After a day’s marmalade making and campervan maintenance yesterday, this was supposed to be a day’s R&R, but a fateful discussion with our neighbour Charlie over coffee this morning sent us back home on a mission to cook the last of our stored apples before they became the object of another of my great interests in moulds. These apples still lack a conclusive name in spite of searching all the databases we could find. We have, I think, narrowed it down to two possibilities – either the French/Belgian dessert apple Api Noir but more likely the American apple Arkansas Black. The reason for ranking them that way is that the apple we picked has the most extraordinary flavour of vanilla, but to be honest there’s not much information to be had on either variety except that Chris Bowers’ nursery sells the French one and no-one that I can find sells the other American one – which is a real shame because (aside from its size) it’s got everything going for it; self-pollinating, disease resistant and late flowering and therefore fruiting avoiding frosts. Api Noir is counted mainly as a decorative apple, but Arkansas Black is rated for its flavour. The downside is that it’s a very small apple and so a bother to peel and core. On the other hand it’s so sweet we cook it without any added sugar and it keeps it shape and soft texture even after cooking – a bit like the English Cox apple. The right hand photo at the top gives an impression of this but also looks like a plate of witchetty grubs which is so wrong!
It happened that our neighbour Charlie had just acquired several books from the Marcher (as in Welsh/English border counties) Apple Network and so our conversation inexorably slanted towards apples and our common interest in them. We had a bag of the American apple hanging in a bag in the dangerously warm and damp kitchen and as soon as we got home I sorted the rotters, washed the rest and after a ploughman’s’ lunch we set to to peel and core them and then Madame cooked them with a knob of butter but no added sugar. The perfume of the apples is outrageous and develops even more during a couple or three weeks of storage so it’s well worth the additional effort of peeling them.
There’s very little point in trying to grow them from seeds because unfortunately most apples don’t come true – that’s why there are so many varieties. The only way to multiply them is to graft them on to established rootstocks which is a bit of a skilled operation. Nonetheless Madame is going to give it a try this coming year because she once learned how to do it at Long Ashton Cider Research Station. It would be a tremendous achievement to breed a new generation of these lovely apples but of course we don’t have space or the money to grow more than a couple of trees on the allotment.
The rest of my day was spent on homework with the biological records spreadsheet. It’s always been my way to learn by going back to first principles and then slowly building a picture in my mind. The disadvantage is that it makes me an agonisingly slow learner – but on the other hand when I’m done I know the subject with real fluency. I’ve come to regard my awkwardness as a strength rather than a weakness – but many of my old teachers would probably disagree!
Anyway, there will be stewed apple for supper today. I can’t wait.
When you’re as old as me, you’ll probably find yourself saying “many years ago; when ….” – rather too often, since that’s the point when you realize that your children no longer care about, let alone believe your stories. But I’m not going to be caught out that way. I’ll merely say …….
I was on a silent retreat in a Franciscan convent in Dorset and since I was the only man present I was sequestered alone in a cottage on the edges of the estate. Meals were conducted in silence apart from the first five minutes of the one o’clock news on the BBC controlled rigidly by the Superior. Conversation was not allowed and so you had to learn some kind of sign language to get hold of the salt. The silence was only broken once – this was in the period of Margaret Thatcher’s greatest pomp – when it was announced that she’d shut down a couple more coal mines and a steelworks. One of the younger sisters was unable to contain a long snort of hatred and derision. We shared a conspiratorial smile among ourselves and went on with lunch – knowing that if we didn’t eat it all, it would come back meal after meal until it grew whiskers. I remember an old friend, a retired orthopaedic surgeon saying on his 90th birthday that the trouble with thriftiness was that you never got to eat a decent apple. The table rituals were both arcane and hilarious. We were each given a coloured napkin ring and told to sit at whichever place we found it on. What we weren’t told was that no one could leave the table until the final napkin was rolled and replaced in its ring. Needless to say I was the first victim of the rule, but I got my revenge by making everyone wait for each subsequent meal by sitting there beaming until I got bored. It was there that I discovered that I’m absolute rubbish at silence. I much preferred the Benedictines where they were still silent but you got a glass of wine with lunch and one of the monks read aloud from an interesting book.
Anyway the Franciscans were devotedly high church Anglicans and one of the curiosities was their attachment to martyrs, not least King Charles 1st it seems. By and large they were a radical bunch who really did walk the walk, but I was caught out by a jam jar on the table at breakfast time which was plainly labelled “King Charles the Martyr”. God knows (I thought religiously) what’s in there and I wish it would be marmalade but the thought that it might actually contain some sort of relic held me back. A single hair or fingernail would have made me feel very ill. And in any case was it entirely correct to celebrate the memory of the slaughtered king by eating him? Was this sacramental food in some arcane sense? or was it a witty joke by a rebellious sister? and if not – what?
Madame and I really like marmalade, but ever since the invention of Hartley’s “New Jam” – which was as watered down as “New Labour” turned out to be and then sold in smaller jars to add insult to injury, shop bought marmalade- in fact most shop bought jam too has lost most of its fruitiness because it’s lost most of its fruit. If you want the real thing you have to make it yourself. The Potwell Inn has one small problem in that I prefer my marmalade chunky and Madame likes it thin cut with as little peel as possible. This results in half finished jars having all their juices spooned out leaving dense faggots of orange flavoured brushwood at the bottom. I bear it bravely but it gives me terrible hiccoughs. I will get to the point ASAP.
So my family always made marmalade and home made jams, preserves and pickles have always been part of my life. My mum strayed from the path of righteousness at some point in the past and started to use the tinned, pre-shredded and cooked to be sold in giant tins. It didn’t feel right and we’ve never yielded t0 the temptation. If we’ve done the numbers right, we have marmalade all year round but sometimes we run out and then the wait for early January when the Seville oranges come in is a festival of longing. This year and true to tradition they arrived on January 2nd. It was only this week that I finally joined the dots regarding King Charles the Martyr. His execution took place on December 30th and so it’s just possible that the Sevilles arrived a bit early the year of my retreat and that Sister Angela, or whichever one was cooking that week, commemorated the religious festival on a jar of marmalade. It made me think of the Benedictine aphorism that “to work is to pray and to pray is to work”
But marmalade making is equally a thanksgiving festival for me; along with Christmas puddings and Christmas cakes. It’s impossible not to think of my mum and my gran as I’m chopping and simmering, boiling and bottling. It’s a ceremony that requires faith in the future; that we’ll be there to enjoy all fifteen jars in the course of this new year. It’s our opportunity to prepare and eat the best of food rather than the blandest and cheapest industry can manage. It’s hard work slicing the peel of 4 Kg of oranges and I have to keep sharpening the knife. My hands and wrists ache from the effort but it gives a long space of time to meditate and savour the grace of the ingredients and their journey to our kitchen where they fill the flat with their lovely fragrance. The whole act of making marmalade collapses time, prompting an escape from all the anxieties of the present moment, and it’s free; no books (the recipe is so simple) no gurus, churches or self-help groups; and if praying for King Charles 1st is your bag – that’s fine too; it wouldn’t be mine but feel free if its yours.
