Things will never be the same again. That’s what they say. Comparisons have been made to the Great Depression of 1929-30 and the last fuel crisis in the early 1970s; comparing then with now. In some respects, this current sticky patch is the fault of banks and bankers (although let’s not forget all those people who took the credit, knowing full well they would struggle to pay it back) but it has elements of both these previous ‘disasters’ and that makes me nervous.
In a report last week, one of the newspapers said that if a terrorist attack targeted Portsmouth / Southampton, where much of Britain’s imported food arrives, then two days later supermarket shelves would be empty. This makes me so uneasy. I don’t want to be in a position where I struggle to feed my family because Tesco provides, citing consumer demand as a reason, strawberries in January. I want to be able to grow my own food and provide my own energy. A tall order, but one I am trying to work on.
We’re still on the waiting list for an allotment, sharing one with my parents at the moment. This set-up isn’t ideal but means we can grow some of our food and become slightly less reliant on supermarkets. Having to learn new skills is fun, interesting and empowering and I am glad we know how to make soup and bread from scratch, can build things from wood and understand the seasons and what should grow when. We have a lot to learn, but every day a bit more knowledge lodges itself in my grey matter and nudges something useless out of there.
Moving one step further forward, I attended another course at Reaseheath. This time to learn about small-holding and livestock. Reading James Herriot books and listening to the Archers is all very well, but there comes a time when you have to put abstract learning into practice.
The day itself was divided into four segments: sheep, pigs, cows and tractor driving. After quick introductions from our instructor, Mark, and the other nine participants, it was out into the cold to look at sheep. First stop was the barn where the North Country Mules (Blue-faced Leicester x Swaledale) were mooching around in readiness for giving birth to singles, twins and triplets.
Although the photo didn’t come out very well, you can just spot the sheep wearing a crown of straw. The others didn’t dress up, they just stood around, taking a bit of molasses-enriched silage and staring at us as we learnt about lambing and general sheep health. From the draughty barn to the draughtier field to round up some lambs and bring them back up to the farm.
As predicted, the two groups in the field moved into one quite smoothly and then, not liking the look of us, set off at a run across the grass. Between us, and thanks to strategically-placed hurdles, we managed to get them through the first gate, then along the next field where they instinctively headed for the corner furthest from where we wanted them to go. Plenty of running, arm waving and ‘sheepdog’ whistles ensued and eventually they were coaxed to the right gate.
They did this so expertly, through the gate and into the holding pen, that they must’ve done it before. It seemed easy and even our tutor said we did well, some of the full-time students aren’t so competent.
Having them in a pen means they are easier to catch and ‘tip over’, which sounded a lot easier than it actually was. Sheep may look all fluff and spindly legs, but in reality they are heavy, strong, wriggling and not that happy about going over. First you have to catch one, without pulling its fleece. Then, you put one hand under the head, holding onto the front leg, and one hand on a back thigh. Bend the head round to touch the body, throwing the sheep off balance, then step back and pull the sheep towards you. Theoretically it should roll over, sit on its bum with its back resting against your legs and, once there, stay fairly quiet.
What actually happens is they wriggle and writhe, twist and squirm. I got as far as turning the head but when I tried to step back, the sheep followed me. After a couple of goes it got fed up and wrestled its way free so you have to start all over again. Although it isn’t easy, I did manage to do it twice and clip a few toenails. Once they are in position, the sheep sit quietly and seem to be ok with you checking their feet. If I want to keep sheep, which I do, healthy feet are very important and tipping sheep over will have to be second nature!
After their pedicure, the sheep were taken back to their field and left to graze un-harassed while we moved on to pigs. Reaseheath’s pig unit is a commercial operation, with 130 sows plopping out 12 piglets 2.3 times a year. It isn’t a laid-back family business and it shows. Even the instructor said he would be glad when the new unit is built next year as this one is dirty and cramped and only one step away from factory farming. An uncomfortable experience.
We were shown outside pens of four-week-old piglets, then taken into the farrowing unit and given a week-old piglet to hold. Mine was quiet for two seconds until it realised my hands were freezing (they’re kept nice and warm) and then started to squeal loudly. I dropped it back in with its mother (fenced to stop her rolling on top of them but with enough room for her to lie down) and moved along. The smell was incredible and the urine stench made your eyes water. I wasn’t the only one glad to get out into the crisp Cheshire air.
Then it was time to use pig boards to herd a few and two enormous (or are they normal-sized?) white pigs were let out of their pen. Sheep stick together when faced with the unknown, but with pigs it’s everyone for themselves and these two were no different, each making a beeline to a different part of the yard, followed by us with our boards. No amount of clicking, shouting, talking, board-waving or pushing seemed to make them go in any direction they didn’t want to. As you can see from the photo, she’s bigger than me and I’m not very assertive.
