I use the Welsh name of the Brecon Beacons because that’s what they’re called, and those who object to the correct name are all too often readers of the kind of newspapers that think their role in life is to incite incandescent fury against foreigners of any sort. We have a favourite campsite here that’s close enough to home to be extremely accessible and also fabulous for walks and wildlife. We drove in yesterday and had a brew up and then listened to 13 species of bird in barely half an hour. Dare I make a list? – Blackbird, Chiffchaff, Robin, Grey Wagtail, Mistle Thrush, Blue Tit, Dunnock, Blackcap, Garden Warbler, Wood Pigeon, Goldfinch, House Sparrow, and Raven – all without getting off my chair. Then the braver among the birds swept in while we cooked and ate every crumb of cake that we’d left there for them.
We are escaping from a difficult week with the builders who are treating our black mould; or rather not treating it because they have the habit of scarpering whenever an easier or more profitable job comes up. It’s been five weeks and goodness how many emails and they still haven’t fixed the shutters after they broke them. There was a building firm in Swindon years ago who operated out of a Morris 100o van and called themselves “Bodgit and Scram”. I imagine their slogan was you know where you stand with us!
Anyway on Wednesday we’d been invited to a “Founders Lunch” at Spike Island, the increasingly well-known artists’ studios on the floating harbour in Bristol where I was to make a short speech about how we’d set it up fifty years ago. Madame and I had put an ad in the local paper and asked any artists in the area who needed a studio to join us at an open meeting and we were astonished at the numbers who not only came but were prepared to pay rent on our imaginary studios while we looked for somewhere cheap enough to build them. It’s a long story that travels from flat broke to manageable overdraft and from fractious meetings to – well, probably even more fractious meetings because creatives don’t readily work cooperatively until there’s no alternative. Strangely and beautifully we went back on Wednesday and were greeted by many old friends who’d been tracked down by Bruce and Novvy Allan and discovered that the original artist-led community of our dreams is still alive and kicking. It was a powerful moment to be reunited with a part of our own history which we’d moved on from many years ago. As I said in my speech – it made me feel very proud and very old! Travelling by train – it’s so much quicker – we decided to walk over to Spike Island passing the house we lived in while I was curate at St Mary Redcliffe and then caught the M2 metrobus back to the station after the event finished. It was a beautiful sunny day for walking and after the speeches which encompassed past present and future plans we had a lovely meal in the cafe – prepared by Josh Ecclestone and his team, and some equally good sparkling wine from the Limekiln Hill vineyard. We don’t drink any more but in this instance I drank half a small glass of their biodynamic wine and it was big – if you know what I mean. It was a lovely thank-you. I haven’t kept in touch with the project as much as I should, in fact the last time I heard from anyone connected with it was a solicitor’s letter from a company I’d never heard from threatening to sue me for 1 million pounds worth of damage by a frozen water pipe in the old building. I replied and said “go ahead, I haven’t got two halfpennies to rub together” and the matter was dropped.
Anyway, here we are again in God’s Own Country taking a day’s break before we go for a walk tomorrow to look for interesting plants. In Spring, every plant looks beautiful before the insects, rusts, galls and smuts get to work. Either way they’re fascinating and remind me – as if I needed reminding – that nature is in constant motion and nothing, no-one, lasts for ever.
Hawthorn in its pristine state before the “catastrophe of life” takes hold.
Four consecutive days of wall-to-wall sunshine should have reminded me that the spring equinox – not the boring Met Office one but the proper mobile one – isn’t always on the same day. So we missed it entirely while we worked on the allotment. When I was a schoolboy I was invariably referred to by one teacher as “rod pole or perch” – an ancient system of length measurement which lingered on the back of our exercise books along with acres, chains and gills. Equinox is at least based on an observable measure – the day nearest to offering an equality of time between night and day. Easter, of course does its thing based on a 13 month moon cycle defying all logic and creating great hazard for those who always plant their potatoes on Good Friday. I love it: the sheer irrationality of it all defying the tidiers-up makes me smile.
