two sneaking through some crazy paving. The sight of a phoenix canariensis (common names Canary Island Date Palm, or Pineapple Palm), blew my mind.

Mrs J.'s son retrieved some tools from the shed. Tools requisite for the nature and scale of the challenge. A challenge I was rapidly rescoping based on absolutely no previous palm experience. Piling up at the tree's bough: shears, loppers, handsaw and, from further within the shed, the telescopic (extendable) tree pruner, which quickly became my new best friend. I was slightly nervously thankful for its calmly vicious, serrated edge.

My developing technique, completely improvised, involved standing at the base of the tree, or mounting the step ladder for additional height. Then, holding the pruner firmly, I engaged the blade's rusty teeth in browned and crisped dead branches. Thrusts back and forth cut first an incision and then quickly severed through the width of leaves I targeted from under the canopy.

Upon amputation, large but light husks of palm fell in a clumsy flurry down to the ground, spraying dirt and dust across Mrs J.'s yard, before blasting back around and directly into my face, it felt. Protective goggles and a face mask would both have been advisable, I exaggerate not.

Covered in enough clouds of palm debris to require a mid-day bath, I stepped back from the revitalised tree, grateful for the refreshing drinks Mrs J. offered.

Mrs J. herself seemed very pleased with the stack of crisp palm timber cut down, revealing the much neater and fresher view of the tree's spiraling green fronds, shooting up and out across the grey sky above. The trimming and thinning brought back an impressively youthful arboreal look, equivalent to the zippy sleekness of a plucky youth's fresh buzz cut from the barber. I think Mrs J.'s smile was approving and admiring.

Renewed sharpness of this giant palm aside, important to consider further here: its stature and its soul.

Hackney's cloud cover this Saturday clearly not the more typical blue sky backdrop to the heat, humidity and downpours characteristic of the tropical and sub-tropical climes in which palm trees are often found. Mrs J. had planted this specimen herself when she had moved into her Hackney home here, around thirty years ago, a marker of her upbringing in the Caribbean. The opportunity to nurture a garden was the property's most attractive feature, telling her family all about the outdoor space, she recalled, but unable to say much at all of the interior, which she had passed straight through on her way to the yet unlandscaped terrain out the back. Her heart was drawn to the garden plans she was making.

Besides choosing the palm as the undoubted centrepiece of her hideaway urban oasis, Mrs J. also gathered a panoply of other shrubs and flowers, creating a dense layering of plant-life, blending flora together in a roughly ordered fashion that gave a sense of easy contentment to the assorted greenery. Recent cuttings were grouped roundabout in plant pots or repurposed food containers, forging the beginnings of the next generation of garden life.

Mrs J. began smiling at herself, when she confided that she knew hardly any names of the plants in her collection. She was simply drawn to what she liked, enjoying all the nurturing involved and inspired by the natural beauty they returned. The humour of a gardener relaxed in their appreciation, unfussed by categorising, without the bother of too much organisation.

Mrs J. recounted a recent visit to Columbia Road Flower Market, the first for a while, since becoming less active. She enjoyed rejoining the spectacle of stall displays and the performance of stall holders. Herself a long-term frequenter, Mrs J. was remembered warmly by the other regulars, a mark of her status in the wider community, connected through horticultural interests. Satisfying bargains were duly bagged on plants whose names she could not remember.

Returning to the focus of this mission, Mrs J.'s Pineapple Palm, whilst extraordinary, is not exceptional. The sheer girth of the trunk, calmly supporting the crowning flourish of fronds, is the same striking combination dotted across the square, in front of Hackney Town Hall. The insouciant poise of the gently bending leaf spikes are of course a renowned feature in hot-spots elsewhere in the world, enjoyed by elegant strollers along the Côte D'Azur and zippy rollerbladers gliding around Miami. They are the arched poise of cool dotted along the paradise beaches of Caribbean islands.

Bringing the exotic has been Hackney borough's role for long before Mrs J.'s surprise Canary Island Date Palm. From around the late eighteenth century, Hackney boasted the largest horticultural hot-house in Europe. It was home to palms, ferns, orchids and more, brought back from Britain's imperial conquests (or sent as seeds) to provide a tropical lift to stately residences up and down this country. A feat of engineering to maintain the temperatures required, Hackney preceded and exceeded Kew through the propagation of this remarkable and vast nursery business.

Established by Germany-born Joachim Conrad Loddiges and further developed by his son George, their pioneering botanical collection initiated the introduction of many an exotic tree, shrub and flower, including the common mauve rhododendron (since classified as an invasive species...), the Egyptian white lilly (lotus flower) and even rhubarb. The nursery was priced out of the area by property developers around the mid-19th century, ending with a ceremonial relocation of its prized palm trees, led by plumed horses to decorate the newly built Crystal Palace, for the Great Exhibition of 1851. The borough's palm past is remembered by the trees at its civic centre, with further tributes to the Loddiges dynasty by way of the tombstone memorials at St John at Hackney church and the Loddiges Road running off Mare Street.

The range of trees found in Abney Park Cemetery is a natural testament of the Loddiges legacy, ordered in an alphabetical spiral to showcase species to all who visit, to this day. The Victorian era of plant collecting sets historic foundations that Mrs J.'s fine palm tree adds to and build on, with such extraordinary aplomb.

My surprise encounter with a not-so-surprising Hackney Pineapple Palm prompted my own meandering learnings of history, community and gardening. And I shall be pleased to return to keep it tidy, as it paves the way forwards to who knows what triumphs and wonders, entrepreneurial or domestic, which may come next, in this exotic corner of east London...

Any and all answers to the above challenge gratefully received here in the comments and / or through creative discussion over a beverage at the Palm Tree pub, alongside Regent's canal, in Mile End park. Where else?