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.

Weather With You

Oak tree down 

You know there’s a strong wind blowing when you can feel your beard tugging your chin around, a sensation that’s worth growing a good beard for, if a reason be needed. Another indicator of greater than average breeziness is when a huge old oak tree is blown right over into your field. We reckon that that single tree might provide us with a quarter of our annual firewood needs - a literal windfall.  Pilsdon has otherwise escaped fairly lightly from the February maelstrom, with only a few broken panes in one greenhouse and some cosmetic roof linings being ripped off a cabin. No floods here thankfully, apart from the occasional bursting of the banks of the stream onto our approach lane (but it tends to do that on the slightest provocation, and never stays flooded for long).

It could have been a couple of centuries old.

On Wednesday I made a foray onto the beach at West Bay, on a seaweed reconnaissance mission. Seaweed makes a wonderful natural garden fertiliser and I supposed that the recent storms might have dredged up large quantities from the ocean and deposited it on our shores. In this I was mistaken, but instead found the awe-inspiring remains of a recent cliff-crumble, the ancient layers of sandstone succumbing once again to the driving rain and gale-force winds. An impressive enough sight to get onto page 7 of last week’s Mail On Sunday, no less.

Not the best site for rock-climbing

A break in the weather found a group of us yesterday making a concerted effort to make a dent in our huge pile of firewood.  It had already been chainsawed into chunks but needed splitting and storing under cover, so three of us got to work with splitting mauls while the others filled wheelbarrows with the chunks, pushing them through the gate and the mud to the large multi-chambered wood-store out back. Some logs split cleanly with a single stroke, another sweet sensation that you don’t need to grow a beard to appreciate (but it helps). Other logs were made of sterner stuff, requiring several hard blows even to get the axe to begin to make a dent. At this point we tended to ask someone else to bring a mallet over and whack the back of the axe head (the splitting axe is designed to allow this) - a couple of fat whacks is usually sufficient to cleave the block in two.

A mighty swing about to be brought to an abrupt halt

The wet weather tends to bring out everyone’s favourite garden pest, so every night after supper I grab a torch and a fellow gardener (often a chap who would like to be known here as Max Dangerous) and head out to the large glasshouse to hunt slugs.  Each young cauliflower plant and broad bean stalk we carefully inspect for the slimy gastropod molluscs, as well as the soil below. All those that we find, whether tiny and large, are picked off and placed together on the doorstep. The garlic seems to offer no attraction for the slugs so is left out of our inspection regime. Any Jain Buddhists reading this should skip to the next paragraph now. We finally dispatch our daily collection of silent slithering munchers with the swift downward application of a brick.

In just ten days time I will be leaving Pilsdon and setting off back to my caravan in Wales. It’ll soon be the start of the veg growing season. I have no idea what I will find there. Will the river have burst its banks and washed my raised beds into flatness? Will trees have been blown down? Will the 100mph winds have knocked my caravan over? I’m wishing now I hadn’t raised up its stabilising legs to prevent rodents climbing in.  When I arrive I’ll be updating my mattswanoffgrid blog so keep an eye there to be kept abreast of news from a bog in mid-Wales.

Failure to Launch

Chuckles

Don’t you just hate it when some new thing in your life full of potentiality and excitement, utterly fails to deliver? Like this morning when you stood there by the door as the postman walked up, certain that an intriguingly anonymous pink card perhaps smelling slightly of some exotic perfume would flop onto the mat, only to be greeted with a garish circular promoting the virtues of Zumba.

The failed spinach

There have been a few false starts at Pilsdon recently. The spinach seed I sowed in the glasshouse last November has resolutely failed to grow, whilst in that same bed a forgotten un-harvested potato is impertinently pushing up its shoots instead. Bill* is back at Pilsdon after an attempt at starting afresh in Bridport last week didn’t work out (we’re glad to see him back though!)  And our sow Chuckles** was due to produce her first litter earlier this month but the day passed without incident; after five more days the vet announced after inspection that the pig was not in fact pregnant. This was bad news - for us as we’ll soon be running out of pork in the freezers, and for Chuckles whose very future hung in the balance. On a farm a sow has to come up with the goods. We think she somehow reabsorbed the foetuses (foeti?) which we know she had a few weeks previously. Leniency prevailed and she has been given one more chance, and we’re also buying in some eight-week-old pigs (“weaners”) to make up for her non-existent piglets.

Chuckles enjoys a nice quiet nap without any pesky piglets

Another promising beginning which has swiftly and sadly come to nothing has been my attempt to teach piano to Rupert. His previous piano experience was zero unless you count his deep appreciation of the works of Frederic Chopin and Keith Jarrett. As for personally tinkling the ivories himself, he was a complete newbie. Yet a newbie with an enthusiasm to learn. His eyes lit up as I handed him the book “It’s Never Too Late To Learn The Piano”, and then and there I gave him an impromptu lesson, by the end of which his right hand was slowly and falteringly picking out the tune of “Four Note Tango” (the world’s least danceable tango tune.) It was a fantastic feeling to be initiating someone else in the dark arts of playing the piano.