Anyway we were so busy on the allotment that the equinox passed us by and bang on time I’m driven back to the same old question – why is nature so good for us that it distracts us even from marking the (old) beginning of spring? After the winter we’ve had, I can’t begin to say how lovely it’s been to feel the sun on our backs at last. Coming back home every day with our muscles aching and fingers creaking you might think a bit counterintuitive to make a fuss about it. But the allotment offers one small part of our lives over which we have almost complete agency. In an existence filled with expectations from every quarter; bills; health problems and you name it – the allotment is an oasis in which we get to choose what to do without having to bend to the cold winds of authority. There are rules of course but they’re mostly common sense and neighbourliness. Nobody pays any attention to the daft rules about the permitted colour of sheds and the precise percentage of flowers to veg that must be adhered to, and as any Welsh poet will say; rules are the primrose path to creativity.
Anyway, the business of agency is a key concept for achieving eudaimonia – true, deep, happiness. We spent a lot of time this week planning how to move the compost bins and turn them into raised beds, how to move two water butts from one optimal position to another even optimal-er one. We ordered our seeds, decided our priorities and prepared beds for sowing and planting out in the next few weeks. Each day we felt that little bit stronger and we thanked the weather gods for their generosity as we always must.
Being perpetually hard-up we are free from fantasising about machinery and fencing to keep out badgers and people. Every bit of mulch has to be planned and transported down the bumpy path and, expecting the weather to be unexpected much of the time, we develop a kind of radical patience thanking nature for her unexpectedly generous lessons. The bee at the top for instance is not a bee at all but a fly; a dronefly- in fact a Furry Dronefly. I’m not an entomologist but a handy app on my phone helps me to sound cleverer than I really am. “Shame on you” cry the gathered deacons with their withered knowledge and multiple imagination-sucking certainties. But I’ve got other things, better things to do – like learning Welsh and cooking lovely meals and so I’m content to make an assisted guess now and again.
Well of course it goes to the Morel which suddenly appeared at the back of the polytunnel. A quick tour around the internet – (my books only say what it is) – suggests that firstly it’s fiendishly difficult to grow artificially and secondly that it may be in a mycorrhizal relationship with the row of apples growing a few feet away. I just thought that it was a wonderful and serendipitous gift from the wild gods which will be joining some shop-bought distant cousins in a risotto tomorrow. It’s one of the rare spring fruiting fungi and I’ve never seen it before. The other spring fungus is the St George’s mushroom which we’ve gathered and eaten in the past but these days we’ve given up foraging them . In fact a couple of friends have developed strong allergies to them after many years.
An allotment update
Elsewhere on the allotment, spring seems to have sprung after a couple of false starts. While I was feeding the polytunnel strawberries which are already in flower, Madame picked an armful of rhubarb. The autumn raspberries that we planted last year are poking through their sheeps wool and wood chip mulch, and the top fruit trees are all very close to flowering – which may be a problem because we had our second real frost of the winter last night – so we hope they keep their flowers cosy and wrapped for a while yet. The soft fruit too is growing away fast, and my rescued blackberry cultivar is at last showing signs of outgrowing its infant problems. The Tayberry is, as always, growling with excitement.
After the recent wet weather the pond is full to the brim once more and the other surprise today was the amount of flower on the clematis which has sulked for five years and seems to have got its roots down at last. Notwithstanding the label it looks very like a Clematis montana to us.
The Equinox is next week and then the builders are coming to connect the kitchen and bathroom vents to the outside world – that’s after ten years of black mould and constant letters. I was beginning to wonder if we’d live to see the day!
Madame and I were sitting in bed today, reading peacefully – she on her tablet and I was immersed in a book by Jan Morris called “The Matter of Wales” the title being a playful use of language in order to indicate the substance, the deep matter of the country. The book was mentioned in Carwyn Graves book “Tir” which I’ve now finished and recommend without reservation as a gentle pushback against some of the more extreme (destructive) advocates of rewilding. For Carwyn Graves the Welsh landscape embodies the history of Wales for better and for worse. History is written in the soil, the rocks and fields; the livestock, the farmers and their lives but especially in their stories and poetry. It’s a beautiful book, and completely by accident I met one of his interviewees in the pub in Bwlch but we only talked about our experiences as writers for the then local Bristol newspapers. As soon as I saw his name in the book I recognised my lost opportunity to talk to an award winning maker of perry – pear cider.
