Kwiecień plecień...

Kwiecień plecień,
Bo przeplata,
Trochę zimy,
Trochę lata.

Easter was early this year and both of us have noted how we’re still in winter coats, with the heating on at night, despite it being light now until nearly half past seven. From a planting point of view, everything seems to be late. The garlic and onions that went in before Christmas have survived, for the most part, but the spring cabbage have wilted and will have to be removed to make way for more onions. The leeks were doing ok although some rotted in the soil, and they’ve now all been lifted, blanched and frozen so there’ll be a bit of soup to be had yet.

Onions and garlic (above, on the right) and potatoes (below, first earlies

on the right with the maincrop due to go where the black plastic is)

In a sunny window I managed to plant up some more autumn fruiting raspberries as well as three blackcurrant bushes. These bushes need a lot of room and we thought a lot about taking up the space but I think we can work round it by using small patches in different parts of the plot.

Sunday saw me having to feed the bees. The winter has been so long that they've had no chance to forage and have used up almost all their stores so I gave them a bit of sugar syrup to keep them going. There were a lot more under the lid than I thought there'd be, which made going in without a veil a bit of a silly idea, especially with my new 'summer haircut'.

We also decided to break up some of the pallets and make fences to keep in the lilies and some other bulbs whose name I have forgotten, sparaxis maybe? The trellis was salvaged from the long grass and the honeysuckle that did so badly last summer seems to be going from strength to strength, as do the foxgloves at the opposite end. The plan is to add some cosmos, sweet peas and maybe some ribes to give lots of colour, feed for the bees and also make a windbreak. We both enjoy going there to dig and potter so it makes for a nice relaxing morning, if only the roar from the motorway could be replaced with birdsong!

Without bread all is misery...

So said William Cobbett: pamphleteer, farmer and parliamentary representative for Oldham in the early part of the 19th century. However, if he had popped round here a couple of months ago he would have changed his tune pretty sharpish: 'with this bread, all is misery'. I had a go at making sourdough bread after reading plenty about how wonderful it is. I remain unconvinced.  While the starter worked fine and the actual 'dough' seemed to do ok, the end result was disappointing. Brick-like and tasteless. It wasn't helped by the fact I forgot to add salt to the flour and tried to hide this mistake by serving the bread with salt on top.

So I have gone back to 'regular' bread. I'm now at the stage where I can make a few loaves a week without too much faffing or swearing, and they can be frozen until needed. We both take 'bagging' to our day jobs and a few slices always comes in useful. Usually the chore needs to be done when the heating is on so the dough will rise but now it is getting a bit warmer during the day it seems to come up with no problem.

On a visit to Buxton in February we found a shop that sold the old type of bread tin, not the fancy non-stick ones, and I have two of those for 1lb loaves, plus a 1lb non-stick one bought in an emergency. The 3lb of flour plus yeast and water makes three loaves as well as between 8-12 small buns. As I get more confident I am slowly experimenting with things like rye and spelt flours, wholewheat flakes, herbs and sunflowers seeds. Not all of the results are brilliant, but they are all edible and by my own hand. That's worth a lot to me.

Dla Ewka

We're always thinking of you.

The bee-loud glade...

After several weeks of cold but dry weather, with plenty of very welcome sunshine, I manage to pick the day when it rains to do my first hive inspection of the year. Thankfully the sun came out so it wasn't too bad but there were some worrying signs inside both hives.

Firstly, the bees were alive and in both hives there were plenty of them. There was brood (not much but it's early yet) although I didn't see the either of our two queens, and the bees seem ok. On the down side, there was some light mould on the crown board and a couple of cells looked like they had chilled brood. Unfortunately it isn't possible for me to use a camera and check the frames so I had to rely on memory to check the problem.

For me, the most worrying thing was the amount of dead bees on the varroa mesh. There seemed an awful lot. This may have caused the poor circulation of air in the hive, as they were thick on the floor. I brushed them all out and, while one or two weren't dead, they didn't look very well. There wasn't, as far as I could see, a queen among them, so fingers crossed.

Supple as a young goat on a windy hill...

I have recently had a small operation to remove a ganglion from my right wrist and have been at home for the past couple of weeks recuperating. This has mainly consisted of reading all those books I bought from charity shops and never got around to. Some have been delight but others, why did I spend 50p on them? At least now the pile to be recycled is bigger and there's some room on the shelves for more...

