Sign O' The Times

Over the weekend there were five children at Pilsdon, the most I can remember being here at one time. Admittedly two of them were still unborn and hence nice and quiet. One of them, currently residing in Mary’s womb, is expected to be born any time now.  The other, visiting us from Northumberland encased inside the body of its mother Catherine, has a few months (non-)breathing space before being welcomed into the world. Both sets of parents have elected to be ignorant of the gender of their unborn children, a fairly common thing here in the UK I believe but almost unheard of in the States according to our resident Americans - they had also asked not to be told what sex their two children would be, to the astonishment of the midwives.

 

Truffle, heavily pregnant, being taken on her daily perambulation

Over the nearly six decades that Pilsdon Community has been communing there have doubtless been much pitter-pattering of small feet around these hallowed corridors. Some of them still live nearby. Clive*, in his thirties, who lives in Broadoak down the road and sometimes comes to Pilsdon church on Sunday evening, was born in and grew up at Pilsdon. The cheerful chap at the garage a mile or two away at Marshwood who does my car’s MOT used to hang out with friends here when he was young. There must be many others with early memories of this place - very occasionally someone drops by who claims to have old links with Pilsdon and wants to rekindle those old memories. We give them a cup of tea and let them get on with it.

Jedekiah Sykes and Nathaniel Goodfellow in front of their woodpile

Meanwhile I’ve been knuckling down to the jobs that need doing before my departure in twelve days. Ever since I first arrived here in spring 2012 I've been irked by the illegible Welcome sign perched on an old plough at the entrance. It was weatherbeaten and without any paint, so the carved letters could barely be made out. So I finally got round to giving it a good few coats of Cuprinol paint and picking out the lettering in white (an undercoat and then gloss). It went back to its plough yesterday morning, so hopefully visitors from now on will feel that little bit more welcome.

A rather larger job has been the chainsawing of the fallen oak. Or more accurately its branches, as the width of the trunk is almost my height so as we don’t have a chainsaw with a one-metre-long bar, I’ve left it be. Over this winter I have kept returning to it, sawing more huge branches into chunks that could be lifted onto a trailer and carted back to the woodstore where I would saw them further into chunks that could be split with an axe. The end is now in sight, one more session should see to it. I have without doubt gained more confidence with the chainsaw through such repeated use, mostly because not a single limb has been severed in the process.

It's disappointing when a jigsaw turns out to have a hundred pieces missing

My thoughts are often on my patch in Wales and in particular where and how I will live on my return. As the planners are still saying that I will not be allowed to continue residing in my caravan on the land I must find somewhere else to live nearby, at least until a One Planet Development planning application can be submitted, if that’s the route I choose. Wherever it is, it will be difficult to cover any rent from the veg business income. I’m considering various options including offering labour and veg in return for accommodation, or parking my caravan on a caravan site for a season. Something is bound to turn up. 

* not his real name