The two books – Graves and Morris take interestingly different approaches to their subject. The landscape for Carwyn Graves is perfused with recollections of the old ways; a form of living history and its lessons for us in the present day. For Jan Morris the landscape is a living being; writhing, roiling, joyful and melancholy by turns. The history here is inscribed in lives lived in the landscape. She’s a magnificent writer on Wales.
So there we were (I mean Madame and me!) in bed reading and we have rules. Silences are only broken by mutual consent – “can I just play this ?….. ” Today she played an old recording of Pentangle – the brilliant Bert Jansch, John Renbourn, Danny Thompson and Jacqui McShee with others – and in something of a Damascus moment I realized I’d left out music, and in what Flann O’Brien would have called a “Keats and Chapman” moment (without the terrible pun at the end); the whole landscape opened in front of me as if I were stood on a mountain top seeing the plains below receding in aerial perspective until the faint blue landscape reached the sea. Of course, you idiot! I thought -it’s language, history, literature, poetry, art, religion, drama and music. It’s the art of the kitchen table and the blackened pot suspended by its crân dân (fire crane) over a crackling fire, the blacksmith, the spinner and weaver, the shepherd, the singer and the traditional doctor, the understanding of plants, the wood carver and the brewer. One of the most inspiring paragraphs in Carwyn James ‘ book is his explanation of the way that in Welsh the word for culture isn’t the cocked finger, class ridden culture from across the Severn – but it also embodies all of the undertakings of ordinary people to advance the experience of being human. So emboldened by this thought I made some coffee, went into my room and guided by some odd instinct searched out a small book about Welsh folk medicine. I’ve known about the Physicians of Myddfai for many years in a more or less superficial way but I had no idea where Myddfai actually is. I had a strong idea of what I was intending to write but (as ever) no idea of how it would shape up so (also) as ever I hunted for a suitable photograph and came up with one I took of one of the three reservoirs which accompany the A470 across the Bannau Brycheiniog passing Pen y Fan. We stopped in a layby there for a brew-up and were joined by a couple of bikers from Merthyr Tydfil on their way to a campsite near Brecon. It seemed to me at the time that this was a near perfect view, but as I looked for the village of Myddfai on the OS map today, thinking to include the physicians who came from that area, I realised that the village was no more than a couple of valleys to the west of where I took the photo, and furthermore the foundational story/myth of these physicians involved a meeting between a farmer and a beautiful water goddess near a lake just like the one in the photograph.
My question would be – is it even possible to understand a landscape or a word in isolation from its whole culture. Many years ago we travelled by ferry and bus down to a small hamlet in southern Ireland for a holiday with friends. One of the friends owned a holiday cottage down there and knew some of the local people. One night we were introduced to two brothers who lived alone in a fairly squalid cottage just up the lane. The two brothers shared a bottle of Guinness with us and clearly thought we were pretty wealthy on account of one of us wearing a new pair of Docs. I had taken a small tape recorder with me and they told stories and sang songs to us provided we returned the offer with songs of our own. Our companions suffered a sudden attack of elective mutism and I sang a supporters song from Bristol Rovers which seemed to please them no end. Just to give a flavour of their lives, they told us that they had advertised in the Cork Examiner for a wife that they would share between them. The ad also generously noted that a pre-existing child would not be an obstacle! Anyway, it became very clear that their stories and songs of the Famine, and of the IRA battles of the past – not to mention a disastrous storm from some time in the distant past – all existed in their minds as if in the present. They sang and spoke of them as if they were still actually happening. It was a powerful example of what I’ve been thinking about in relation to Wales.
The photograph at the top was taken the day after my retirement ten years ago. I remember the journey because our youngest phoned just after the photo was taken with some kind of crisis and we had to abandon our plans and drive back to Bristol where we were still living. The photo and the memory belong together and can’t be separated.
So here I am ten years on, firmly resolved finally to speak and read Welsh. But the conglomeration of these thoughts has led me to the inevitable conclusion that this project goes much further than learning a bit of grammar and some words. The project is a kind of total immersion into the language; the broad culture, history and all the rest, in order that – finally again – I can see the Welsh plants in their broadest meanings, and I can see Welsh food and poetry, history and song as the Hegarty brothers saw their corner of southern Ireland – as essential to their humanity – daft and cruel as that might have seemed at the time. This is what I mean by using the phrase “learning by immersion” because it’s the absolute prerequisite for deep connection with any place in the world.