The Sisters and the Covent are long gone, scattered across the country and perhaps absorbed into other groups but I remember them with great fondness. The Franciscan movement has something to say to us, even now. They could be trailblazers in the search for a new and all embracing spirituality of the natural world – it’s there in the foundational writings of St Francis from the beginning. Every religious movement has to learn to live with its Jabez Bunting and its Brother Elias. The women did better with Hildegard of Bingen and Sister Clare, but there’s always a battle between the bureaucratic and the visionary when the founder dies and the battle for succession begins.
As for the Potwell Inn we opt for the quiet life and do our best to preserve it.
For the most part, over the years, I’ve seen New Year more as a celebration that the old year is over and done with and that January 1st is no more than a blank canvas. But this time it was different because 2025 was pretty rubbish, what with innumerable health problems and having to spend a fortune getting the campervan fixed. By the end of the year the health problems along with the van repairs were largely sorted and we were free to resume our itinerant lives; gardening, exploring and recording wildlife and camping unencumbered by worries. It was an exhilarating feeling to be set free to imagine once again. The three resolutions of last year were largely fulfilled and I lay awake making excited plans for 2026.
So after the most optimistic start to 2026, I had a sudden attack of dust and ashes, partially caused by this plant. It’s called Greater Dodder and it was growing so inconspicuously down by the river I would probably never have noticed it. Fortunately the leader of the BSBI New Year plant hunt that we were on, clocked it and we all gathered around to see a very unusual (RR in the books) plant. We’ve seen its much more common relative in Pembrokeshire and North Wales but it was a lovely surprise to see it growing on our local patch. It’s a parasitic plant, related to bindweed (gardeners feel free to hiss) and this one grows especially on nettles.
However the excitement was followed almost straight away by the sense of disappointment that I hadn’t found it for myself. Anyway I photographed it and when we got home looked it up in the books and discovered that it’s been here near the river in Bath for a few years at least and that it prefers growing near water. In fact – to borrow a term from the police procedurals on the telly – it’s got form – a great reminder that the more you know about wildlife preferences the more likely you are to find what you’re looking for.
And so the roller coaster in my brain continued for a while as I pondered how to record it – and as spring follows winter the idea dropped into my mind that it would be a good idea to extend my database to include all the other things we find on our walks; birds, fungi, insects, ferns, slime moulds ( a recent obsession) and lepidoptera because we’ve now got a portable moth trap that won’t take up too much space in the campervan.
It sounds so easy doesn’t it? extend the database which lives in a spreadsheet file so that instead of having to open separate files for each interest, it all sits on one very large spreadsheet so I could, for example, look at everything we found on a certain day, or everything we’ve ever found in a certain place; I could assemble lists for every purpose and even draw pie charts. I was (temporarily) on fire at the possibility of using AI to do all the heavy lifting and slept very badly, basking in the excitement and imagining fine days in Cornwall walking down to Percuil, looking for orchids and listening to the Curlews calling on the mud flats; or in the Bannau Brycheiniog watching the mist below in the valleys or in North Wales feasting on wild mushrooms and watching gannets dive bombing the sea.
That lasted as long as it took to sit in front of the computer and figure out how to do it. My grasp of spreadsheets and how to manipulate them is minimal to non-existent. I am at the sub-beginner level – I just make lists – so I started slowly by finding out that a tab on a spreadsheet is not the same as a tab on a beer can or the one on an ancient typewriter and I set up a new tab (page) marked fungi and tried to copy and paste my list of fungi into the newly named “Biological Records” spreadsheet – oooh posh! – where it promptly fragmented and after a bit of blokey random key pressing disappeared altogether. A frantic reverse ferret move revived the patient but everything was in the wrong columns. It dawned on me that I was in for an agonising long haul – studying things that I really don’t like in order to study better the things that interest me most. No pixie dust, just slog and brain fog like learning to solve differential equations in school.
Dodder – Cousin Bronwyn from West Wales beasting the Gorse.
Self doubt closely resembles Dodder and its cousin in the photo at the top, Lesser Dodder. It coils around your brain and sucks it dry; replacing the creative juices with dust. Like Restharrow – a different tangle of a plant that does what it says on the tin and stops a horse-drawn harrow in its tracks. It’s the curse of all self-taught people to defer instinctively to the careless wisdom of those who had an academic career in gnats’ navels and who believe their qualifications trump the more common muddy boots kind of knowledge gained by the hoi polloi. [That should properly read ….. ‘gained by hoi polloi’ because hoi is the definite article in Greek, but if I wrote it that way I’d be denounced as a pedant]. And so we, the great unwashed, struggle with the pronunciation of long binomial names like Pseudoperonospora humuli and remain silent rather than have a go at it. The trick is to put the stress on the third syllable before the last and say it with conviction. The political theorist and philosopher Gramsci called people like us “organic intellectuals”. It’s a term I’m proud to embrace because it puts me in the company of the miners and railway workers, the millers and machinists and labourers who taught themselves to the highest levels and founded institutes and even invented the health services, ambulance clubs, cooperatives and friendly societies that protected their communities from hardship and exploitation by hard-nosed industrialists, the parasitic human subspecies of Dodder.