Rupert talked about practicing but by the time of the second lesson, a few days hence, it was apparent that he hadn’t got round to it. Nevertheless we got his left hand going and I was quite willing to believe that he would spend some time going over the tunes before our third lesson. Without practising in between, lessons would be much less fruitful. Yet it became a joke between us that he somehow never managed to get down to it. Maybe I was too harsh when I said I would only give him a third lesson after he’d done some. Maybe not, but it was sufficient for him to call the whole thing off. 

Apparently it wasn’t my teaching style, which he said he liked. His excuse, and perhaps there’s something in it, is that he is also learning to do pottery which requires his hands to form flippers and move his digits all together in gentle motions - quite the opposite from a piano where each finger must be moved independently from the others. The part of the brain controlling finger movement was, in Rupert’s case, being overloaded with taxing new demands and something had to give. He’s decided to try the trombone instead, an instrument which could be played by a man with hooks for hands. A clever choice no doubt, and I hope it works out for him, but I have to admit I’m sorry to lose a pupil so soon. I’m going to have to find some more willing subjects to work on...

Our baby cauliflowers wrapped in sheep's wool to ward off slugs. Here's to their success!

*Not his real name

**Believe it or not, this is her real name

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Sheep's wool around our young cauliflowers to protect against slugs.
It doesn't work, last night we found several tiny slugs munching away.

It’s fair to say I’m not a morning person. Not that I lounge in bed till noon because I do drag myself up for the daily morning service at 7:30am, but it takes me a little while, and a cup of strong tea, to get my neurons firing on all cylinders. Not everyone is like me of course, for instance Bill* takes it upon himself not only to issue a cheery Good morning! to everyone who walks into the breakfast room but also to ask each individual how they are. My replies tend to be non-committal as I haven’t by that time acquired enough evidence to ascertain exactly how I am. 

Young River’s entrance to the dining room is usually heard before he appears as his mum or dad carries him through from the outside. You can tell what kind of mood he’s in before he even enters the room. Loud screams might indicate that his breakfast period will be foreshortened as his parents withdraw him again for the sake of the community - luckily this is not a frequent occurrence. He might be calling for “Dawdy”, his name for his best friend. But usually it’s Nummy (honey) that he’s requesting, in a new and not altogether welcome whiney tone.  Whatever noises he’s making he is the centre of attention, and sometimes rewards us with some hilarious antics such as yesterday’s use of a scrap of toast as a telephone on which he was conversing with Granny (apparently the only person who ever calls his household on the landline). 

The usual spread for breakfast is hot porridge, home-made yoghurt, a range of breakfast cereals, and toast. On Mondays there are poached eggs. Wednesdays the porridge is replaced with sausage, beans, fried potato and fried bread, and on Saturdays a full English is served. No prizes for guessing which is the best attended. 

A ritual has developed around the toasting of bread. We had been bequeathed a four slot toaster which turned out to be notable only for the incredible tardiness with which it toasts. Perhaps its manufacturer decided to focus on the quality of its toasting rather than with brevity. With twelve or fifteen hungry toast-lovers, it makes sense never to leave a slot empty, and so when putting in a couple of slices for oneself you are obliged to call out “Anyone for toast?” to which someone will call back “Yes please!” Then the call-out “What colour?” to which the response is either “Brown!” or “White!”. An optional third call is to enquire how many which elicits a reply of either “One!” or “Two!” (the default is of course two). Recent growth in the number of breakfast-takers has prompted some, myself included, to resort to toasting on the top of the Aga which does take longer but at least you don’t have to wait for a slot.

Once the toast makes its way to someone’s plate, it is interesting to observe how many variants of spreading there are even amongst the small sample of toast-eaters that live here. Some lay the butter on thicker than the jam, taking pains to ensure every square centimetre is covered. Others mix jam with peanut butter (a practice which Dante somehow overlooked when describing how people get assigned to the inner circles of hell). Even the temperature of the toast at buttering stage is important - some such as myself slap the butter on as quickly as possible to ensure it melts, while at least one person allows them to cool a little by propping the two slices together to form a tent so that the butter won’t melt once spread. 

Leaving cake for our favourite Bruderhofs

Sadly breakfasts will be quieter affairs from now on, as “Good morning!” Bill left the community yesterday to start anew in Bridport. Not only that but another guest (known here only as “Mr S”) left on Monday for Brook House, our “halfway house” in Dorchester, and our Bruderhof couple are leaving today after a year of volunteering at Pilsdon. Rather than returning to the Bruderhof community they are striking out into the world, having got themselves jobs looking after an elderly couple and their large house and gardens in the New Forest. 

The community will be the lesser for their absence. We will miss them all. 

*Not his actual name.