Mock The Week

A visit to Lancaster Castle - an unusual Christmas family day out

To those of us living in latitudes that are now entering the bitter depths of winter, with thousands recently stranded in the French Alps due to severe snow and motorists everywhere skidding willy-nilly across sheets of black ice, it can seem counter-intuitive that in four days time the Earth will reach its annual closest point to the Sun on its eternally elliptical orbit.  As we imagine with perhaps a twinge of envy the Antipodeans spending their Christmas on the beach throwing prawns on barbecues, there is some potential consolation to be had that on July 4th the Earth will be at its furthest point away from the sun, and so in theory at least southern winters are colder than ours (they get about 6% less solar energy than we do).  OK, so this also means their summers are equivalently warmer than ours. Let's drop it.

The cells were pretty spartan.

The cut-off of December 31st / January 1st as the “end” and “beginning” of years in Western calendars is of course purely arbitrary with no link to anything in nature. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to begin the year with the shortest day, December 21st (which is also the longest day for you guys living on the south of the equator)?  Elect me as your World President and I shall make it happen. Perhaps this single incongruity at the heart of the way we number our days is, on a deeply subconscious level, making us all uncomfortable and - no, hear me out - the root cause of all anger, selfishness, wars, and - oh, you’ve gone.

A week. A fittingly feeble word for a ridiculous concept. A timespan of seven days, whose only rationale is the biblical creation story. I’ve lived through over 2000 of them and am still not sure I like them. From pre-school till retirement, many of us are tied to this repetitive time unit with little hope of escape. Heart attacks are statistically more likely to happen on Monday mornings. (And bizarrely, this continues to be the case even into retirement, one study shows).  Perhaps retirees should adopt a new scheme of weeks of random lengths consisting of re-named days (“Golfday”, “FarmersMarketday”,"Feetupday") to combat this dangerous periodic stress on ageing hearts.

Pilsdon continues to keep traditional seven-day weeks. But perhaps as an antidote to such rhythmic cortisol-boosting, it marks each Monday morning at 7.30am with something called a Lectio Divina. This is an ancient method of communal reading of the Scriptures with its roots back in the 3rd century AD. We sit in quietness in the small house chapel for a while, then someone reads the passage selected for the day. We reflect on it in silence for five minutes or so, and then anyone who wishes to speaks out a word or phrase that they felt drawn to. The passage is read a second time, by someone else. Another period of silence, followed by an opportunity for anyone to say out loud their thoughts on the word or phrase that had caught them earlier. No discussion or response is invited or required. Finally the passage is read for a third time, and another period of meditation which is concluded with a chance for people to pray out loud or to affirm some call to action that the passage had led them to.

Cuckoo enjoys her evening snack

Starting the week this way I find to be a very grounding spiritual activity. The fact that it is done with others is crucial. Sometimes insights are shared that shake me out of my comfort zone. A common seeking of truth from the “Word” seems to engender a sense of togetherness. That phrase which you chose and let swill around your mind for half an hour like a good whisky is apt to keep popping back throughout the day as you scrub the carrots, muck out the cattle shed or gaze into the inky starscape above. Not a bad way to start the seven-day-period.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlepigs

We made this nativity scene mostly out of recycled objects, and wove the rug by hand, communally

One shopping day till Christmas. Or, as they used to say back in olden times, one day till Christmas. 

Those of the more creative persuasion at Pilsdon, or perhaps the more penniless, have eschewed the shops in favour of making gifts for their loved ones. The pottery has been busy with people making a variety of colourful earthenware objects to decorate/clutter their family’s shelves. Even more impressively, Gaius* has spent all his spare time plus most of his night times weaving a couple of beautiful blue and white patterned tea towels for his parents using Pilsdon’s loom. Apparently it took an entire long day just to get it set up with the vertical “warp” threads all in place correctly - and then the actual work began. 

The back half of Pilsdon church

Pilsdon celebrates Christmas as a community should, with lots of communal feasting and singing. The carol service was last Sunday evening. Our small church was rammed with people (75 at the last count) and lit by candles on three large chandeliers. The Broadoak choir came and sang the most exquisite and haunting pieces, one of which I accompanied on the piano, and the place rang with lusty voices during the congregational carols. Those entrusted with reading the scripture verses did so just from where they were sat. No microphones or audio equipment necessary. 