After a couple of hours trying to get my head around the entirely unfamiliar vocabulary of computer spreadsheets I didn’t just feel depressed, I felt stupid. I’d still got a mountain of identifications to do with no prospect of getting everything done before the new season kicks off in earnest. But then Madame suggested a walk and that lifted the mood. It’s been very cold with icy winds for days, but there’s been abundant sunshine and we’ve had some lovely walks along the river. Slowly the precious feeling of optimism and hope warmed our fingers and toes and we began to talk about journeys waiting to be made. I will get the spreadsheet working, write my million words and we will make our planned travels around the galleries and churches of Wales to see the cruelly unacknowledged glories of Welsh art. We will hunt for birds and plants, moths and butterflies as if we were in the Amazon jungle, and we’ll dip our feet in the sea again like we did when we were teenagers in awe of the turquoise sea and dracaenas of Falmouth.
Too old for that sort of malarkey? My dears, you have no idea!
Well, this is a new one! At last, yesterday I had my new hearing aids fitted after a six month wait. I mentioned the long wait to the audiologist at the hospital and she looked so troubled I immediately changed the subject. Poor things, they must have had a battering from angry patients. These new ones are a bit of a game changer because they’re bluetooth capable and they’ve also got some kind of wizardry built in that generates faint white noise which subdues the tinnitus noises. They’re caused by the brain which doesn’t like the silence of deafness so it generates some very unappealing whistling sounds to compensate. I think the hearing aids, by making sure that it’s never silent, stop the brain having to fill in the gap. Nature abhors a vacuum even when it’s between your ears.
Anyway, she also said that although it would be uncomfortable it was better to wear them continually so that the brain would get used to the change in sounds faster. I now know what she meant. We walked down Green Park road yesterday and the high frequency noise of passing car tyres was almost unbearable. By the evening I was completely exhausted by beeping kettles and roaring washing machine and so (as you do) I asked Google Gemini whether the tiredness was a known side effect of new hearing aids. And it seems that it’s well known enough to have a name – “listening fatigue” which results from the brain – which even on a quiet day burns 20% of your energy – desperately trying to catch up with this new sound environment. The upside is that I can now (with some help from my friend Kate) listen to music, take phone calls and turn off the subtitles on the telly while reducing the volume. Our neighbours will be rejoicing . My dad used to have the telly on so loud you could hear it halfway down the road.
When, last January I had a routine blood test I had no idea what a storm of hospital appointments and procedures would be unleashed. I am now grimly familiar with the Royal United Hospital and hope – in the nicest possible way – that after one last appointment with the glaucoma clinic in January and one more blood test, we’ll be able to go our separate ways; but I can’t leave without saying how great they’ve been and how grateful I am that the many overseas nurses and doctors who helped to find out what was really wrong were prepared to stay here and keep the NHS running in spite of the racist abuse they have to put up with. In the end it turned out to be a pretty non-lethal and treatable combination of troubles and I’m glad to say that the engine is now running smoothly again; my appetite is returning along with a lovely touch of optimism. Madame too is practically back to normal after her knee replacement and the campervan is back on the road with a reconditioned engine, new clutch, cambelt and alternator so 2026 is filled with the promise of new adventures. In a month’s time we’ll be back in Cornwall armed with the trailcam and moth trap. Can’t wait.
On an equally celebratory note, I managed to fulfil two of the three resolutions by going back through all the old jumble of photos, stored – shoe-box style and beyond reach. I managed to turn the 22,000 photos into 1000 records and I identified 500 species of plants growing in the places we visited. The only resolution I didn’t meet was to complete a million words on this blog – but I’m only 8000 words short and they’ll be written before we go down to Cornwall and start a new set of lists; this time including moths. I’ve started the fungus records as well, so there will be hours of head scratching to look forward to.
2025 was the year in which we decided to give up the allotment and then changed our minds when I was well enough to walk up to the track without stopping three times. So now we’re ready for whatever the climate crisis throws at us next season. As always the point of growth is the place of injury and we’ve learned a great deal about gardening through extreme weather and even managed some decent crops right at the end of September. The apple crop was magnificent and we’ve still got a few fresh allotment apples in store.
At home the Pensions Board have finally begun to plan how they’re going to deal with the black mould in our flat – it’s only ten years after all since we first complained, and the Church of England never rushes a decision when it can be kicked into the long grass for a decade.
So that’s it. The Potwell Inn is signing off for 2025 but the doors will probably be open again tomorrow. I suppose someone will call last orders at some point, but for now we seem to have escaped, Bon Voyage mes amis!
To be honest – apart from the tourist guides – this is not a typical moment in Georgian Bath; or at least not during daylight hours. Half a mile East and you might imagine you’re in Oxford street, London; the same distance to the north and south would see you at the end of the Cotswolds or across the river, deep fingers of countryside and Georgiana separated by large estates of social housing. This particular place, Royal Crescent – and no-one can deny its grace and beauty – is normally crowded with tourists.
We live in a similarly divided cultural world. Beggars and Big Issue sellers rub shoulders with tourists whilst we locals practice arcane navigations to cross the tides of tourists and traverse the city. We hardly know who we are. Anyone who comes here probably has a better idea of their true identity, whether it be Roman legionnaire or Regency Buck; Hello magazine bride-to-be or Emma Woodhouse practicing lip pursing in case they meet someone they fancy. We have as much cultural stability as a seaside resort in August. On Friday afternoons the pavements tremble to the sounds of wheelie suitcases – we call it the Barcelona rumble, and on Sunday afternoons they depart. Mondays are quieter. Speed limits are for the little people who change the sheets, flip burgers on minimum wage and pick up the litter. Yet we locals only have to walk a few hundred yards and pick the right time to find peace. You could throw a stick from Royal Crescent as far as three allotment sites, and walk in ten minutes down Cow Lane – whose sign has been stolen by a Jane Austen trophy hunter – to Victoria park and the Botanical Gardens. And whilst the Kennet and Avon canal towpath is busy for the first mile eastwards from the bus station, walking west along the riverside walk, apart from commuting cyclists and runners. you’ll have abundant time and space to check out the local weeds: well at least I do, and many of them turn out to be gratifyingly rare!
One of the unique joys of Bath is the fact that you can stand almost anywhere and see the countryside up on the surrounding hills. Notwithstanding the worst efforts of the riverside property developers, once you climb upwards by about 75 feet you can look across the grim tenements of the future into North Somerset, Wiltshire and South Gloucestershire. From the riverside the developments look more like bonded warehouses; uniformly dull and bleak and battered by their own architectural whirlwinds.
