I Had a Little Drink About Six Months Ago

Me in my pre-Pilsdon days

When I describe what life is like here to my friends back in the city they generally seem quite envious, up to the point that I mention that it’s an alcohol-free zone. They then tend to react with a mix of shock, pity and admiration, asking me how I’ve managed to survive for more than a few days and shaking their heads at the absurdity of them even imagining placing themselves in my wellies.

 

Since Pilsdon welcomes people with drug addictions, including alcohol, one of the strictest rules here is the drink ban. Not only are people not allowed to consume alcoholic beverages on the premises, they are not allowed to bring any on-site and neither must their breath ever smell of alcohol. If anyone is suspected of having taken any they are breathalysed and if found guilty, asked to leave. There was one extremely wet Friday when two wayfarers arrived soaked through having walked six miles from Bridport, planning to stay the weekend. Unfortunately one of them had been drinking that day, unaware of this rule, and so wasn’t allowed to stay. He could have returned the next day sober but sadly we didn’t see him again.

 

I like alcohol. When living in London I would have either some beer or wine nearly every day. It was the rule that whenever people met up for a chinwag, they would do so in a pub and buy each other a couple of pints. A convention at most of my workplaces was the Friday lunchtime pub meal, where we’d all head out for a burger and chips or a Thai curry, inevitably washed down with a fine ale. When invited round to a friend’s home for a meal, it would be the ultimate faux pas to arrive without a bottle of wine. Occasionally someone would organize a cocktail party at their flat and get everyone to bring different drinks - gin, rum, whisky and the various mixes. One particularly memorable night was the “Rocktail” party, in which we drank cocktails to the mellow tones of AC/DC and Rage Against The Machine. Alcohol was most definitely the social lubricant of choice amongst my circle.

 

So coming here I did wonder if the complete absence of said lubricant would be any kind of problem for me. Would I find that I had become addicted to the stuff without realising it and have to leave Pilsdon with my tail between my legs, returning to a life of insobriety? Thankfully it turns out that in an environment where nobody is drinking it or talking about it, I can, for the most part, just forget it exists. It’s more than made up for by the sensory overload of the delicious homegrown food, the beauty of the surrounding countryside, and the general rhythm of work and rest. I’m not saying that on a sunny evening I don’t occasionally think that a glass of local ale would go down very well, but (so far!) I’m able to shrug and forget about it.

 

For those residents who do have an alcohol addiction, it is clearly a very good place to be. One of our residents however, who’s over seventy now, hasn’t yet been able to commit to permanent abstinence and despite having lived here on and off for years, every few months will still disappear on a pretext of visiting a relative and spend several weeks on the road and on the bottle. It could be the wanderlust just as much as the need to imbibe, but whichever it is he hasn’t yet been able to settle down and give up the booze for good. (He was interviewed this week on a BBC Radio 4 programme called The Gentle Art of Tramping which focuses on Pilsdon. Listen to it here before Mon 17 Sep if you’re in the UK.)

 

As we deal with our apple harvest glut, it is a bit of a pity we can't make some cider along with the apple pies and crumbles. At least I can take heart that the next time I have to get up before sunrise to milk the cows, although it may be a bitter struggle, I can be sure I won’t be attempting to do so whilst nursing a hangover.