29 November 2005
IT’S BEEN COLD, very cold. Last Friday young Arthur rushed into my room and said, “it snowed!” I opened the curtains and saw that he was right. School was cancelled, we made a snowman, and after lunch, we took the boogie board sledging. Surfboards make fantastic sledges. They go like the clappers. This was in contrast to the lovely old metal-and-wood sledge that we dragged out of the barn, which simply sat there in the snow and refused to move an inch. Still it made a nice little place for Henry to sit. Snow! The great canceler. It is truly an idler’s friend. Our changing weather in general, I think, is good for idling, simply because it forces to change your plans and, occasionally, to live in the moment, seize the day!
A SLIGHTLY FRAUGHT meeting of the village hall committee. In addition to the committee members, the meeting was attended by two other women. One of them I had never met before and the other one looked like the woman who once told me off for picking snowdrops. Anyway, it turned out that they had come to the meeting simply to complain about the Tea Dance! “We don’t want to get involved,” one of them said. “It’s just that we live near the village hall, we value our peace and we want to know why we weren’t give more notice for the Tea Dance.” My fellow committee members were clearly quite staggered that these women, neither of whom have ever shown their faces in the community before, should suddenly appear out of nowhere to complain about a joyful event which everyone enjoyed and which was over by eight p.m. on a Saturday! I explained that I had put up a notice outside the hall when applying for a license a month before the event. “Oh, I’ll have to be more observant, then,” said Ms Snowdrop. It also later transpired that another neighbour actually had told Ms Snowdrop about the event a week beforehand. I’d also dropped an invitation through her door the day before; perhaps this late notice was what had irked her? Hard to tell, since she did offer to let guests park in her drive next time that one was held, which would suggest she does not object in principal. Very strange behaviour. Later on in the meeting she complained again, saying that perhaps if she had had more notice she might have made arrangements to be absent from the village while the dance was happening! Luckily she was on the receiving end of a couple of sharp comments from other committee members. When discussing the forthcoming whist drive, one committee member said, “is that enough notice for you?” and another made a remark along the lines of: “well this was the only event of its kind that we’ve had for twenty years and it raised £250 for the hall!” I wonder if Snowdrop has a personal thing against me? Anyway, I felt well supported by the committee members and the chairman was kind enough to say very nice things about the event and what a success it was.
I BOUGHT an excellent book called Country Pubs from the local secondhand bookshop. It featured a piece on “Britain’s most unspoilt pub” which I thought looked very much like my own Green Man. There was a photo of a plain bench in the pub, and it was clear to see the method of construction. So I took Arthur to the workshop, sawed a plank in half, drilled some holes, screwed the planks together to make the seat and then made four legs, each fifteen inches high. I put the bench under the dartboard and it looks mighty fine. I think it’s probably my finest piece yet and created with much pleasure and zero cost. Up yours, IKEA!
I TOOK OUR rented dobbin out for a ride the other day with neighbour J. It was most enjoyable; there’s nothing like being on a horse for really seeing the countryside. You are high up, so there is a fantastic view, and most of the time you’re walking or trotting so there’s time to look around. I also cantered for the first time ever, which was quite a thrill. I stayed on the horse although the poor thing was a bit sweaty and puffed out afterwards, so I had to get off and walk. One day we’ll have our own horses. On the car front, I have decided that the best option would be to sell the van and go down to one car. I calculated that the annual running costs of the van, petrol, maintenance, tax, insurance, AA and all the rest of it, would buy me sixty cab rides to the station. Since I make probably twenty trips to London a year at the outside I would be well in profit on the deal. Do we really need two cars? It seems crazy. And one day I’ll be getting around by horse anyway.
21 November 2005
WE’VE HAD SOME deliciously cold and frosty mornings, lately. It’s been like a Ready Brek ad, walking Arthur up to the well by the church in the mornings where the school bus picks him up. I think I’m supposed to bring the geraniums indoors now but I keep forgetting. On the vegetable front, the parsnips are supposed to be benifit from a nice frost, flavour-wise, but I am worrying about everything else. Two of the broccoli plants have wilted dramatically; why I have no idea. The brussel sprouts have shown no sign of growth latesly and the kale are looking decidedly spindly. Also, there is no evidence that the broad bean seeds have germinated, nor, come to that the Hugairan Grazing Rye seeds. I have gone through such crises before and thing is have turned out all right after all, but it’s easy to lose heart.
MORE AGONISING about the Land Rover idea. I took it for a spin, and it drove fine, although I was told that its top speed is 50 mph, which limits its usefulness as far as long drives go. So I think that a grand is too much to pay and that five hundred quid would be a more realistic price, but whether I have the courage to play Land Rover hard ball with the local garage is another question. Really I should sell the van and buy a little five hundred quid Golf or something like that. That would be the sensible option.