So let’s turn our attention to the parts of the city centre where the wild has infiltrated, We have otters and even beavers in the river now. Herons, sparrowhawks, peregrines, tawny owls, swifts, swallows, housemartins and the whole gamut of garden birds – although you might have to walk a way to find sparrows and starlings which are scarce. In early summer you can see dace sparkling in the river, and in some of the tributary streams there are signal crayfish which have displaced the locals. On our allotment we have even filmed deer, but more commonly it’s squirrels, badgers, foxes, cats and rats; lots of rats.
Mostly we don’t see the night visitors but we have a trail cam running continuously and we also find lots of characteristic signs of their presence. Last night we got an incredibly lucky shot of one of our resident foxes emerging from behind the polytunnel with a large rat in its mouth. We’ve had three traps set in the same run for two weeks now and never got a sniff of a rat, but the fox knows where they are and can crouch silently until a warm takeaway supper comes along. We have read about foxes predating on rats but this hard evidence was really exciting. Other than the fox, the only other taker for the peanut butter bait was a badger who shook and bashed one of the heavy duty box traps until it sprang shut without yielding the peanut. This almost redeems the foxes from their countryside capers – raiding our chickens when we lived on Severnside.
Aside from mammals, we have dragonflies, damselflies, ivy bees, hoverflies, wasps, spiders, beetles and butterflies all sharing the plot with us and this year we’ll be trapping moths to add to our knowledge of the night shift. You’d never believe the diversity of our wildlife if your only experience of Bath was gained from a weekend shopping expedition on Milsom Street. Our allotment is in the middle of the city and yet we probably have more wild diversity than a chemical drenched arable field in the countryside. You just have to learn to be very quiet and watch.
Here’s a video link of fox v rat- it’s too big to attach here but I hope you enjoy it. Nature red in tooth and claw!
Geoffrey Grigson lists so many myths, folklore fragments and healing properties for mistletoe that after the second dozen I gave up counting them. Many of them were concerned with fertility, citing the similarity between mistletoe berries and what he coyly calls the male part. I’ve tried to verify that by looking at photos (of plants, of course) but I don’t really get that one; unless he had some uniquely blessed male friends with an extra testicle for luck! However if mistletoe gives license for a kiss I’m all in favour as long as it’s between consenting friends. Never inflame a temptation unless you’re free to yield to it has always been my motto.
Grigson, whose book “The Englishman’s Flora” lives on my desk, wasn’t writing a botanical textbook. The reason his book is so useful is because it’s a work of anthropology; examining how how and why plants have been used in the past – which often also explains how or why they got their names. Just one example is Figwort – which doesn’t make much sense until you look at the tight purple rinsed flower and then discover that “fig” was one of many ways of describing piles and so it was thought (via the doctrine of signatures) that it would cure that very common and uncomfortable condition.
Anyway, enough of that! Christmas has come and still lingers like a houseguest with a toothbrush for a few more days before we all secretly breathe a sigh of relief and get on with our boring and predictable lives. The Potwell Inn, as always, was especially busy with overnight guests; some of them sons. Partners and children were visited and hugged on Boxing day. It’s conventional for clergy (and retired ones like me) to moan about the workload, and it’s true; Christmas was always hard going with up to 20 carol services. Christmas Eve was particularly heavy going with services at 8.00am, 10.00am 4.00pm and 11.30pm followed by no more than four hours sleep and then four more in the morning. Then, because I was constantly up and around until 3.00am and then again at 7.00am , it always fell to me to attend to the turkey, cook gammon and feed the five thousand between services until I finally got home, tyres smoking from roaring around narrow country lanes and share a bottle of celebratory champagne after which I would finish cooking dinner rather drunkenly, discover I wasn’t really hungry any more and fall asleep.
Christmas cooking can’t be fully described without talking as Geoffrey Grigson did with a form of culinary anthropology in mind. Coincidentally – or perhaps importantly, Geoffrey the poet was married to Jane Grigson the cookery writer who did understand that there was more to Christmas cooking than a few ingredients. Cooking is regional, familial, historical and associated with powerful spiritual connections because Christmas, solstice, yule and so on are all associated with a key moment in the calendar – the slow return of longer days. Farm workers, for instance, were often laid off in the weeks surrounding winter solstice and so Plough Monday – the day the plough was brought into Christian churches to be blessed; signifies that turning point in the agricultural year.
Every year the bookshops are flooded with Christmas recipe books, and yet – apart from a few novel bells and whistles – most of them miss the point altogether. Very few food writers have explored the deep connection between the recipes and the cultures that brought them into being. Cooking is an important aspect of anthropology and very few food writers have grasped that essential fact. Cooks will, for instance, try to tweak the Christmas pudding with a novel ingredient or two and describe the dish as “essential” without even attempting to answer the question “why is that?” One of the few, and one of my favourite food writers is Patience Gray. A couple of years ago I wrote a piece about another of my favourite food writers who also managed to unite the recipe with a sense of the history and culture of a place; she was called MFK Fisher, an American writer who wrote some fine books about French cookery traditions. I’ve long thought that there must be some kind of genealogy for cookery writers and I even had a bash at creating one a couple of years ago. The piece I wrote is called “About a Book” and you can easily reach it with the linked title here. The titles of all the books and their writers are all in that incomplete list. These writers, and especially Patience Gray who lived much of her life in Puglia, penetrated the deep roots of the cultures they were writing about. Their books would still have been an inspiration without a single recipe – although I’m so glad they left their accounts. Modern cookbooks with their rich and unctuous photographs and endless hybrid ingredients make me feel queasy.
This year I missed my parishes more than ever before. Ten years into retirement we’ve finally reset our lives and I’m able to look back with a degree of detachment and write that with a few exceptions I loved every moment. I never saw myself as a great theologian – I was far too given to exploring heretical ideas for that. Real faith, it seems to me should bear a close resemblance to Odysseus’ wife Penelope weaving, or rather not weaving the burial shroud for her father Laertes in the Odyssey. If it’s not unpicked regularly, you’ll risk being hooked up with a dud, or a foolish or even a sociopathic religious sect. But with my background in community arts, I knew from the outset that the skill set needed for a full church is pretty much the same as it is for a full pub, and my preaching was always inspired and inflected by everyday conversations, about ordinary things with people I’d grown to love, however annoying they could sometimes be. Leaving them was a profound bereavement. Perhaps the Potwell Inn was the consolation I needed.