I’ve done a bit with the words already and I’m pleased to be able to write and say “good morning dragon” in Welsh, although I doubt if there will be any opportunities to use it, and so I’ve switched over to a different but well-connected course which is filling me equally with terror and hope. I can already say most of “I would like to learn to speak Welsh” without having to take a lie down in the middle. Madame has banned me from doing any practice in her presence. Oh and I’ve bought some – well quite a lot of – books. Learning by immersion, you see.
The first basin on the K & A drained for maintenance today to the bewilderment of a heron.
Looking for a photo to kick this post off I did a search and was astounded at the hundreds of pictures I’ve taken in Welsh landscapes over the years but this one fell into my lap, walking along the Kennet and Avon canal in central Bath. There’s a bigger frame of reference than English can express and it coalesces around a wonderful Welsh idea; the concept of “hiraeth”. I hesitate to call it a word because its reach extends far beyond its seven letters.
Derived from hir (long) and aeth (grief/sorrow), it combines nostalgia with a sense of grief or longing and it is considered a cornerstone of Welsh identity, reflecting a longing for lost traditions, language, or landscape. It refers to a deep, often melancholy longing for a home or time that cannot be revisited. (Google Gemini search)
I must add at the outset that I have a very limited knowledge of the Welsh language, but I learned to pronounce Welsh place-names when I was helping to run some worker-writer’s workshops in the valley towns several decades ago. Neither Ian, my co-worker or I had a car and so we did all our travelling by train and bus and to avoid entertaining the other passengers I managed to learn how to learn to pronounce Welsh place-names properly. When confronted with a destination like Ystradgynlais it paid dividends to know how to pronounce it – even if the rest of the conversation was in English. I was once even congratulated on my pronunciation by a Welsh speaking farmers wife on Lleyn and I long for the day when I’ll be brave enough to wish the shopkeeper good morning in Welsh somewhere in North Wales without the paralysing fear of being replied to in the same language. My old Greek tutor Gerry Angel always said there were only two languages in the world worth learning – Greek and Welsh – and I’ve never had enough time to learn Welsh until (perhaps) now. I eventually passed the (New Testament) Greek exam.
A language is the matrix in which the culture of a country and its people is contained, and it follows that there are certain ideas, emotions and concepts that can’t be translated except by severing them from their context, history and memory. It also follows that there are things that can be said in Welsh that can’t be said in English. Learning Welsh, it seems to me, would entail embedding myself in the whole history and culture of the land rather than mastering the superficial meaning of even a few thousand words.
I’m familiar with this in my own experience because my native English tongue is from Gloucestershire where – as a child – we still used “thee, you and thou” – a habit that the teachers did their best to beat out of us. Anyway, they’re a most useful set of words because they convey degrees of familiarity Like the French vou and tu leaving “you” with an association of hostility and suspicion. When I first went to work as a labourer in a steel erecting firm, I was always (young, dumb and hairy) addressed as “you”. We also had a version of what the linguists call a soft mutation which is very common in Welsh. For us, the tram roads carrying coal from Coalpit Heath were always known as “dram roads”. If you were encouraging someone from the sidelines it would be “go ‘ee’ – a shortened form of “thee”. You don’t learn any of these informal grammar rules through books, you learn them from use. I’ve told this story before, but I buy all our rough sawn wood for the allotment from a timberyard near where I was born. Just talking to the counter staff there is to be transported back to my own history and sense of place, so – going back to the beginning of that long excursus, “hiraeth” is the perfect word to describe that sense of loss. The thousands of acres of farmland I walked over and played on as a child are all built over. My childhood territory is dissected by a ring road and a motorway and the brickworks and pitheads have all, bar a few crumbling walls, disappeared along with out unique dialect and the last few miners have died. The abundant methodist chapels are gone or converted into fashionable homes for incomers. The railway lines have become cyclepaths – a muggers’ paradise; predators on unwary cyclists and walkers. The Pines Express no longer thunders through the triangular junction. There’s no way back. Without land, language, culture or memories we are adrift without even our own word to describe the melancholy of it.