I HAVE FINALLY refilled the bird feeder outside the kitchen window, and it’s made me wonder why I left it so long. At first I thought that perhaps the birds had disappeared, flown away, but the crowds of tits, robins, chaffinches and starlings that have swamped it since the refilling suggests that they were sat in the hedges, shivering and foodless. Apart from the obvious pleasure in helping the things to stay alive, watching the birds flit around the feeder greatly improves the experience of washing-up. I am trying to develop an existential philosophy around washing-up, whereby it turns from a chore into something that you enjoy. After all, there is actually nothing intrinsically unpleasant about washing-up, the feeling of warm mater on the hands, moving objects from one place to another. It seems that we have conditioned ourslves not to enjoy it, perhaps because the attitude of not-enjoying improves dishwasher sales. And status-wise, being a plongeur is the lowest job you can do, as George Orwell discovered. But doing your own washing up while watching the birds outside is different. Perhaps you can take pride in the washing up, and do the drying up as well, and even the putting away, not finishing until everything is left sparkling and neatly in place. Also, when washing up, you are looking after yourself and as there is no real reason why washing up should rank below, for example, writing, in the scale of desirable activities, then I propose we embrace it.
10 November 2005
FOR A WHILE NOW, I have been entertaining idle fancies of owning a Land Rover. My American Day Van doesn’t seem to fit down here any more. It’s too bourgeois and townie. Too flash. Land Rovers, however, are possessed of a special something. In embracing total utility, they created their own very attractive style. Imagine my joy, therefore, on seeing a lovely 1976 low mileage long wheelbase specimen for sale at my local garage. It has three seats in the front, two long bench seats facing each other in the back and a canvas cover. Truly, you will be in closer contact with the elements, which is good. I’m not into comfort any more. I’m into hardship. So, it’s certainly a fine vehicle, but I have been having problems justifying it. Apparently Land Rovers are heavy petrol drinkers, which was one of the downsides of my van. And although we live on a farm, it’s not as though I need to drive across fields and through muddy fords, rescuing more pathetic vehicles with my winch. But it is a wonderful-looking car. I have been discussing my dilemma with friends. Mark said, “you don’t need to justify an indulgence.’ Alan said, “one justification I can give you is that it will not lose its value, so you can sell it after six months.” Alan also said that he would be insanely jealous, which naturally provided an additional powerful motivation to buy the thing. Another justification comes from the fact that my van is probably worth about three times the cost of the Land Rover, so I would also be in profit on the whole deal. Then there’s the horse issue: maybe we’ll need to drag a horse box around one day? And the cost: It’s £995, it’s done only 70,000 miles and as it’s been kept by a garage it’s safe to assume that it’s in good repair. Land Rover here we come.
I HAD AN AMUSING ENCOUNTER WITH A SHEEP. I was round at Alan’s the other day to pick up a load of old timber that he was throwing away. I’ve been using old bits of wood to build a sort of shed with the kids in the vegetable garden, the idea that being that they will frolic around me as I work the soil. Anyway, he explained that a loose sheep was running around his land and would I help him chase it down the drive and over the cattle grid. He gave me two sticks and showed me how to wave them at an approaching sheep. It all seemed a bit elaborate: surely two men could outwit a daft animal? Well, this sheep was less stupid than it looked. At first we were lucky. It absolutely bombed it down the drive when Alan ran at it. But then it stopped by the cattle grid. Alan stood in front of me, waving his sticks. “Get behind me,” he commanded. “And if it runs at you don’t let it past.” I really couldn’t believe that this sheep could get past me, especially with my two sticks. Anyway, the sheep decided that it wasn’t going to go over the cattle grid, and remembering the nice juicy grass it had just been munching, turned around to face us, and then started belting down towards us. I’ve never seen a more determined sheep. In size and tenacity it reminded me of my eleven month old son, Henry, so we christened the sheep Henry. Anyway, undeterred and unfrightened by Alan and his sticks, it dodged pasty him and then started running straight at me. Like Alan, I crouched down and waved my sticks, but it easily ran past me and disappeared back to its field. Then Alan chased it through a wood while I waited by a gate. No luck again. Eventually I heard Alan shouting, “all right, all right. You win. I give up.” We retired defeated to the house.
I UNDERSTAND THAT seaweed is full of good things for the soil, so twice in the last week I have driven down to the beach with a couple of sacks and filled them up with seaweed. The second time I did this, I aroused curiosity form local holidaymakers, who wondered whether I was going to use it for a bath. Anyway, I adored slicing the stuff of the rocks with my little knife, while Delilah picked up loose-lying bits of seaweed. Real peasant stuff. Good living. Then I went home and spread it over two of the beds among the brassicas. Apparently it’s a good compost activator, too, so I might put a nice layer on the compost heap, which is stone cold as ever. Another idea is to put a bucket in my bedroom. If called upon to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, you simply use the bucket instead, saving a trip down a freezing cold hall to a freezing cold bathroom. Then simply empty the bucket on the compost heap in the morning. I stayed at the Crass house in Essex the other night, and this is what they do there, and a very sensible idea it is too.