There is, of course, a strongly ritualistic element in Christmas cooking; much of it leaning on family memories of the past. For years we mentioned the possibility to our three grown-up sons that we might change the Christmas day menu. They were invariably horrified at the thought and so it was turkey every year until lockdown when I cooked Mexican just for Madame and me. It felt very naughty! Aside from that there are a slew of memories that we honour in the weeks preceding Christmas. Making Christmas cake and Christmas puddings demands the making of wishes, and thankfully we no longer have to lift the steaming puddings out of the wash boiler with a bleached white copper stick hooked into a looped knot in old torn sheets. These days we use the pressure cooker which still retains at least some of the drama.
On Christmas Eve I cook a piece of gammon; sometimes roasted in the oven and sometimes poached in cider, always flavoured with cloves, peppercorns, bay, star anise and sage. The leftover stock or meat juices are kept for lentil soup. That’s supper and breakfast in one. Then the stuffings are prepared echoing with memories of Elizabeth David; the giblets poached with a few root veg to complement the gravy and all set out in the cold ready for the morning. On Christmas morning the bird is stuffed, the pigs in blankets rolled in bacon painted with mustard and the steam begins to run in rivulets down the windows. Then there is roasting, basting and prodding and poking with the thermometer until we are all agreed that the bird is cooked and the roasties crisp. Gluttony follows as night follows day and then the blazing Christmas pud and for those with elasticated bellies, sherry trifle. Christmas dinner is liturgical; we know it’s not real life but for a few blissful hours we can pretend it is.
The sherry trifle is made from a recipe given to me by Gill, an old friend, many years ago and which has been riveted on to the menu for decades. The biggest problem is sourcing the crystallised angelica without which it just doesn’t look right. The last time I found any (in Penzance) I bought the whole stock, so now I need to begin the search again. Oh and cheap glacé cherries are dyed with a kind of red stain that leaches quickly into the whipped cream spoils it.
Then on Boxing Day inevitably cold turkey with bubble and squeak after which we strip the remaining meat from the bones and make about a gallon of stock, some of which we use as broth the next day, and the rest of which is reduced and frozen in cubes for later.
So that’s the menu for our lump standard Christmas dinner, but there’s another ingredient which carries even more emotional baggage, because on Boxing Day especially we eat pickles.
There are no eat-by dates on pickles and chutneys at the Potwell Inn. we open them up and if they’re not sporting a flora of moulds we taste them and they’re almost always OK. Chutneys can be awfully raw at the beginning but they greatly improve with age, and I can always remember each batch in the making. Years ago I bought a gross of honey jars with tin lids which will corrode pretty soon when in contact with vinegar fumes so we’ve learned to keep the honey jars for jams, jellies and marmalade and keep pickles and chutneys in Kilner jars with rubber seals. We grow our own red and white currants on the allotment; alongside beans, cucumbers, chillies, carrots, courgettes. Plums and damsons come from our friends in Severnside, along with medlars which we blet for two or three weeks until they’ve gone soft. The bletting, brining and cooking can take ages but once finished and bottled they’ll keep for years and in the autumn, when the cupboards are full, they lend a feeling of continuity and security as well as adding unique flavours to a lunch of bread and cheese. With this kind of food we dine with our ancestors. We inherited the thriftiness of our parents who lived through shortages and it’s heartbreaking to think that future generations may miss that strange comfort of making leftovers taste lovely.
So time now for me to cook supper – and meanwhile we at the Potwell Inn wish all our friends big hugs and restrained kisses and to all our readers a very happy Christmas and New Year.
I like to think of Dabberlocks and Furbelow as invisible friends; but in reality, as solicitors for my superego for my whole life, they’ve hinted, adjudicated and occasionally forbidden my wilder flights of fancy. Occasionally they’ll issue a non-disclosure order on one of my ideas but mainly they just sit in silence and I know what’s required. I call it censorship but they refer to it as discretion and normally they win.
The visitations come in occasional dreams and their names and faces are never visible to me but I always know they mean business even if their language is completely opaque and I struggle to understand what they’re driving at. Once I had a dream about a very large and menacing dog clutching a beautiful ruby in its teeth which I think I was supposed to remove. on Saturday night I had another dream in which the words were said – “you can’t argue with a blackthorn” in the context of winter flowering plants. It usually takes a lot of imagination to turn the key in the lock but this one immediately brought to mind a long abandoned project about a character I’d invented called Barnacle. I wrote a kind of CV down for him at the time, along with a quite detailed description of his appearance. Beard, huge greatcoat with deep pockets and that kind of thing. But as soon as I recalled the word “blackthorn” I knew that he would have carried a blackthorn stick representing both the peaceful rambler and the belligerent cudgel known in Ireland as a shillelagh. Two of his multiple temperaments in a single wintry stick that flowered like snow in the hedges in the worst and coldest season of the year.
Then I had him. I’d kept him secret for twenty years and it was time to let him out.
I learned something unforgettable from Sister Enid many years ago, and it helped me to weave some random threads into a thick cloth.The first time I met her was on a Catholic retreat. This was no pious weekend, though, because the La Retraite house in Bristol was, a beacon of radical and practical faith. I took part in a number of retreats there – they were pioneers in bringing Myers Briggs to the UK – but on that particular occasion there was something else going on. The point here is not so much what went on, but the fact that until 48 hours in, Sister Enid didn’t speak a word. She sat in the corner silently and, being young and arrogant, I assumed that she was an ancient, probably half senile sister who had been propped up in the room for a bit of company. We were a strange mix, but amongst the retreatants were a group of sisters from another house who were experiencing – let’s say – interpersonal difficulties. There was something bad eating away at them.
Anyway, the retreat went on and we talked a bit; shared a bit and did some challenging exercises in small groups and in full sessions. In the last plenary, Sister Enid finally spoke. She had watched and listened from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon – the daft old lady in the corner – and then finally and without notes, she accomplished the most forensic examination of a group’s dynamics I’ve ever witnessed. I learned two important things that weekend. Firstly, never again to stereotype and then dismiss another human being because they were old; and secondly that watching, listening and paying minute attention is infinitely more humane and useful to a writer than spouting smartass ideas and showing off.