Although I have been restricted in my movements somewhat, I was determined not to miss out on the basic goat keeping course we have been booked on since before Christmas. This was a week and a half after the op and I was able to drive down to Reaseheath with little pain. The day itself was great, even Agnieszka liked it, particularly when we got taken to a real goat farm where they breed various animals for their meat.

If I have one complaint about Reaseheath it's their habit of putting people into classes when they know nothing about the subject. Last time it was Mr 'I-like-to-keep-things-informal' Walton and his poor knowledge of poultry; this time it was Alan the sheep and dairy farmer. This was only an introduction, so I can forgive the lack of experience here, but for more indepth courses he would have been hopeless. He did, however, have lots of experience with cattle and sheep and came alive when he found he could transfer what he knew. You could see on the farm visit that he was relaxed around the animals, far more than in the class.

Anyway, Alan told us some excellent things, not all in the way he should. Goats, he said, had 'distinct similarities', some of which you can see in the photos. When asked about milk, he replied. 'lactation is a calendar year in terms of its lactation'. When talking about the buck, the PowerPoint slide just said 'urinating', referring to the unsavoury habit of male goats urinating on their front legs. Alan looked at that and said simply: 'There'll be lots of weeing' and then went on to explain how the smell of the buck is what attracts the doe. Now, call me old-fashioned, but if I was a girl and a large, hairy goat, reeking of its own piss, came up to me, the last thing I would be doing is turning around and thinking of England. Surely it's the smell of the doe that attracts the buck, not the other way around? I wait with interest for any response...

All in all we had a good day, learnt quite a lot and I was surprised at Agnieszka, who went there ambivalent about any animal, except maybe rats and Jack Russell terriers, but came away smiling broadly and asking me when we could get some goats. Soon, I hope.  

Hippies, Canals and Hebden Bridge...

We like walks on a Sunday, especially if the day before has been a busy plot day. There was nothing to do yesterday, the ground is still either too hard or too claggy to dig and the onions that should be going in are still dormant. But as the weather was good, i.e. not raining, we decided to go for a walk.

The plan was to park at the free car park in Todmorden, take a bus or train to Hebden Bridge, and then walk back along the Rochdale canal, a distance of around five miles. Getting to Todmorden was easy enough and we were nicely early for the train. Unfortunately, some low-life ne’er-do-wells had removed some of the signalling cables from the side of the track so we had to take a rail replacement bus. So the journey was done by road rather than over viaducts and through tunnels as we’d prefer, and we arrived, while the sun was still shining, around 11.30am.

A quick walk around the town, a browse in a charity shop and a takeaway coffee later, we were back onto the canal and plodding along the towpath. Hebden Bridge is a nice, bustling place, with plenty of boats that are lived in, rather than just left for holiday cruises. There's a threadbare alternative energy centre and a narrowboat / tipi commune, as well as plenty of natural-wool-jumper-wearing long haired Jesus-booted freaks. Pretty much right up my street really, although it was a shame to find the only public toilets were also used as rain water collectors...

The walk was pleasant, if chilly, as the sun always seemed to be just about to peek over the hills before we either turned a corner and it disappeared, or the clouds came over and blocked it out. The canal itself was frozen in places, only lightly, but there was definite ice there.

As walks go it was very pleasant, fairly flat, nice scenery, plenty of back gardens to nosey at. The only gripe, and it’s a small one, was the noise from the main road, which the canal shadows. Maybe it was just because it was Sunday that traffic was extra heavy, or maybe it was me, yearning for the silence of the countryside, just the twittering of a robin and the quacking of ducks to break the quiet.

To end the walk, and to celebrate St Valentine’s Day, I took Agnieszka to Lidl as a 'treat'. Unfortunately, this romantic gesture on my part was spoiled somewhat by the foul smell of last night's beer excaping. So if the person who farted yesterday in Todmorden Lidl is reading this, please, buy a cork…

O stony grey soil...

This winter has been an interesting one. Plenty of snow led to plenty of problems as people realised they didn’t know what to do in it, councils ran out of grit and airports were closed. For us, the poor road conditions meant we haven’t been out and about as much as usual and working on the allotments hasn’t been possible for some time.