There tends to be a bit of coming and going around this time of year as some (including myself) head off to spend time with their families for a few days, whilst others come from afar be at Pilsdon over Christmas. As it does every weekend, the community opens its doors at Christmas to wayfarers, some of whom may be homeless, who can just turn up without notice.  

The huge willow dwarfs the manor house from this angle

Because one of our two main butter-makers has been away for a couple of weeks already, visiting his girlfriend’s relatives in Knoxville, Tennessee, I gamely put my hand to the churn and made a batch of butter myself. It goes something like this - 1) pour four bowls of cream (which we get by separating our cows milk) into a big ‘Buffalo’ electric mixer and turn it on, 2) wait for 10-20 minutes until you hear it has turned solid, 3) squeeze all the buttermilk out of it by hand, 4) pour water over it and shake the droplets off each piece, 5) pop it back in the mixer for a minute to coalesce, 6) make large round balls of it by slapping them from one hand to the other, 7) put in the fridge for 15 minutes to cool, 8) use two wooden paddles to bash each ball into the required shape, 9) place in a large container between baking sheets, which goes either in the fridge or the freezer, 10) wash up. I made eleven lovely pats.

The place is host once more to the joyful sound of children playing, crying or chasing the cat. Brian and Norma* moved in just over a week ago, joining Pilsdon as members, and, not surprisingly, brought their two young children with them who are aged 4 and 1.5. Despite having come straight from the States and being plonked in a place full of strange adults who all talk funny, the kids seem to have adjusted incredibly quickly, playing with anyone and everyone, learning our names, and generally acting like they’ve been here all their lives.  

Truffle the sow returned from her lengthy visit to the boar this week, job done, we believe. She deserves her rest.

If you have been losing sleep over the wellbeing of Snowdrop since I reported her illness last week, you can look forward to a restful night tonight. The vet has put her on antibiotics and she appears to be back to full health. We weren’t allowed to drink her milk whilst she was taking the medicine, but since we still had to milk her (otherwise her udders would pop) it was just poured down the drain. 

So it just remains for me to wish you all a very happy Christmas, wherever you may be! Thanks for reading thus far.

Three of our eight (or so) weaners also enjoy a rest 

* names made up

The Cattle Are Lowing, The Baby Awakes

Cuckoo the randy calf

A year and a day ago Pilsdon’s brand-spanking-new cow-sheds were opened for business. Our two beef cattle and three calves were herded in from their temporary housing, tricked into running after a bucket of tasty soy nuts.  Over the previous few months the ramshackle “Loose Boxes”, the long row of cow-sheds and human-sheds, had been razed to the ground and completely rebuilt, outwardly retaining the same shape and look as before but inwardly offering a far superior set of rooms for us people as well as de-luxe winter accommodation for the cattle.

One year ago, the rebuilt cowsheds looking pristine

Day one inaugurated with a couple of cow pats

Yesterday, one year after completion, a representative from the building company EC Harris came to do a final sign-off to check that we were happy that it was all to spec and in good working order. The present incumbents are Rufus, Hazel and Jasmine (the huge beef cattle in one shed) and next door, Cuckoo, Julian and Oscar (the calves born this year). I’m not sure their opinions were sought but they do seem happy enough. Not many cow-sheds are mucked out twice a day like these ones are, and the cows get lots of natural light.

I find it tricky to distinguish Rufus, Hazel and Jasmine.

Across the yard the three dairy Jersey cows, the mothers of the calves, are quartered in an older but very serviceable cowshed. They are Angelica, by far the eldest being around ten years old; Snowdrop, perhaps three years old; and the youngest, Daffodil, who was born shortly after I first arrived at Pilsdon in early 2012 (she was mentioned in this post in May 2012). Daffodil is the naughtiest, possibly because she’s the youngest, and during the first five or ten minutes of being milked she will not stand still. Buckets of milk have gone flying as she’s lurched forward to search for more food along the trough (we feed them a couple of scoops of 'dairy nuts' each while we milk them), and recently she just crashed onto her knees for no apparent reason. She also delights in flicking her tail with deadly accuracy into the eye of whoever is unfortunate enough to be milking her - somehow she even gets it behind my glasses.