I’ve just started reading a marvellous book by Carwyn Graves (grovelling apologies for getting both his name and gender wrong yesterday) – entitled “Tir” – the Welsh word embodying the associated meanings of land types within Wales. I’ve got both of his previous two books, “Welsh Food Stories” and “Apples of Wales” and they both approach their subjects through the prism of Welsh history and culture. “Tir” casts a ray of light on all sorts of puzzling phenomena around landscapes – for instance – why are so many Welsh farmers deeply suspicious of the idea of rewilding? The answer is compelling and fascinating and would serve admirably as a push-back against rewilding as an abandonment of thousands of years of farming history. I’ve still got some way to go before finishing reading about all seven types of landscape – each expressed in a different word. It’s a marvellous book and I can’t recommend it too highly. It’s sent me back to the maps and dictionaries I’ve bought over the years but never fully understood and it’s also sent me back to seriously considering learning the language.
After ten years of complaining to our landlord about damp and black mould in our concrete building they’ve finally agreed to start doing the remedial work; installing ventilation extractor fans and mould proofing the walls as well as making good the botched plastering in a couple of rooms. The work is going to take a week so we’re moving out and we’ve rented a cottage high up in the Bannau Brycheiniog near the top of the next valley along from the photo. It looks like absolute paradise – the long road up leads past an abandoned asylum and a nature reserve and sits below the highest peak in the Eastern range. We’ve walked it before and it’s not in the least pretty – a big bog with a stone in the middle – but there’s a walk leading down from it to the main road that’s absolutely breathtaking. I’ve already got my plant lists ready and organised thanks to Notebook LM which happily did the work of processing a heap of data. When in despair, make a list, learn a language, read a book. It works for me!
Anxiety can be an awful burden, but when Madame suggested that we might clear off to old town Malaga for three weeks next February I saw the beauty of the idea at once. Our February break in Cornwall this year was completely overshadowed by rain and storms and although we summoned up the good old blitz spirit like proper Brits; even we were unconvinced by our stoicism. So yes – we both thought – renew the passports (we haven’t been to Europe in a decade since a 2000 mile adventure – crossing the Pyrenees in our tiny car three times). Never mind the health insurance says Madame; we’ll get an apartment with a kitchen in the centre of old Town then we won’t have to take a car, and (all in one breath) we can shop at the market, cook our own food and catch trains and buses and ……
Well yes, we’ve been there a few times and it’s lovely and also T shirt warm in February half-term week and we can eat lots of tapas. Last time we went, we read a glowing review for a tiny tapas bar and went to take a look during the day. As it happened, the owner was just sweeping outside and Madame accosted him and asked (rather firmly) if a space could be found for us that night. The owner caved in without a fight, and that evening we passed a long and hostile queue and settled down for some of the best tapas we’d ever eaten. I got talking to one of the locals and he said “he only let you in because you’re English!”
We found an equally good restaurant in Old Town who were offering a taster menu of local delicacies – about ten courses. I should have known better than to order two of them, but I’m a sucker. I was only thrown by the ninth course which appeared to be a pair of gigantic bull’s testicles but which were actually stuffed squid. Anyway sadly – if you’re off in that direction any time soon. (there’s a photo of the place at the top here) – a quick internet search suggests that it’s probably under new management twelve years on, so you’d need to make sure it’s still offering the amazing and totally retro service. But thanks, Hugh Whatley for a brilliant memory.
We happened to be in Malaga on Valentine’s Day that time and we treated ourselves to a meal in the rooftop restaurant at the AC Hotel where the waiter took a shine to us and insisted on treating us to two disabling large brandies on the house. That same week, we were in our room when we heard a strange noise and we raced down to the waterfront where watched and listened to a large marching band processing in a very slow march, while rehearsing for the Ash Wednesday parade. It was almost overwhelmingly emotional even to a case-hardened old pro like me to be in the midst of a performance of such ancient Christian street theatre.
Anyway, all that plus roasted almonds in the street and the quite wonderful Alcazaba Islamic palace and fortress, made Madame’s suggestion a definite yes. Except, that is, until I had the dream last night when my enthusiasm shriveled and puckered like a birthday balloon and I woke as a definite maybe.