1 November 2005
IT’S JUST PAST TEN AM and I’ve already sowed sixty four broad bean seeds, a variety called Imperial Green Longpod. I carefully read Lawrence D. Hills on the subject, and Dr Heyasson. Then I came back to the house and read them again, and realised I’d done it wrong: you’re supposed to stagger the rows and not plant them in neat symmetrical lines. Something to do with support. Oh well. I don’t care. It’s a lovely sunny morning, the leeks, brussel sprouts, kale, parsnips and broccoli are all looking very healthy. I cleared up the strawberry bed yesterday. Those strawberries really are a drag. I think they may even be more work than the dreaded tomato. Each strawberry plant had sprouted a load of new ones. These new plants are called runners and you’re supposed to clear them away as they will compete for food with the main plants. I must have cleared away about two hundred of the blasted things. I think I may have been too ferocious in the end and chucked some of the proper plants away as well. I planted a dozen in pots and asked if any gardening friends wanted them, but all declined. So some were flung into the wilderness at the side of the allotment, in the hopes of getting some wild strawberry plants, and the rest went on to the compost heap, which I am now trying to build up in layers, in the hope of getting some heat in there. I have also spread seaweed on two of the beds, collected the other day from Woody Bay, and sown a load of something called Hungarian grazing rye on empty patches of soil: this is called green manuring, and the idea is to grow a plant that will be dug back into the soil in spring, providing it with all the nutrients it needs. Instead of sowing the seeds carefully I just scattered them around, and then raked over the soil a bit. Scattering seed is very enjoyable.
WE HAD THE IMMENSE PLEASURE and privilege of another visit from the Larry Love Showband this weekend. They are the acoustic version of the Alabama 3. It was a relief to get them in the house as the singer seemed to have treble-booked himself at one stage and was threatening to cancel. He was also in the middle of a domestic crisis. They played to a packed house in the local town hall on the Friday, and then on Saturday afternoon, they played at the Tea Dance that I managed to organise in our own village hall. After finding it impossible to get a music and dancing licence, we’d decided to have a private party instead, from four till eight, kids welcome, and a great success it was too. I printed the invitations on my new Adana press and drove around with Arthur and Delilah delivering them. Most of our friends and neighbours from roundabout came. Children rushed about, some dressed as devils and witches. I noticed that very little tea was drunk, and most of the crowd decided to plough into the wine and beer, or used their tea cups for gin and tonic. The band played two superb sets and completely charmed the local farmers, hippies and middle class exiles alike. Everyone donated generously to the event and we were able to pay the band a reasonable fee and cover our costs, the main one of which was an enormous ham on the bone that Victoria had spent the previous three days preparing. It was the best ham we’d ever tasted, done to a Fearnley-Whittingstall recipe, and inspired many compliments. Guests brought cakes and friends from nearby helped me set up and clear up. We were also lucky to have the great Louis Eliot playing, who opened with the lovely song Country Life, as his pregnant girlfriend and two year old daughter sat alongside him on the stage. There was a lot of smoking and drinking, even the odd jazz cigarette, and one lady on the Village Hall Committee said that the village had never, ever seen anything like it. A modest triumph, then. We made merrie.
WE HAD A VISIT the other day from a farming couple. The wife’s great-aunt had grown up in our house, and she was keen to come and have a look. Their first comment was how dead the village has become. She said that in the old days, it would have been teeming with life, with children running about and playing. We are the only family in the village now. There was also a school here, and photos form 1900 show about thirty kids, all beautifully dressed, lined up for a formal pic in the churchyard. So as recently as 1900 the place would have been absolutely teeming with life. We heard that our farmhouse, which has a huge dairy, used to supply the milk to all the households in the area. It would be taken around with a horse and cart. Her great-aunt, said our visitor, “never bought a pint of milk, never bought a pound of butter, never bought a pair of socks, never bought a pint of cream, never bought a pound of cheese all her life.” Shopping in supermarkets, she said, would have been unheard of. There would have been hams hanging up in the fireplace, she said, and the room which is now the sitting room was the kitchen. Ten children grew up in the house, and each was apprenticed to a different craft so all the kids could contribute something useful to the household economy. “And we were straight outside when we got home from school,” said Mr. Working. “Now they come in and they’re straight on the computer.” I thought of Arthur, five, who does just that and it made me feel sad. I think I should get the chickens again. We were enjoying that. Even Arthur seemed to enjoy feeding them. Our visitors also told us stories of mammoth drinking sessions at the village hall. They agreed that there are glimmerings of people starting to go back to the old ways of life. And we might be forced to: I was speaking to a friend yesterday who was convinced that we’ve got some sort of oil crisis looming and we’ll all be back to horses and carts before long. Which reminds me, our winter horse arrives next weekend, so before too long I’ll be riding into town. Heigh ho.
"I do nothing and then I do something. But it's taken years of investigating idleness in all its forms to be able to achieve this. My discipline is borne out of concerted study of idleness."