Snowdrop, left, and Angelica

Daffodil, facing the wall no doubt because of some naughty prank 

Snowdrop is not well. She’s off her food, she plods to the milking parlour as the others race ahead to get to their nuts, and her head hangs low as she’s being milked. The vet came in yesterday and did some tests for which we await the results. We are hoping it is nothing but the cow equivalent of the flu. It would be a disaster if she were to keel over and expire, particularly if it happened whilst being milked! 

The milking is done at 6am and 5pm every day, each time by two or three people, depending on the rota. This duty is not finished when the pails are full of frothy milk - all the cow-sheds then have to be mucked out, the wheelbarrows of dung and straw carted off to the huge pile at the bottom of the vegetable garden, and finally the calves fed a scoop each of cow nuts. This last task is anything but simple. Each calf has their own bucket to eat out of, but Cuckoo and Julian tend to finish first, being biggest, and then both push little Oscar out of the way to eat his nuts too - that is, unless we can stop them by clinging onto their necks. Julian particularly is not easy to hold onto.  

Mischievous Julian, left, and poor Oscar with his temporary muzzle and running sores on his leg (not visible)

Add to that the fact that Cuckoo and Julian are getting very playful with us as we try to muck out their quarters, jumping and bucking around, bumping us with their heads and almost kicking us with their flailing legs. Given half a chance Cuckoo tries to mount us, in fact she succeeded locking her front legs around Rupert this morning, pinning him to the wall. Somehow all of this just endears them to us all the more. Inevitably the breakfast conversation will include some story about the early morning milking. Life at Pilsdon would be much the poorer without the livestock to look after. And of course, ultimately, to eat. 

The Advent(ure) Game

The incredible never-ending Pilsdon raspberry plants

By a jaw-dropping coincidence there are the same number of people living at Pilsdon as there are days in Advent, which has prompted a kind and generous soul to offer to the community a type of Advent calendar in the Aga room. It is a sequence of 24 individually wrapped chocolates, carefully balanced upright on Scrabble letter holders, each inscribed with a date and a name.

Mine is the 19th so I have another whole nine days to wait before I can rip off the wrapper and devour it. If anyone is unable to contain their patience and snaffle theirs before the assigned date, it will be immediately obvious by the gap in the chocolates (and a “before” photo to capture the order of names). It’s been suggested that you could slide the chocolate out of the wrapper and replace it with a similar sized piece of wood. Probably everyone else has done that already and I’m the only one yet to eat mine.  More fool them I say.  The anticipation is everything.

Not a Christmas decoration but an actual robin in the Common Room

Advent is all about anticipation. And at Pilsdon we are waiting eagerly not only for Christmas but also for the arrival this Sunday of Barry and Norma* with their two young children to join us as part of the community.  Until now they have been living in the US but Pilsdon has drawn them all the way across the Atlantic. Preparations are ongoing to give their flat a full make-over before their arrival - a fresh coat of paint all over, minor fixes here and there, and the kitchen completely ripped out and replaced. I had to drive the minibus to Chard’s B&Q because it was the only vehicle long enough to take the two 3-metre-long kitchen surfaces.  It will be great to have kids around here again, filling the Common Room floor with toys and generally causing an exuberant mess. The other exciting thing is that Barry is big into roasting his own coffee beans (he actually worked for a bean-roasting company in the States) so I am expecting to be smelling and hopefully sampling some top-notch coffee at elevenses.

The mighty fallen oak

Last winter’s storms were severe enough to blow over one of Pilsdon's old oak trees that line one of the hedged boundaries. Thankfully it fell into our field rather than onto the lane so there was no real urgency in doing something about it, and it took until this summer sometime for the chainsawing to begin. The main trunk is still where it fell but many of its branches are now in large chunks scattered around it. Obviously something more pressing had then taken priority because the grass then had time to grow over everything, so when I and a couple of others came to continue the work this week the first thing to do was pull up all the long tangled and matted grass - and there is an awful lot of it. 

I'm a lumberjack and I'm OK...

The branches were then sorted into three piles - twiggy bits, medium-thickness pieces and large chunks. The twiggy pile we had great fun turning into a bonfire, the middle pile has been hand-sawn into similar lengths for storage in the woodshed, and I have begun making my way through the bigger logs with Pilsdon’s powerful Husqvarna chainsaw, resulting in lots of short segments which will be split into pieces with an axe and left for a year or so to dry out. The jury’s still out on what to do with the main trunk. The simplest thing would be to saw it up for firewood, but perhaps a cannier idea would be to make some beautiful oaken objects from it and try to sell them.  Oak chopping boards anyone?