We were there together in a market and then suddenly we weren’t together any more. Madame had disappeared on one of her customary missions without mentioning where she was going. I’m very used to it but in an English supermarket she’s easier to find. In the dream it wasn’t easy at all, and as I penetrated further and further into the market it seemed the the stalls were less and less crowded and I could see more of the building, even in the increasing darkness. It closely resembled an Escher painting but although I had my phone in my hand, for some unaccountable reason I decided not to photograph the complex of interwoven brick arches. Before long it was black and I was becoming increasingly anxious without Madame and frankly lost. Then I spotted a crack of light and a door and I left the mysterious market and entered another village market complete with flower stalls. Desperate to contact Madame I grabbed my phone just as I met a rather nice horse. I stroked his nose and without hesitation the horse swallowed my phone. I was aghast; lost in an unknown village without a phone or any clue as to how to get back to where we started. I recall waiting and mercifully the horse vomited up my phone, or rather only half of it, which was the point at which I woke up. For reasons I can’t be bothered to explain I need to take one of my several medications at 4.00am. I’ve got used to it but it does mess up some good dreams.
In my eyes that was the kind of premonitory dream I might have shared with my therapist Robin back in the day, but I knew him well enough to know he’d only throw it back at me and say “What do you think it means?” Well I think it means that we’re just like everyone else. Life is ephemeral and vulnerable and can’t be saved for later like a pension scheme; and what better way of rounding off our lives together than having fun doing what we love while we can still do it.
Today we passed a photo booth where you can get passport photos for a fiver and we both paused but said nothing. I think we’ll be back – however it was a black horse. I hope it got indigestion!
The problem when the Potwell Inn goes on tour is that our plans for a break out invariably involve quite a few bits of kit. So a week before we set out, and perfused with optimism, we attempt to stow as many things as we could possibly need into our little (and rather old) car. The car itself needs plenty of TLC, and the campervan cost us more to run this year than an upmarket old people’s home. So this trip is by car – which entailed getting the brakes serviced and the windscreen wipers replaced in honour of the exceptionally gloomy weather predictions. The forecasts also make most of our longed for plans unattainable so we’ve also packed (just in case) for reading, drawing, mothing, botanizing and watching a load of films on DVD that we seem to remember we enjoyed at the time.
The packing has involved four quite different scenarios. The first is to spend the time walking hand in hand through dappled sunshine; finding and recording rare plants by the dozen. The second is to work our way through our collection of DVD’s and the third is to read a load of pretty impenetrable books. Options two and three may also include lively moments of conflict due to the cramped environment. Alongside all this intellectual stimulation there is the hope that the nights will be mild and windless enough to make a list of moths attracted to the new moth trap. A quick bit of research suggests that with nothing more than a gentle zephyr from a warm quarter and either a bucket of home made sugaring solution or a prolific ivy bush in flower outside the door we may even find a few volunteers for ID including some migrants without appropriate mothy passports. Madame has also packed a large quantity of paper and drawing equipment.
This one’s a 200 mile drive to the Lizard in the extreme South West of Cornwall; proper – next stop America territory. So cameras, head torch, GPS unit and hand lenses are all charged up, the boots are oiled and waterproofed and the laundry revived after the unexpected flood caused by a broken washing machine – is there a theme here? The quills were sharpened; the oak-gall ink and hand-made nettle paper were prepared (maybe I told a tiny lie there). The heat dryer passed silently, surrounded by its favourite washing at the end of December and rather like the two elderly ladies in Laurie Lee’s “Cider with Rosie” the washing machine went into terminal decline when the dryer died. So it was an interesting week.
Madame made pasties on Wednesday last to get our palates tuned for the reckless beauty of Cornish haute cuisine. Stargazy Pie and White Pudding come to mind. We’re working our way through an endless series of named storms and it seems perfectly possible that we’ll have gone through the alphabet by the end of February, so It’s a long way to drive to have your dreams dashed by Storm Zelah. On the other hand when you’re young and madly in love everything is lovely. Sadly we’ve moved on from that bit – well, at least the young bit. Wish us luck!
While Madame was pruning she was joined by a pair of robins
Yesterday we finished all the pruning except for a couple of dangerously barbed gooseberries which demand thicker gloves than we had with us. It’s the tenth anniversary year of the first allotment – the one where Madame is standing, on the day we were offered it; 14th April 2016. I think she’s looking a bit dubious. It seemed as if it had a long history of abandonment – each successive tenant adding a new player of plastic sheet, carpet, children’s’ toys and even a bicycle dumped in the wooden compost bin behind her. There was a random and unidentifiable tree and some raspberry canes but other than that it was Couch grass, Cocksfoot and Bindweed all the way.