However, last weekend was the first time in what seems like ages where we had some watery winter sun and bright weather. I was so looking forward to being out on the soil but, as it turned out, the soil was too frozen to do anything. The onions and garlic will just have to wait until it warms a bit. Knowing this country that could be next week.

So to keep warm we cleared the raspberry canes left over from last year, and hacked down the growth of sunflowers that grow permanently by the fence. The fence is in need of repair so the sunflowers must be moved before we can do that. It was so nice to be out, wrapped up, and working. I am finding my day job a real strain at the moment and to go out and cut and clip, hack and snap, was great therapy.

We also did a bit of forward planning, and realised that once the potatoes are in we are going to have very little room for anything until the winter onions come out. So this year will be a delicate balancing act, trying to get plants ready to go in as soon as something else comes out. I find I am excited at the thought of it in a way I never get excited at work. More proof, not that I need it, that I am not only in the wrong job, but wasting my time in an office.

Tattoos: Art? Or a pain in the arse?

I am a great fan of the English language, and language in general, and enjoy finding out how words and phrases are linked, how they evolved and their counterparts in other languages. Equally interesting, I find the use of English by foreigners a source of much smug chuckling, over spellings and grammar. That is not to say that native English speakers don’t make mistakes, like the ‘food now been served’ notice outside a pub close to where I work.

When we lived in Warsaw, I would find the sports footwear shop Athlete’s Foot highly amusing every time I went past it. Childish humour, but very satisfying. So it was with great delight that I spotted this sign outside a Katowice tattooists. I stared in disbelief, mouth open, at the first sight of the sign and was even more aghast at finding out they have not one, but two shops in the town centre. Surely someone understands enough to explain to them. When Agnieszka translated for a friend, the friend’s face registered a kind of shocked laughter.

I can only shudder at where they would offer to pierce...

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow (part two)...

On Monday of this week it started to snow. There had been a dusting earlier, just before New Year, but Monday night's fall was prolonged and heavy. We were woken around 6.30 by the sound of spade scraping on tarmac and a quick look out the window showed a taxi driver stuck outside the house. He was gamely attacking the six or seven inches of snow that had fallen but, as Agnieszka pointed out, he should have been clearing the snow, not trying to remove the road surface. Every so often he would get back in his car, rev a little, skid a bit, then get out and start further pointless digging. Anyone other than a taxi driver and I may have gone out, but as they know all there is to know about driving, I left him to it.

As everyone knows, more than a third of an inch of snow = day off. I had rung in by 8am and then wandered out with Agnieszka as she went to get a bus. First, putting their customers first as usual, had suspended all services. Later in the day, when they resumed, they weren't using Bolton bus station as it was snowbound. I know this is an outrageous thing to say but, why weren't the drivers clearing it in the morning? I mean, they couldn't go anywhere could they?

So with both of us off we had a mid-week fried breakfast and then trundled off into the park for a walk. I love the silence of the snow, everything seems to still, peaceful and untouched. That is, until we reached Moses Gate ponds where a selection of Farnworth's (and probably Bolton's) finest had removed some large road signs, bent one edge and were using them as sledges. Some had even gone to the trouble of punching holes and fitting ropes to make them look more streamlined.

We walked back along the main road. No plough had been down here. In fact, there were no signs of any activity on the part of Bolton Council to clear anything. We saw no gritter, no council staff, nothing. It is as if our ability to deal with a problem suddenly evaporates when the snow arrives. Everyone is helpless and, it has to be said, giddy. I think it was summed up by a comment on an idiot board, sorry, online forum. It said, roughly, 'why can't we cope when countries that have snow regularly can?' As far as I can see, the answer to that is in the question: other countries cope because they get this kind of weather every year. We don't. The last time it snowed like this was, according to the Guardian, 1982. So it is no wonder we don't invest in snowploughs and blowers, shovels and grit. If everyone did a little, then all would be well, but I noticed on our street, I am the only one to clear the front of the house.

Anyway, enough moaning. Here are some photos.

The back yard, with the covered chicken run and hut on the left-hand side.

Me, sure I'd left the car outside the house.

Oh, there it is.

Market Street, Farnworth at 9am on Tuesday. It would still be like this at 5pm.