The third part of the day was supposed to be with cows but the 250-strong Holstein-Friesian herd is managed by an outside company so wandering around with the cows wasn’t possible. We were, however, shown into the £1.5 million milking parlour and watched as the first cows came in to be milked. Like the sheep they knew were to go: straight to the end and then turn to face outside so the milking hands could reach the udders. Cows get milked in batches of 34; a swift and automatic process with all the herd going through in around two and a half hours.
Finally it was back outside to have a play on a tractor. Two minutes of instruction and away we went although it was unit only, no ploughs or trailers to wreak havoc with. There is, I notice, a longer course on tractor driving so maybe I will sign up. Until then, I have the memories. Agnieszka said that, had it not been for my ears, my grin would have gone all round.
If things will never be the same again then I for one want to be prepared and this course was part of the process towards knowing enough to get by. I hope I know more than I did last week and slowly edge my way into self-sufficiency.
Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday. I mentioned this in work and people suddenly remembered it was ‘pancake day’. Agnieszka told her colleague, who said she’d make some but ‘not from scratch, just out of a packet’. When she came home, Agnieszka told me how surprised she was and how sad it is that, in England, we don’t seem to celebrate feasts and notable dates – except the commercial orgy that is Christmas of course.
Is it because we are a more secular country? When I was little we always seemed to be at Mass, each and every feast day in church, every Wednesday during Lent for benediction. A Catholic thing perhaps? Easter, once a major time of celebration – and marked throughout mainland Europe with festivities – now passes by with a mountain of chocolate, a few pints on Easter Sunday and a frantic scramble to get to the beach before everybody else (whatever the weather) on Bank Holiday Monday.
Recently we watched Victorian Farm on the BBC iPlayer, following three people who, for a year, experienced what it was like to live on a farm in the late nineteenth century. I found it fascinating, not just for the inventiveness of Victorians, but for the marriage of traditional and modern, the mix of old and new. They celebrated all the traditional festivals, starting the year in September (Michaelmas) and then going through Christmas, May 1 (Spring) and Lammas (Summer) before ending at harvest time and the end of the farming year. At each one they stressed the importance and the symbolism of the feast. Today, people worship at the altar of Ikea, or the church of Tesco and ‘don’t have time’ for things like this. Sad, isn’t it?
Last weekend we went to a ploughing match at a farm in King’s Moss. Despite the poster’s proclamation of ‘a century of ploughing’ and a promise of ‘gentle giants’ we were disappointed to see no horses. Just lots of old(er) men on their renovated tractors. One guy, from Rhyl, said he’d been recovering from cancer and restored his little red Fergie (the red 'frog' one at the top of this post) from a chair. ‘It was either that or go under,’ he said matter-of-factly.
The newly-turned earth reminded me of Ploughman by Patrick Kavanagh.
On the windowsill in our back bedroom, tomatoes, calabrese, coleus and mesembryanthemums are all showing above the soil. We’re rapidly running out of room, but the onset of growth heralds the start of Spring and the knowledge that days are getting longer and work outside will begin in earnest. 
After initial disappointment I was please with the results and am waiting now to see what we can use it for. As it is similar to twaróg then it might mean we have kluski for tea, or my favourite – kopytka. Whichever we have, I know it will taste even better with some home-made cheese on top.
Having never held a chicken before, let alone caught one, it was good experience as now I know I can do both. Whether I can wring its neck, should the time ever come, remains to be seen. What the day did teach us, was that we are capable of keeping them and I am really looking forward to getting our own for the yard, while I know Agnieszka is looking forward to me moving the hen house out of the front room to somewhere more suitable.
Cut to a second visit during the recent spell of crisp, cold weather. All 26 of the turbines were visible and we had a great walk up to the top of Knowl Hill where you could see the majority of the giant blades turning in the stiff breeze. It looked fantastic, like giants waving their arms about in a regular but slightly manic fashion. Standing underneath I wondered if, should one of the blades fall off (ok, so I think about things like that, get over it) would we be able to run out of the way quickly enough. At 40 metres long I doubt it. Let’s hope that never happens, otherwise the 40,000 houses this wind farm supplies will be affected.
In recent weeks attention has turned once again to the Russian gas producers and their ongoing spat with Ukraine over alleged stealing and non-payment of bills. In retaliation, Putin has thrown his dummy out of the pram and cut the supply to Ukraine. This has the knock-on effect of reducing supplies to other east European countries such as Bulgaria and Slovakia who rely on gas from Russia and whose access to it is via a pipeline that crosses Ukraine. The whole of Europe is now concerned they’ll be freezing over the next two months as power-mad short-arse Vladimir Putin shows what a mighty country Russia is and tries to improve his position by bullying neighbours and blackmailing them over gas.