We decided that the only way to get on top of it was to beast it and so, where we could get at the surface layers of plastic we pulled them out. The carpet was harder – not that it deterred the weeds – and so we strimmed the whole plot, burnt it off with several passes of our big flame gun and then double dug it. None of these, of course, were the kind of methods we were hoping to use, but kindness and no- dig organic treatments don’t bother the kind of weed infestation we were dealing with. Neither, by the way, does glyphosate which (apart from being carcinogenic), barely gives the weeds a headache. The raspberries were old and clapped out and so after a couple of seasons we replaced them. The exact spot where Madame was standing is where we now have the fruit garden in the top photo whose blackcurrants we pruned yesterday. The soil wasn’t bad at all, but inclined to ball up in wet weather – it’s alluvial clay loam – and since we moved on to the plot we’ve added what must be tons of compost and manure. The battle with the weeds never ends, of course, because the more we feed the soil the more they like it. We try to keep on top of the weeds in the fruit garden by feeding, mulching with fleece which we get from our friends smallholding in the Bannau Brycheiniog and then covering the whole lot with wood chip. The fleece disappears in a year, shared with nesting birds who especially like it for lining nests, and the wood chip also rots down surprisingly fast. This creates a loose covering mulch of about six inches above the mineral soil layer from which we can pull out the bindweed by hand. It’s terribly invasive but it’s also lazy enough to take the easy route. True to our original plan the whole plot has been organic and largely no-dig for the last ten years.
The second plot came to us a year later and that one was a world of pain from the outset. Apart from the previous tenant who was evicted for not maintaining it and made regular nocturnal visits to steal and vandalize by way of revenge; there were no less than three layers of nylon carpet in successive strata. You can see from the photo just how useless carpet is as a long term weed control method. The weeds simply grow through it, consolidating its rot-proof woven base with roots. If you look closely at couch grass roots, you’ll notice that they end in a spear which can pass through the smallest holes – including those in a thick weed control mat. We used the same strim / firestorm plus double digging technique and in time it yielded to our determination. The two plots are next door to one another and together amount to about the same area as an old-school “ten rod” allotment plot of about 250 square metres – enough to feed a family of four.
Allotments are the perfect antidote to the next-day delivery culture which saturates our online culture. The very fastest of crops take six weeks from sowing in perfect conditions; an asparagus bed takes at least three years and an orchard ten years except for Damsons which can take up to fifteen to reach full productivity. In the past ten years our plots have reached some kind of maturity. They look and feel like grown-up plots now they’ve adjusted to the way we use them. There’s always a choice to be made between artificially rushing crops and letting them take their time. In the end I suspect it’s as good for us – developing our patience and resilience – as it is for the crops which need time to give their fullest flavours.
Jam tomorrow promises are traditionally used by politicians as a smokescreen for the fact that they’ve neither the means or the will to fulfill them. The phrase was first used by Lewis Carroll in Alice through the Looking Glass. Pie in the sky might be a similar kind of promise. But jam tomorrow really means something in the Potwell Inn allotment, because the work that we did yesterday will bear fruit and hopefully some blackcurrant jam in the late summer. Pruning encourages a bigger crop by opening out the bush to light and air and by removing the old, non-fruiting stems, to keep the size of the bush under control. On Friday I discovered a cache of blackcurrant jam in a cardboard box which – had it been outside in a shower of rain – would definitely have had a rainbow leading to it.
We bought this book in the 1960’s and have used it ever since.
We’ve got ten trees on our plot – apples, pears, plums, and damsons; plus blackcurrants, redcurrants, whitecurrants, tayberries, blackberries and strawberries. All of them need various different types of pruning and in the case of the strawberries, of propagation. Of course they’ll grow, however neglected they are but they won’t thrive. Since they all bear fruit in a short summer season we spent almost equal amounts of time bottling, pickling, freezing, jamming, drying and making cordials. You might wonder if it isn’t all a massive waste of time when Sainsbury’s are a five minute walk away – and unless you grow your own you’ll never know just how wonderfully rich the taste of freshly picked vegetables can be. We’re not wealthy but we live like kings!