Hungry swans on the pond at Moses Gate park. Other photos in this post were also taken in the park, thanks to Agnieszka for being patient and taking them while I ran around like a loon.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow (part one)...

Under orders from tesciowa we made sure we booked flights early in 2009 so we could go to Katowice for Christmas. We bought them in March for £200. By October the same tickets were up to £500 - half the price they were in 2008 - and they stayed around this level. So why so expensive last year? Maybe the stories about lots of Poles returning home are true and easyJet are finding it more difficult to sell seats. I don't really care, we still got our flights at a good price and it was lovely to arrive in Kraków and hear the pilot say it was minus twelve degrees outside. The looks on the faces of the all-girls school choir were priceless, as was their disbelief when they were expected to cram, suitcases and all, on to the bus to the staion.

From tesciowa's flat on the tenth floor all was clear, crisp and white and we felt sure it would last until Christmas. This meant, unfortunately, that the game of mini-golf was out. Here is the course:

It's been a couple of years since we were here for Christmas dinner proper and I had forgotten just how much food you're expected to eat and enjoy. We had six courses: barszcz, pierogi, cabbage and mushrooms, pasta with poppy seeds, compote and one other I've forgotten. There was no way I could finish it all. This over-indulging continued for the next three days, with course after course being produced from a kitchen the size of a postage stamp. Every time one of the dogs moved there was a rush to see if they wanted to go out for a walk, to get abit of exercise to work off a few calories. At one point, even the dogs got fed up going out and refused to move from their comfy places. It was phenomenal and, at times, painful. It would've been nice to see more of Alicja and less of the food but...

This isn't Christmas dinner, this was the breakfast the day after...

Although Christmas Day in England was, I am told, white, there was no hint of snow in Poland. What there was disappeared along with the sub-zero temperatures and we basked in a balmy five degrees for the best part of a week. We went to Warsaw on the Sunday as we had bank stuff to do and on the Monday, as we tramped around from bank to town hall to court (doing what could and should be done far quicker and more easily online), we were constantly ploughing through snowflakes.

Although it had stopped for our journey back to Katowice, on the Wednesday morning when we got up to go to the airport, it had started again with a vengeance. We waited for the bus, which arrived on time, on this street, and there will be more about snowy roads in a later post.

We were in town on time, on the train on time, at the airport on time. The flight left on time. Compare this to the 6mm (half an inch in old money) of snow that fell the weekend we left which closed several airports for a couple of days, leaving many irate Poles stranded in the UK for Christmas. From what we saw on the television, they weren't impressed at having to spend their festive season stuck at an airport.

Finally, as we come from different cultures and celebrate Christmas in slightly different ways, we find we adopt certain characteristics from each other's culture. Being in Poland I embrace the quiet, family-orientated Christmas, where the emphasis is on a nice meal with close family. However, as I am English I take some of our traditions abroad. Normally this is just crackers for the table (the ones with hats, mottoes and crappy jokes) but this year Agnieszka made a traditional English Christmas cake, although she did substitute the 'dead flies' (currants, raisins and sultanas) for 'proper' fruit like figs, dates and cranberries. We took icing sugar and marzipan and decorated the cake while we were there.

With all belated best wishes for the Christmas season and good luck for the New Year 2010!

Wszystkiego najlepszego!

Pre-Christmas allotment...

As I write this the snow is piled high outside and all over the north west people are grumbling: about blocked and slippy paths; about roads with no grit and councils with no idea; about having to take flexi instead of being paid to stay at home. So it is with a touch of embarrassment that I post these photos from the allotment during what was described as 'possibly the worst snow fall of the winter' back in December. How little they knew.

Here are our winter onions, just poking through the dusting:

The leeks that continue to provide tasty leek and potato soup:

And one of the hives, where inside the bees should be snug and warm. It's too cold to check so I have to hope they're ok.

In a bit of a spin...

One of the problems, I find, with a blog is that sometimes nothing happens for ages and then a load of things happen at once and you end up with a backlog of things to write about. This has happened since my last post in December so I have decided to try and do things in a chronological order so that it makes sense, to me at least.