If ever an event showed us it is time to look at more alternative sources of energy it is now. Stop using the excuse this technology is too expensive to invest in, you poured enough money into failing banks over the last months, and provide incentives in cleaner, greener energy that make it affordable. Then we can all do what everyone wants to but no-one dares – stick two fingers up to Putin.
That aside, we had the most wonderful break. We spent New Year’s Eve in a small and almost empty pub, sat by a log fire, playing dominoes and drinking real ale, while the hippy-rasta barman crocheted to pass the time and where, at midnight, six small rockets were set off. Once they’d exploded, the silence descended again, to bring in the new year as it has done for centuries.
On the Friday we woke to find a dusting of snow and drove the short distance to Ravenstonedale and followed a walk from the local paper, cut out by the landlady of the B&B. Although a gentle walk, it was made more difficult by the 44 gated stiles that we had to get through. Designed for people with very long legs and no bum or belly, they involved plenty of both stretching and breathing in. As we reached the halfway mark, we noticed a cloud bringing snow heading our way and I kept an eye on it nervously until I realised it wouldn’t overtake us and envelope us in a blizzard. 
Finally, on Saturday we headed home via Glenridding and a hike up towards Helvellyn. Bitterly cold in the wind, over paths covered in sheet ice, but terrific views. Slight nervousness when Agnieszka’s knee went, giving her another bruise to match the one she got from a tumble on a slippy path, but it seemed to be ok and we got back to the car park without further mishap.
Over Kirkstone Pass and through Windermere took us back to the motorway and it was dark before we reached the M6. A clear run and we were home in an hour and a half. As we approached the Manchester area, the light pollution was really obvious, especially after three nights of almost total darkness. The following day in Farnworth, the notion we were back in a city was reinforced by the piles of crap littering the streets, the graffiti and the track-suited inhabitants of our adopted town. Welcome home, to 2009.
So to get a bit of Christmas spirit we went to Germany for a weekend of Christmas markets. The markets themselves were lovely, with Trier in particular being very pretty. 
Köln was packed, as it was the last time I was there. How anyone can enjoy the constant shove and crush of people, making it almost impossible to see or do anything, is beyond me. It took a bit of time to get used to the direct (read ‘shoving’) way the Germans push through the crowds, and the way young mums thought nothing of pushing a pram through, jabbing at the heels of the people in front if they didn’t go fast enough. 
One thing Trier has that impressed me immensely was a restaurant dedicated to the humble potato. For me it was a dream come true. Almost every dish was potato-based, except for the schnitzels and steaks but even they came with… potatoes. The food was fantastic and choice excellent and the service was good, although we had eight different people come to the table. I was able to practice, plenty of times, my crappy Deutsch but everyone was very patient and listened to me and in most cases I got what I asked for. There was only one wobbly moment, when the woman in the cake shop asked if one teapot was big enough for two people. I still don’t know what words she used but she lost me completely. The tea was so weak it didn’t matter anyway.
There’s no real rush to learn, I have all winter. If it takes a few weeks that’s fine, although I’ve had to rethink my original ‘Aran’s for everyone’ Christmas present idea. After that it’s practice and only then, when I have the basics learnt, can I move on to the next step – getting a few sheep.
Spiders’ webs were strings of ice crystals and along the road and through the wood there was the constant slithering sound of ice, melted by the watery winter sun, dropping off the branches onto the floor.
In the sun it was relatively warm, but once we’d got into the woods and down into the valley to cross the River Douglas, it got terribly cold. Emerging on to the canal bank later, a sheet of ice covered the water, broken with a sound like an Arctic ice-breaker by a passing narrow boat. The crew, two men and a woman, were bundled up in coats, hats, gloves and scarves but, despite the cold, looked like they were enjoying themselves as they chugged sedately on down the canal in the direction of Liverpool.
For once the walk wasn’t a mud-fest and we managed to get round without getting too spattered. The ground was fairly solid and the paths firm. A robin sang at us as we crossed a bridge and we could hear the wheezing of some geese in flight. Two hours was enough though, and it was back to the warmth of the house and a cup of healing barszcz – surely the best soup ever invented. 
Then you use the uncapping fork to take the wax caps off the frames of honey.
Place them into the extractor, where they are spun until the honey is ‘flicked’ out, taking care to load it evenly, otherwise broken frames and bouncing machine is the result.
Pour out the honey into buckets.
Clean everything.
A gap, and (wait for it)...
A step up.
Someone somewhere needs a good hard kick up the arse. I mean a really good hard kick. Or better still, put them in a wheelchair and get them to try and get in or out of the train at this station. It is hard enough trying to lift a heavy suitcase in and the lady with the pushchair had to unceremoniously throw the whole thing out, to the obvious distress of the child.
Above, some of the many plum tomatoes, variety San Marzano
And the ordinary variety, Shirley. The Polish ones, Kmicic, are still green although a couple have now started to turn and will be red before too long.