I even invented – conceived – a character who embodied that lesson. The name, I’m afraid, was invented long before the children’s TV programme called the Octonauts so I must ask that you banish any thoughts of the character of the bear in the TV films. My Captain Barnacle – without the final ‘s’ – is a darker character and – to be honest – he’s part of an alter ego that I created for myself twenty years ago. Here’s the CV I wrote for him – or perhaps it was me all along.:
A wintry story at Christmas
At the edge of the River Severn in the month of December you might stand in the freezing cold one night, with the moon sitting low in the sky and the wind rattling down over your shoulder from the Northeast, driving the clouds across the sky like sea foam. And if you stand until your fingers turn white and brittle and wait and wait as the tide flows and foxes go about their business, you might wonder at the sheer size of the sky above your head. And you might, as you scan the sky, think to yourself – “this is the point in the film where the geese fly over, honking, and my blood freezes” – you might also begin to see the millions of stars above your head and among them you might notice the constellation of Orion with his sword and his belt. And you might also think to yourself that this dark sky reminds you a bit of your Dad’s huge black overcoat then you wouldn’t be far out.
And imagine if you could search in his deep black pockets for sweets, and breathe in the familiar sharp smell of his armpits, and the smell of the bus, and the smell of the rain and the pub and you would feel very safe indeed perhaps and you would know that asking whether such a being as Captain Barnacle exists is a silly question. When you have seen the stars that line his greatcoat stretched over your head in the dead of night, then you just know it, and the teachers, pharisees, inquisitors and pedants as usual, know nothing.
As to the facts, there’s not a lot to be said. He’s a weaver of meanings, like an angel or possibly the weaver of a unique form of cloth. Some people have argued that there may be a hierarchy of Barnacles and such a thing may be as true as any other thing. What I know for a fact is that he lives on a hill near a seaside town – hence the name and rank – and he drives a yellow Morris 1000 van with stars and a crescent moon hand painted on the side, and he has a more or less scandalous and very intermittent liaison with “Astral” who is an “International Clairvoyante” and whose visions regularly transcend the parish boundary.
It’s said he spends the day at a huge loom in a wooden shack, and where he weaves a sky cloth from fragments he has harvested during his journeys. Anything from a ship’s manifest to a small advertisement could be woven. A tiny piece of conversation blown in the wind is not too small to escape his attention. He might be arrested by the arching of an eyebrow or the faint flush of the skin in a chance meeting between two people who do not yet know that they are lovers. A dog’s bark, a small joke or even a road sign might inflame him. A particular favourite of his are lists and catalogues which can easily be unravelled and used again. Memories, sounds and smells are the warp and weft of the cloth and if he can lay his hands on the glint of the sea he can weave it in judiciously so as to bring the whole fabric to perfection. The cloth which he weaves descends only at night which is why you can’t see it in the day time.
The promiscuity of his means is a source of continual irritation to the town, and especially to the deacons of the local church who, being both strict and particular as well as Baptist, have only the one story which is completely threadbare.
This last factor may be the origin of their assertion that “Captain Barnacle is a creature of the night” – a phrase that has a peculiar resonance for parish councillors and deacons. However it may be that the simple fact that he is, in reality, out and about more obviously during the night, is enough to remove the inverted commas and turn the criticism into an observation.
Some refining of the idea might help. Captain Barnacle is especially a creature of the warm summer night. On such a night, the sea-town is held in the air by the force of dreams of faded seawashed driftwood spars; frames; orange-peel;
Delabole slate; terracotta tiles; Paynes grey skies, windworn rocks; sea worn pebbles; scrubbed sand; lichens; quoits and dracaenas as various as silks in a cabinet or an artists’ colour chart. Then, as the sun sets and the pasty shops clean down their shelves, the soft warmth of night insinuates its seductive aromas around the harbour. When the scent of hot tarmac, wallflowers, fish and chips, cigarette smoke and stale beer hang in the salt air like pheromones to the young men and women gathered like moths beneath coloured lights . When Pasties, suntan oil and peeling shutters shriven by the summer heat gift their perfumes to the sky as it turns from pale blue to indigo. When the people refuse the cadence of night and day and they try to stretch the day as if they could hold the tide at the rim of the horizon by sheer effort of will. Then Captain Barnacle will leave home and drive down the winding road through the town.
Captain Barnacle is also a creature of the winter night, of the harvest night, of the night of mourning. He is both Captain of the Feast and solitary figure at the graveside. “Amen to that!” he cries, and the deacons and the parish councillors murmur damp threats and plan horrible revenge. They will whip him with scorpions, they say, and Elder Bell keeps a whole nest of them behind the shop where he keeps the flick knives and condoms for the local lads.
Truth to tell, I think Captain Barnacle is a bit frightening. The smell of his armpits and the acrid greatcoat speak of other adventures and happenings that aren’t so good. In fact they’re everything the deacons say. Sometimes he puts his hands deep down into his greatcoat pockets and you can hear things scurrying around in there.
Some say that the Captain is exceedingly old, even as old as Adam himself and others maintain that he drifted into town in the nineteen sixties and never left. He might be some kind of extraordinary deity or he might be a beach-bum entrepreneur.
The beard is a nice thought. Nothing goes with a greatcoat like a beard, and a pipe. But this beard is different; so dense you could not hack your way through it with the sharpest billhook. A beard to occlude the sky and the clouds. A beard full of thorns and small nesting birds and fugitives hiding from justice. A beard full of things you tried to say and couldn’t. A grey beard with a golden stain that might come from poems spoken out loud or from roll-ups. It is impossible to imagine him without one and so I will give him one without fear of being accused of not really knowing him at all – and the length of his hair? Flowing, naturally, and long …. somewhat wavy and a tad greasy for some tastes.
And his stick? Why of course it’s a blackthorn shillelagh. Dark with age and cured for a year in a dung heap wrapped in oiled cloth to make it harder and more resilient and made by a man called Rex who’d scoured the hedges near the riverside for exactly the right conjunction of root (for handle) and shaft; donned his thickest gloves against the thorns and sawn it off – unique and precious; polished it to a glow and weighted it with lead so that it balanced at exactly one third of the way down where – if needs be – Captain Barnacle would hold it in order to administer stern correction if the deacons came after him on the heath, in the dark.