If you knew how many times a Cox apple needed to be sprayed in a season to make it supermarket perfect, you’d probably never eat another, unless you picked it yourself from an organic orchard. We don’t grow them because of their need for sprays. But we can grow lovely apples that are bred for disease resistance, just as we grow tomatoes and potatoes that are bred for blight resistance.
The food industry has a stranglehold on almost all western politics and the introduction of novel ingredients to the food we eat may be reflected in the growth of diseases that reflect it. But it’s not new. My friend Howard – a Brooklyn New Yorker, remembers his childhood when bottled milk smelt of formaldehyde. Food adulteration at a criminal level has always been present; flour being particularly vulnerable to additions like ground chalk . Wherever there’s a profit to be made, there will be an unprincipled supplier who’s willing to exploit it. If you want to eat safely, growing an allotment or a garden is one simple way of ensuring that at least some of your diet is unadulterated. Sometimes the boldness is astounding.
I’ve been reading a marvellous book on fungi by Brian Spooner and Peter Roberts in the Collins New Naturalist Library series. It’s an absolutely comprehensive introduction to all things fungal, from athletes’ foot to fly agarics and includes an eye opening section on “food,folklore and traditional use” which reads:
Cudbear was a commercial enterprise started in 1758 in Edinburgh by one George Gordon, who originally called his new dye ‘cuthbert’ after his mother’s maiden name. The manufactory moved to Glasgow where up to 250 tons of Ochrolechia tartarea [a lichen found in Scotland] were processed annually, originally collected from the Highlands and islands, but later imported from Scandinavia, the Canary Islands, and Malta. The ammonia used in processing the dye was distilled from Glaswegian urine, of which no less than 2000-3000 gallons were required each day. The Glasgow manufactory closed in 1852, much to the dismay of Lindsay (1856) who hoped that a ‘revival and extension of this traffic would probably prove a great boon to that remnant of the Celtic race, which is fast disappearing from our shores’. Cudbear continued to be manufactured in small quantities in England up to the 1950s, most of it exported to the USA for use as a purple food colouring and for dyeing leather.
I think that when it comes to importing chlorinated chicken from the US, we’ll have got our revenge in first. “Another slice of Scottish purple iced piss cake, Bishop?”
Nature, as we understand it as gardeners, is far from natural but our massive intervention – even as organic gardeners – can be constructive or, as in the case of intensive farming, extremely damaging to the environment, and here I have a bit of a disagreement with some environmentalists about the way in which we present the dangers. I’m an amateur field botanist; that’s to say I go out with Madame on long walks – looking for plants and recording them. Occasionally we find something quite rare and that’s both rewarding and exciting. On one occasion we even found one of them growing on the allotment. It’s a tragedy when even one plant goes extinct, but it’s only a true tragedy for the handful of people who even know what it is. As CP Scott, nephew of the first editor of the Manchester Guardian would say to his journalists of a dud story – “it cracks no pots in Warrington” Interestingly – possibly only to me – he was born in Bath. If we want to convince people of the price we’ll pay for climate breakdown, we’re going to have to crack a few more pots – and not just in Warrington. The so-called green revolution offered to feed the poorer nations by selling them tractors, agrochemicals and (now patented) seeds – and it caused far more harm than good. Our own cheap food revolution is wreaking havoc with public health. Starvation, migration, flooding, extreme weather, the rise in diabetes and cancers – these are all pot cracking issues in Warrington whereas the extinction of a small population of plants halfway up a mountain is a symptom and not the core of the issue. The earth is showing symptoms of sickness and one of those symptoms is species extinction. What we have to do is to move the scientific symptom into the political debate and our government is showing no signs of moving beyond hand wringing to the kind of changes we need to achieve. The honest answer to people who worry about the cost of environmental change is that it’s going to be painful and expensive and we’re going to have to give up some things we’ve grown to depend on. But the alternative of continuing in the way we’ve been going is catastrophic. This critical debate, one way or another, is going to crack a lot of pots in Warrington and across the western world. The majority of us have little or no experience of growing our own food but we have everything to gain by learning.
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.