Update on my planning permission issue : The National Park Authority has replied to say they don’t accept that I am a seasonal agricultural worker and that I therefore have three options - apply for residential planning permission for the 8 months I spend there (which they point out conflicts with their Local Development Plan), stop living on the land, or continue and potentially face formal action. They also want me to apply for planning permission for the polytunnel and greenhouse.  

I believe I also have a couple of other options - apply for a lawful development certificate to argue my case that I am a seasonal agricultural worker or apply for year-round residential planning permission under the One Planet Development low-impact-living planning law or apply for . Alternatively I could simply carry on, and if I get an enforcement notice then I could try to appeal it. Various pros and cons to consider now...

* Not their actual names

When We Were Very Young

Looking kinda crazed and blurry after an epic crab-apple-jelly-making session

I am prepared to wager that the entire readership of this blog consists of, by elapsed time at least, adults. If you happen to find yourself skimming through this collection of words, I reckon your birth year predates 1996. Not that this is an 18+ blog, of course. You won’t find any age-restricted content buried within the prose (although you could argue that some pictures of my courgettes breached parental guidelines.) It’s just that the youth of today have better things to do than follow the witterings of a man who is (a) not famous, (b) not fashionable, and (c) can’t sing or dance. In fact they probably consider blogging a sadly old-fashioned means of communication - static text and pictures, limited interaction, with updates only once a week. Why don’t I have a live-feed of my life streamed to my personal website, replying instantly to all your tweets and Snapchat messages however inane, irrelevant or illicit they may be? 

In Aberystwyth earlier this year I was strolling through town with a couple of friends and we realised it was Fresher Week. Fresh-faced students were prowling the place in packs, searching for the cheapest bars and the opposite sex. With a sickening thud my gut contracted into my kidneys as I realised that these students had just been born when I graduated. Some hadn’t even been born. And now here they were, “adults”. Ok, perhaps that’s stretching it a bit.

Picture postcard moment

Many of you, being proper adults, will be familiar with the stresses of all that entails these days - pressure at work, families to provide for, houses to repair, Christmas to prepare for, and a rapidly changing world that seems on the brink of collapse. Finding time to savour the small joys of life can seem impossible. And yet at the risk of sounding like a self-help book, it is in the noticing of the small things, the beauty in the commonplace, that can rekindle in us a sense of wonder. A thin crescent moon. An icy puddle to jump in. The intricacy of a cobweb. The variety of tastes in a single mouthful of your dinner. We all experienced these things fresh when we were small. 

The Common Room hearth 

Next to Pilsdon’s church there is a beautiful gnarled crab apple tree, perhaps six metres high and even more wide, and until last weekend was laden with beautiful red and gold fruit, each not much larger than a cherry. We laid a tarpaulin underneath, fetched a ladder and a big bucket, and shook the branches as hard as we could. It sounded like a heavy hailstorm as hundreds of crab apples plummeted to their deaths. Sara and Lucretia* climbed right up into the tree to give the higher branches a good going-to. Below I occasionally got a crab apple crack on my head.  It was a lot of fun. Over 25lb of fruit filled our bucket, the weight of an average two-year-old. Later they filled our preserving pans and muslin cloths as we converted them into 22 jars-worth of sensual and translucent light red jelly. 

You will often find me on the Common Room piano

Pilsdon offers the chance to do the things that adults often find themselves too busy to get round to. Painting a picture. Listening to a Winnie the Pooh story being read (as part of our Advent discussion group series - you have to be there to get the link). Making a pottery bowl. Playing Scrabble. Sitting in the herb garden to watch the sunset.  I know that outside Pilsdon it can be harder to find time to switch off from “being an adult” but that doesn’t mean we can’t. Next time you see a climbable tree, you know what to do.

A mass weaving session in the Common Room. It will eventually form a woven nativity scene.

* not their real names

Permission To Land

Pilsdon's spire and a comet. Or more prosaically a plane trail.