A week or two before Christmas we travelled up to Darwen, along Agnieszka's favourite satanic route, the A666, to visit the mid-Lancs Guild of Weavers Spinners and Dyers. It was there, amid the rustle of polyester and the occasional high-pitched whine of a hearing aid, that we met a very nice group of people (several with Polish conections) who were busying themselves with a variety of crafts: knitting, crochet, tatting, spinning, weaving, rag-rugging and so on. By not limiting themselves to just the spinning, weaving and dying aspects, the group was able to incorporate enough members to keep going. They were a lively crowd, and very friendly, unlike the Knitting Nora's and their cliquey clacking. As well as being called 'young man' and 'flower' I learnt how to properly card my lumpy fleece and spin it onto my spindle. Agnieszka was shown a quick way of tatting and we're both looking forward to going back in January. Until then, I have two fleeces to turn from smelly lumps of wool into yarn ready for plying...

The tools I use, from top: raw fleece from the Shetland sheep I sheared last summer; drop spindle; rolags ready for spinning; carding brushes.

Cold dough and a rainy night...

The last few days have been really chilly, but bright and crisp. In quiet corners, the frost glints off piles of litter in the weak autumnal sunshine. On the way to work the sun is reflected in the windows of the flatblocks by the park, a vivid orange glow cutting through the willowy trees like fire, so bright it hides the stark grey concrete of Salford's slums.

At home the annual problem of how to keep the house warm is upon us again. During the summer I sealed the gaps in the floorboards but that doesn't seem to have done much good. I'm thinking of bringing the hens in at night to keep the kitchen warm, but where would we put the penguins then?

This problem of a cold house plays havoc with some of the things we try to make. Trying to keep milk warm to help it curdle and make some cheese is almost impossible, I just can't seem to maintain a level temerature other than 'cold'. Recently, I made some bread and in order to get it to rise I had to be a little bit inventive. Necessity being its mother and all that. So I have started laying a blanket down in the spare room (the only warm and dry room in the house), on top of which I put a hot water bottle filled with, well, hot water. Around this goes the bread tins and tray with dough and the whole lot is covered with a clean dry tea towel. After twenty minutes, half an hour, I go up and move everything round so the warmth gets to all sides. It looks a bit odd but the bread rises ok, eventually, and it comes out of the oven looking like it should. Now all we need is a bigger kitchen, with enough space to knead the dough without having to move things out of the way before, during and after the pummelling process.

A bigger, warmer kitchen. How lovely. Dream on...

Bless my woollen socks...

One of the changes I have made in recent years has been to try to do something positive at times like Lent and New Year. Instead of attempting to give up or cut down on things, I endeavour to learn something new, or set myself tasks that require a bit of effort throughout the year and not just for a couple of weeks after Christmas.

In November 2008 I, with the aid of my mum’s instruction, a stitch book and a couple of You Tube videos, taught myself to knit. Despite being left-handed (and male) I managed to create half a dozen mobile phone covers, a hot water bottle cover and a scarf made from Shetland Wool (the same Shetlands I would shear later in 2009). I joined a knitting circle, but have limited my involvement with them after the snobby, slightly unfriendly atmosphere I found at the monthly meeting. Although I still ask for bits of advice, on the whole there are plenty of other sources I find more ‘user friendly’.

All this waffle is leading to my New Year’s resolution for last year, 2009, which was to attempt to knit a pair of socks. Wool and needles were duly bought and no fewer than four attempts were made to get started but I persevered and gradually a sock-shaped creation emerged. Interrupted by gardening commitments throughout most of the summer, one and a half socks sat neglected until recently, when the nights drew in and gave me an opportunity to get back to them. They certainly aren’t perfect, any close inspection will reveal their flaws, but they are made by me. I feel chuffed I was able to manipulate five needles, turn the heel and Kitchener stitch the toe and it has given me confidence and an urge to do more.

These were, of course, supposed to be for Agnieszka but somewhere in the measuring I made a mess and they don’t fit. But I have some more wool from Woolfest to knit her a nicer pair and I have, for me, some Hebridean / Blue-faced Leicester wool for a pair of welly socks to keep my feet warm.

With only a few weeks left before the end of the year, I will have to find something new to try for 2010, but I am sure I will keep up with the knitting.

Back to Blighty...

So we arrived back in Hull on a bright Tuesday morning and took advantage of the day by driving up to Bridlington. By 8.30am we were stuffing our faces with a full English (Agnieszka) and a full veggie (me), washed down with milky coffee, in a sea-front greasy spoon. From there we waddled off to the beach for a walk in the early morning sun before heading up to Flamborough for a stroll along the cliffs.