I guess this is a kind of Solstice card – although it’s been a gloomy, cold and wet day; the kind you’re happiest to see the back of. I woke up at 4.00am with a dream in which the only thing I remember is someone or something saying “you can’t argue with a blackthorn”. I have no idea what that was about except that it’s impossible to force your way through a thicket of them because they’re so horribly spiny. Equally the fruits are completely unapproachable unless steeped in sugar and gin. The other notable thing about the blackthorn is the folk name “blackthorn winter” which according to Geoffrey Grigson in “The Englishman’s Flora” (other genders are available), expresses an ancient association of plants with seasons. The links are more often to do with the medicinal properties or with the supernatural which often overlap. Mistletoe is listed in the same book with countless properties including aphrodisiac and as a “heal all” from the time of the earliest herbals, but Grigson takes a very dim view of the druidic movement as it freely invented folklore, irrevocably clouding the real history.
Actually a Lenten rose
There are others of course – outside the flat today we had winter jasmine, cyclamen and even a few hardy geraniums on the window ledge. Grigson’s pick included the Christmas Rose and of course holly and ivy, traditionally brought indoors in winter to protect the woodlands for spring. I haven’t got a picture of a Christmas rose, which is the white flowered variety but in the same family the Lenten rose was in flower on the allotments today and is a member of the buttercup family; traditionally grown next to the front door to ward off evil spirits.
The solstice manages to condense astronomy, folklore and pagan religion in a single moment of time which, today, was 15.03 so apologies for the late arrival of this greeting. Let’s hunker down now until the blackthorn appears.
We walk into the supermarket or log on to Amazon and it’s all there; the cornucopia, the works – everything the contented human being could possibly want. Except in times of scarcity, after snow or flood or during an epidemic when the shelves are empty and then we’re angry.
Yesterday we had a light frost. We walked down the steep slope to the allotment and the sun – we are almost at the winter solstice – transits behind a row of trees low in the sky – was unable to warm the soil on any of our plot. The overnight temperature according to the trailcam was 2C.
Our culture directs our instincts to want to take control. We have come to believe that each of us – apart from losers who don’t count – is some kind of tabula rasa on which we are free to inscribe whatever we want; fulfillment, creativity, success; even new and more attractive silicone lips. If you can be bothered you can easily test my hypothesis by counting how many times the word control crops up in an evening’s TV ads. Without adequate control, we are all smelly, leaky and horribly unattractive, betrayed by our unforgivable lack of the Big C which is always available – at a price – from a retailer near you.
The sad truth of course is that by the time you’ve been programmed to aspire harder and show the world who you really are it’s too late. You’ve already lost who you really are to the expensively curated simulacrum who gloats back at you in the mirror and demands more, more, and yet more.
If allotmenteering is even remotely therapeutic, as is universally claimed but rarely actually tested; it’s closer to psychoanalytic psychotherapy than that it is to happy days in the sunshine. We are not blank canvases and neither is the earth. Just as we have no retrospective agency with our appearance or with our childhood and past history, neither has the earth. The question we have to take to each session is – “why am I as I am?” “Why do I need to take control all the time?” and for any allotmenteer, and I know this may sound ridiculous, “why do I have such a complicated relationship with this patch of earth?” Why do weeds upset me so much? Why do I have this boundless fear of rats but not – let’s say – hedgehogs? Why did I feel I had to destroy anything that occupied my [?] allotment when I moved on to it. Why am I so obsessively protective of its boundaries? Why do I want so much to kill pests. What is it about badgers that I like most of the time, until they eat my sweetcorn?
If you look at the photograph at the top of this post, you may recognise one of the the tracks up the Blackdown ridge on Mendip. If by some mischance you were to inherit this lovely patch of earth you could decide to grow almost anything. You could decide but you wouldn’t succeed because this land has history; millions of years of it. Once upon a time it was at the bottom of the sea but now it’s at the top of a range of hills. The point where I stood when I took the photograph is above a deep layer of carboniferous limestone, and likely way under your feet there are still undiscovered cave systems. Rod’s pot, Read’s cavern are entered just beyond and below the horizon. Walk on half a mile and (unless you know your plants) you’d never know that you are standing on a cap of acidic sandstone. What will grow on one substrate won’t grow on the other so none of your controlling instincts will prevail. You’ll just have to go with the soil.
Our allotment is on the kind of soil called “clay loam” – we easily checked that with open source maps. This soil – when it’s in its natural state – will bind together in a ball due to its clay content. It’s naturally quite fertile but it can be hard to work when it’s dried out and you shouldn’t trample all over it when it’s wet. This immediately suggests working the allotment in beds, sufficiently narrow to reach from both sides. We also built deep paths filled with wood chip to drain away surplus water. We even tested the soil for pH – it was somewhere near the middle between acid and alkaline. Vegetables have strong preferences regarding soil types and where they prefer to grow. It sounds complicated but the point is that you can’t raze it flat and then flip through the seed catalogues hoping to grow anything you fancy. You have to negotiate if you don’t want to fail. We’re in a frost pocket at the bottom of a steep slope; that’s a problem. On the other hand we’re sheltered from the prevailing South-westerly winds by a row of trees. The plots at the top get a lot more sunshine but their sheds regularly blow down. We have to carry everything down a narrow path to our plot, but we’re pretty well out of sight from the main track which makes it so much easier for compost deliveries and thieves. Control is a fantasy when it comes to growing on an allotment. We can’t order the weather, put up notices to forbid allium leaf miner or asparagus beetle, or plan surpluses of apples which might, like this season, bless us and in others fail to appear or suffer from codling moth.
What goes on invisibly and under the surface of the soil is almost miraculous. Some thuggish plants will even resort to subterranean poisoning to get their own way while tiny nematodes and the smallest slugs can chomp away at the roots of your vegetables: …. “And little fleas have lesser fleas and so ad infinitum!” 95% of plants apparently have fungal relationships; none of these are visible to us, but their invisibility can’t make them invulnerable to the onslaught of chemicals we use to assert our control over pests and diseases, and I saw in the newspaper today that climate change and global heating are dramatically increasing the spread of pests and diseases, not to mention extreme weather events; storms and heatwaves. Fungicides and pesticides with artificial fertilisers have wrought havoc with the soil structure and depth. The earth is not a blank canvas and we can’t do as we please to it without compromising our own existence.