In the same year that saw the birth of the NHS, the British Parliament passed an Act that prevented its citizens from living wherever they liked. We’ll look after you but you have to live where we tell you to. According to the Town and Country Planning Act, no longer could you simply go and build a house on your own land to live in, you must first ask permission from the local council. Who will probably say no.  The growing population was to be kept within the boundaries of land classified as “residential”, a relatively small proportion of the total landmass. Even today, only 10% of the UK is built up according to the Office for National Statistics. The rest is farms, forests and lakes. 

Pilsdon's quad with the re-built Loose Boxes on the left, and the North Barn with its slate roof being fixed

Is this a good thing? On the one hand it means the country, although having a large population for its diminutive size, still manages to have large swathes of open countryside, much of it accessible to anyone who chooses to go rambling, cycling or hang gliding across it. Unlike California or Mexico City the urban sprawl has not been allowed to spread unchecked, and so the countryside is not on the whole gobbled up by speculative property developers building huge bland housing estates. On the other, we apparently don’t have enough houses for all the people living here and we’re not building new ones quickly enough. 

Perhaps surprisingly, the law that stops semi-detached houses springing up all over the Lake District also prevents people from living on their own piece of land in a caravan. Regardless of the fact that the latter is on wheels, planning law says you should not stay more than 28 days in your own caravan on your own land, unless the land is classed as ‘residential’. Neither are you allowed to build yourself a simple wooden hut and live in it whilst working the land for veg or livestock, unless you are a Scottish crofter for whom special provisions are made. 

Some of Pilsdon's red cabbages about to be chopped,
blanched, bagged and put in the freezer

We made 5 big bags, 6lb each, for the freezer

I was aware of these facts when I moved onto my land in April last year and was always prepared to hear from the local planners asking what I was doing. Breaching planning law is not an offence. (Not leaving when ordered to do so by the council, is.) In my case however, as I am not staying the whole year round, but working my market garden as a 'seasonal agricultural worker', I am not in breach. Seasonal agricultural workers may stay in a caravan on-site without the need for planning permission, although this should be confirmed by the local council. 

This argument is about to be put to the test. The local planners, Snowdonia National Park Authority, have sent me a letter saying they have been informed of the presence of a caravan and polytunnel, and have even been to visit in October (I was out). They would like me to explain what is going on. I replied by email last Wednesday, outlining the justification described above and asking if the polytunnel and greenhouse require planning permission since they do not have concrete foundations. No response from them yet. I continue on the assumption that I will be allowed to remain and develop my business, providing broccoli to the un-broccoli'ed in the area and so forth. But my future on the land at this moment is not assured.

A shoulder of an ex-pig is slowly transformed into a lovely pork and bean casserole that we ate last night

Back To The Farm

Returning to Pilsdon community after months away is like slipping on an old favourite pair of brogues that had got lost under the bed for a while, a comfortingly familiar fit after an initial wriggle to ease the contours of your feet in again. 

Wandering round the site to reacquaint myself I found the three calves in their pen, Cuckoo, Julian and Oscar, all of whom had been born since my last brief summer visit. Apparently Cuckoo, the eldest and largest, is prone to mounting anyone or anything that comes near her so great care is required never to turn your back when entering the pen to feed them or muck out.  There are eight weaners in the pig pen, still fairly young and boisterous and all with a pink band around their midriffs, their mother on a dirty holiday visiting a boar. 

Pilsdon's four ewes have been killed and eaten leaving more pasture for the cows next year (three beef cattle and three Jersey milkers). The youngest of the Jerseys, Dandelion, has only recently begun to be milked and has swiftly gained a reputation for being naughty as she kicks and jostles and generally tries to avoid milk being drawn from her tiny teats. Glancing in the duck enclosure I found it empty. The story is that one night no one shut them away in their duck house and some feline assassin, probably a cat, came and massacred them all without mercy. But the chickens all seem to be doing fine, at least. 

Pilsdon's lush garden is still producing raspberries, unbelievably

Various bits of the buildings and fencing have been fixed and improved, either by talented residents or paid contractors. The milk pasteurising room (grandly called “The Dairy”) is undergoing a complete overhaul so all the equipment has been temporarily shifted into one of the new rooms in the Loose Boxes, the recently completely re-built west side of the quad. The roof on the North Barn is being re-tiled, and its entrance renovated. The boiler room has seen massive changes with the huge temperamental wood-fired burner replaced with a spanking new pellet burner which is automatically fed from a huge climate-controlled external hopper, through which Pilsdon qualifies for the Renewable Heat Incentive that should pay for it all in just a few years.