By the time we got back to Farnworth, around five o'clock that evening, we'd covered almost 2100 miles in the previous two weeks. It felt like longer and it felt like we'd never stopped moving. We saw a lot of places we hadn't seen before, some we probably wouldn't want to see again, we'd met plenty of people and we'd been exposed to various set-ups with regard to holiday homes, farming enterprises and agro-turystyka holdings. It has given us a lot of food for thought and, while we think we narrowed the search for a house down, the problem still exists: what do we do for money? More precisely, what do we do for regular income? We would need jobs, at least part-time and while I would go back to teaching, what would Agnieszka do? That's why a bigger city is a better bet, but there the property is more expensive, so living away from town is cheaper but raises the problem of getting in and out for work / cinema / shopping. So we have plenty of things to consider before we can even think about getting animals. Who would look after them? Would they be trustworthy? Would they do it properly? Questions, questions.

We go back to Poland at Christmas for a week to visit Agnieszka's mum and see some friends. Talking it over with them might reveal some answers but, for now, we have to sit tight until house prices here rise a little. Only then will we have a bit of capital to invest in another house but this time I want to do it right, with a big garden, somewhere we can grow old and enjoy living.

When I am in work and feeling a bit off, I think of this picture and remember being deep in the forest, looking for mushrooms with the woman who has made my life so wonderful. Thank you, Agnieszka, for the holiday and, indeed, for everything!

In the low, low lands of Holland...

Rotterdam to be precise, where we arrived after a solid, eleven hour, drive from Szczecin. I love the continent but bloody hell 'it's a long, long way from here to Clare...'

Another city and here we were with no map. Thankfully the signage was good and we managed to get to the car park at Erasmusbrug with no problem and from there it was a ten minute walk to the hostel. I'd like to say Hostel ROOM was a pleasant place to stay but it wasn't. We should've know by the jar on the reception counter labelled 'free earplugs'. It is the noisiest place I have ever stayed, not just the echoing floors and banging doors but also the screaming and shouting that went on on the Saturday night. Whoever it was, I hope you tripped and fell in the roadworks outside and hurt yourself.

Rotterdam itself is bright and flash and completely without character. Flattened between 1939-45 it rebuilt itself using concrete, steel and glass. Only one area, Delfshaven, has been rebuilt to look how it would've done a hundred years ago but where Amsterdam and other Dutch towns have charm, because ordinary people live in streets like this, this part of Rotterdam is filled with antique shops, sculptors, bronze workers. It looks manufactured and un-lived-in and, on a damp Sunday, that's exactly what it was.

The best bit of the stay, for me at least, was the hour's boat trip along the river and around the docks. The biggest port in Europe, third biggest in the world after Shanghai and Singapore, Rotterdam handles 420 million tons of goods a year. It's visited by 80,000 ocean-going ships and 120,000 inland vessels that chug up and down the rivers and canals of mainland Europe. I only remembered these few facts but there were plenty more as we glided past the various havens and docks, avoiding container ships, tugs, water taxis and cruisers. Not since Hong Kong have I seen so many ships and boats in such a small space.

On the Monday morning we decided to high-tail it out of town and, after consulting a map in a bookshop, decided to head from the beach. On the way we called in at Brielle, parking in the car park of an underground supermarket.

After a quick browse we headed into town for one of the nicest surprises of the holiday: an authentic Dutch town. We entered the town through a gap in an earth bank, crossed a small canal and there found a market in front of a line of shops.

A walk beyond this revealed some charming streets and, to Agnieszka's joy, plenty of people on those chunky, clunky, sturdy bikes without brakes that the Dutch are so fond of. Here we just wandered contentedly for an hour or so, looking in wondows and browsing in shops, before heading back to the market and a sit down with a coffee and one of the best apple cakes I have ever tasted.

For the rest of the afternoon we meandered through the countryside, calling in at several towns and villages that I can't remember the name of. For some reason all the garages we tried were without diesel and it became a bit of a panic as time ticked on, to get the tank filled up. Luckily we found one in the end but, with only a quarter tank left, I had visions of us returning to Hull and having to pay English prices. As it was, we got it for less than a pound a litre.

Chilling on the beach in the shadow of Europoort...