I recall a couple of farming proverbs that we’d do well to pay attention to:
Live as if you’re going to die tomorrow, farm as if you’re going to live forever
The farmer’s boot is the best fertilizer
If allotmenteering is therapeutic at all it’s in the way that it teaches us a kind of humility – the root of the word refers to humus the condition of the earth, the soil. Don’t try to control; accept, even embrace failure and success as two sides of the same coin. The urge to subdue, to dominate and to control isn’t new, it goes back to the creation myths of the Old Testament as does the subjugation of Eve to Adam. We reject the second of those myths and we should equally turn away from the first.
Have you ever noticed that gardeners are often really nice people? Is it the therapy of crumbling the earth between your fingers, watching a robin feed on grubs you’ve just exposed and watching the clouds for rain ? or is it perhaps the botox injections? Hmm – that’s a tough one!
It’s the month, if not the day of reckoning on the allotment and two days before the solstice marks the turning of the seasons. After a terrible summer and regular visits to the hospital we almost gave it up, but we’re both so glad now we are both miles better that we didn’t. If you’re new to allotmenteering you need to know that as well as all the close to nature / mother earth stuff there are times when you would just like to walk away. Gardening – as I’ve often said – is a dialogue with the crops, the earth, the weather, the pests and the weeds and sometimes we can hardly get a word in edgeways. Lesson number one in allotmenteering is that you’ll never win them all. The price of fresh air and fresh veg is that you have to accept occasional failures and even (thankfully rarely) vandalism. The boards that edged our beds ten years ago have gone rotten in many places and would cost a lot of money to replace. The couch grass and bindweed that we vanquished by deep digging when we took the plots on have crept back because their rhizomes laughed at drought and just went deeper. So this autumn we’ve had to repeat some of the jobs we thought we put behind us for good.
Going organic is relatively easy if you just mean no chemicals, but no-dig can be hard if you’re dealing with weed infestations. We don’t let the perfect drive out the good and so this autumn we declared war on the weeds even if it meant digging some of them out. Fortunately, couch grass and bindweed – our biggest problem – are quite lazy and they’ve tended to use our wood chip paths as highways; making them very easy to pull out. However they also creep in from the edges and on to the beds and then we dig every few years. Yes of course the structure of the upper layer is precious, but the couch in particular produces chemical substances called allelochemicals which inhibit competition from nearby crop plants. Paths – it turns out – are great vectors of weed infestations and deserve as much attention as crop beds. Our paths were dug 18″ deep in the first place to provide drainage for the beds when filled with wood chips. They need topping up every year because the chips gradually rot down into rich black soil. Our soil is clay loam – we’re in a river valley so it’s alluvial and inclined to poach in wet weather. We’ve also got a spring running beneath several of the beds which can be as difficult as drought in the winter, especially for tree roots. One of my resolutions for the coming year is to have a go at water divining and see where they actually run.
As we refurbish the paths we use a heavy mattock – pictured on the left in the photo – to break up the surface and loosen the weed roots so they can be removed and burnt. Then we top up with wood chips and occasionally we go the whole hog and lay weed control mat on the cleared ground with wood chip on top. It’s one of those occasions when attention to detail is crucial and we try to remove every tiny fragment of rhizome.
The area in front of the greenhouse is getting the gold star treatment this year with a triple layer of cleared soil, cardboard, weed control mat and finally wood chip. The new autumn raspberry bed next to it has been given a thick layer of Jacob’s fleece from our friends in Brecon covered with yet more wood chip – we use many barrow loads of the stuff. Raspberries like warm feet. Last night we filmed the badger on the trailcam; digging away at the raspberry bed, presumably looking for the dead sheep. Apparently they will eat carrion if they’re really hungry, but this badger is as fat as we’ve ever seen. We’ve also recorded two cats, loads of rats and a pair of foxes. The rats are a constant nuisance but they’re creatures of habit and tomorrow, if the weather holds, I’ll be digging the narrow gap between the compost bins and the polytunnel to locate their nest and block it off.
The Mattock mattock design is as old as the hills and it’s used around the world for breaking up the earth before sowing. You might be tempted to get a lightweight version but the solid cast steel heavyweight is the one to go for, and don’t be afraid to give it some welly. As my grandfather always said, let the saw do the work and that applies to any tool equally well. Never economise on buying the best tools you can afford because they’ll more than pay for themselves in saved time, energy and painkillers.
We finally repaired the window of the vandalised shed a few weeks ago. We went to a specialist glass company and I asked the price of a single sheet of the wired toughened glass. The man on the desk said “before I cut it I’ll tell you how much it will cost” – it would have been well over £100 and I said I could buy a new shed for not much more. So we settled for a different type of toughened glass at a third of the price. Isn’t it a shame that we have to resort to such precautions against vandalism? Anyway it looks miles better than it did with an old compost bag flapping away in the wind.
Going back to the subject of digging, I’d really recommend getting hold of the two tools in the photo above if you’ve got very heavy or stony soil. The spade is quite expensive – around £50 and known as a groundbreaker. It’s very strong with a pointed, heavy and polished stainless steel blade and it was a revelation as we cleared the allotment. It really does make digging easier. It’s based on the traditional Cornish spade design which has a long straight shaft and no handle and is universally used by gravediggers who know a thing or two about digging deep holes in stony ground!
All the other tools will come with time, and you’ll learn how important it is to buy the tools and use the techniques that suit you and your own patch of earth. I’d suggest a wheelbarrow with foam filled tyres and a large capacity will be useful and then, as need arises you can buy all sorts of other useful tools – not just the hideously expensive, hand made, damascus steel Japanese trowels without which some gardening celebrities wouldn’t plant a broad bean.
And possibly the most important lesson is that plant breeders know a thing or two about pests and diseases and use their knowledge to produce blight resistant, disease resistant, pest resistant, and now drought resistant strains of all manner of vegetables. Don’t be sucked into the heritage vegetable trap as an automatic first choice. Don’t rush out and buy a Cox’s Orange Pippin just because it’s a heritage variety when there are much better yielding and better tasting varieties out there with greater disease resistance. Look around and take some advice because there are lovely old apples and pears out there that don’t need spraying every five minutes and won’t fall over in a dead faint when they get a bit of frost. And good luck – you can throw away those vitamin D tablets and get some of the hard stuff straight out of the sky.
