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