One of the beef cattle looking menacing

Yet in all fundamental ways Pilsdon remains the same.  There have been a few changes in the community itself, some having moved on, others arriving and settling in, but the majority are still the same bunch who were here in my last visit in June, and it is great to see everyone again. The daily rhythm of life here carries on, of meals, of prayer, of work, of rest, of play, of sleep, of countless cups of tea. The garden still needs weeding (but not, thankfully, as much as last winter!), the cows milking, the meals cooking, the piano playing.  It is a profoundly restful place to abide despite, or perhaps because of, all the work that must be done to keep things rolling. Work that is tangible, meaningful - all of what is done serves either to put food on the table, keep ourselves clean and warm, or to maintain the stunningly beautiful environment we are lucky enough to be in. 

Well, that’s what I had to tell myself when I dragged my sorry self out of bed at 5:35am this morning for a rendezvous with the three Jersey girls.

Oscar, Julian and Cuckoo. Julian appears to be admiring one of his wall stains

It's A New Dawn, It's A New Day

A woolly beast

So my second sojourn at Pilsdon draws to a close. Although I would love to stay longer and enjoy the onset of spring with my friends here in this beautiful place, Wales is calling me back. More specifically, the small patch of Wales that I’ve paid to become the caretaker of. The raised beds I laboured last year to create are ripe for sowing. The greenhouse needs its glass panes putting in. A polytunnel must be erected. In short, the growing season beckons.

It’s a very good thing I didn’t try to last out the winter in my caravan given the extraordinarily vicious gales and rainstorms that have beset our country these last few months. At this moment it does seem that they have abated which could make it a fortuitous time to return although the temperature does now appear to be plummeting. Here's hoping my caravan heater still works.

The recently reconstructed "Loose Boxes"

This last week I have been making some vital purchases for the year ahead - seed cell trays, watering trays, a potting tray, capillary matting, ten metres of fine netting to protect the cabbages from butterflies, plastic labels and a waterproof pen, clear polythene bags for mixed salads, and 25kg of blood, fish and bone whose rather macabre contents are said to be the best for adding organic nutrition to soil. Later today I will be ordering large quantities of rhubarb and asparagus crowns, and a 49-foot polytunnel.  These I will have delivered to my plot in Wales, hence why I’ve left it to the last minute (ordering stuff actually from my land is hampered by the lack of internet and patchy mobile coverage).

A crucial step has been taken in the formation of my fledgling world-class fresh vegetable production business - the name was chosen, and subsequently printed on hundreds of sticky labels with accompanying logo. A name reminiscent both of fresh starts, and of nature. You heard it here first - I’ve called it “New Leaf”. 

Two calves give Boris a lick as they enjoy their newly built quarters

I am keenly aware of the comforts which I am shortly to be deprived of. Every time now I toast my cold toes by the open hearth, or tuck into a slice of someone’s birthday cake, or soak in a hot bath, or chew a tender lamb chop, or simply wander round my room without cracking my skull on something, I make sure I savour every last ounce of delight these pleasures afford.  My personal austerity measures are returning for the summer. That’s not to say I’m not looking forward to it - I can’t wait to get cracking. It’s the excitement of beginning a new project, and being back on the soil I have begun to call home. And the knowledge that Pilsdon will have me back next winter provides a little extra security.

Otherwise this week has been marked by some bad news - Mary’s brother Paul contracted cerebral malaria whilst on a work trip to Ghana and on return to his home in Brazil fell severely ill and had to be put into a medically induced coma.  He almost died on Monday but somehow pulled through and although still in the coma, is showing signs of recovery. The doctors were amazed that fifteen people from a Sao Paolo favela took a bus ride to the hospital to give blood to top up the blood bank needed to keep him alive. I remember Paul from a visit he made to Pilsdon, full of energy and words, he was bursting with enthusiasm for my new venture in Wales and donated me his gravity water filter. We continue to pray for his return to full health, along with many in Ghana and Brazil who know him.

Time to sign off on this blog. Thanks for reading! My next report will be on my other blog - MattSwanOffGrid. Powering down... Click. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt.