Winter warmer...

On Saturday night, after the afternoon in Manchester and with a day rider ticket in hand, we went into Bolton for a drink. A rare occurrence but an enjoyable one. Among the things we talked about - children, chickens and real ale - we discussed New Year's resolutions. I said that, rather than give something up, I would do something new or different and, after my success with two knitting needles, have set myself the challenge of knitting socks.

The conversation rambled, as is our wont, but one of the things we kept coming back to was the inability, apparent or otherwise, of people to do basic things. It seems skills are lacking, be they knitting and sewing, making sauces and soups from scratch, or understanding where potatoes come from. People no longer seem interested in these things and, especially in Credit Crunch Britain, would benefit from cheaper, more wholesome food if they possessed some basic skills. It also goes without saying that these sort of passtimes provide a welcome excuse not to watch all the crappy programming on television at the festive season.

So this year, I will be learning some new things. How to knit socks, how to make cheese and, hopefully, how to milk a cow. Not the usual run-of-the-mill things to do, but ones I find interesting and, to some extent, challenging. So what of my first knitting project? Well, despite some wayward stitches, the hot water bottle cover is now finished and has already been brought into service warming the blocks of ice that pass as feet on my beloved. Luckily I managed to take a photo before it disappeared under the covers.

Weihnachtsmarkt mit wurstchen...

A combination of greed and high prices has scuppered a trip to Poland for Christmas. Flights that cost £100 in the second week of January suddenly rise to almost £1000 for the week around Christmas.

It’s depressing that we can’t please everyone and be with them for Christmas and I feel terrible Agnieszka can’t be with her family at this time as the Polish Wigilia is much more about a meal with family than the consumerist-obsessed Merrye Olde English feast.

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.

It seems a nice town, on the banks of the Mosel, with a lovely pedestrianised centre; the markets plonked in the main square and in front of the squat, stone cathedral. On the way we went through a very snowy Ardennes but this disappeared by the time we reached Trier. The days were cold and crisp though, and perfect for wandering around clutching glühwein and eating either Bratwurst (Agnieszka and my dad) or Reibekuchen (me and my mum).
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.

To make the best use of the time we had, we took the U-Bahn from the cathedral down to Rudolfplatz and from there walked back, taking in three other markets. Unfortunately, we just weren’t given enough time there. Although the drink of ‘Kölsch’ we had wasn’t rushed, neither was it relaxing – or followed by a second.
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.

Knit one, swear a bit...

As a child I was surrounded by wool. My mum worked in the wool shop in the village and was constantly either knitting at her machine, or sewing up in the chair by the fire. My nan, my mother’s mum, also knit and it was she who first tried to get me to make something, showing me how to cast on, to knit the stitches and to create small rows of knitting. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried I could never keep to the required number of stitches and my rows grew by three or four at each turn. The wrath of a grandparent ensured I didn’t carry on with something I always wish I had.

So in recent weeks I have decided to try again. I have grand visions of Aran jumpers with great fancy cables up them, fishermens’ ganseys made on the round and with no seams, fancy cardigans sported by super-models, all made by my clacking needles in a few days from the home-spun wool of my own sheep. The reality is much more mundane. For a start I have no sheep, which is a big hindrance when you want to knit chunky shepherd-wear. For another, I have had to start from scratch and teach myself the basics. Thanks are due, in part, to my mum for the basic stitches and to You Tube, for some reminder videos.

Women make it look so easy. They sit there on the bus, in the hospital, by the fire, needles blurred and wool ball bouncing as a fancy jumper takes shape in seconds. Me? I spend twenty minutes trying to knit one row. Why? Because the needles slip out of my hands, because I try to knit the loose bit of wool and not the bit attached to the ball, because the stitches slip off the needles, because my fingers are all thumbs, because I knit so tightly I can’t get the needle into the stitch, because I have only been doing it five minutes where many people learn as kids and carry on. Even so, I have almost got the knit stitch sorted. Next on the list is the purl. Once they are ‘mastered’ I can have a go at casting on (because this is something I don’t quite understand how to do), ribs, cables, patterns and casting off. One step at a time. I do find it relaxing though, until the concentration headache starts, but then I just put it down and go and do the dishes or something.
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.

Winter drawers on...

It seems a long time since the last entry, even though it is only a month or so. I have sold a few jars of honey at work but due to the cold weather and dark nights, haven’t been down to see if the bees are ok for a couple of weeks. I’m sure they’re fine, they have plenty of stores and they’re in a sheltered spot. But I should still go, just to make sure.

Work at the allotment has pretty much come to an end. Poor organisation led to there being nothing to plant or, worse, harvest and the experiment of putting some salad and a few extra beans in the unheated greenhouse has come to nothing. In order to try and avoid this next year, I have been checking the catalogues and deciding, in discussion with Agnieszka, what we should try and grow next year. In addition, I have been steaming through a few books now that the nights are dark and there’s not much to do other than huddle round the computer.

From several days the weather has been dull, damp and foggy. Standard summer weather Agnieszka thinks. But yesterday it was bright and sunny, as well as extremely crisp and cold, so we went out for a walk. We ended up in Blackrod, on a walk we’d done before. Nothing too energetic, just a five-miler round the fields and along the canal. After the fog, there was plenty of hoar frost giving grass and trees an almost cartoon-like foliage, making rose hips look like candied peel.
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.

The sticky has landed

After much messing, we finally got the honey into jars.

Agnieszka decided to clean the pan herself, which saved me a job.

Stickier than Sticky the stick insect's sticky situation

There has been quite extensive coverage over the summer of the threat faced by the bee population from disease, varroa mites and Colony Collapse Disorder with a prediction that English honey will run out by Christmas and that, without significant increases in the research budget into bee health, bees may disappear entirely within ten years.

I know a number of beekeepers who emerged from last winter with severely reduced colonies, or none at all, and the whole bee year has been much slower than usual. As a late starter, getting my colony at the beginning of July, I was quite prepared just to build up the strength of the hive and get it ready to go into winter in a good position. I was fully resigned to the fact I might not get any honey this year but a late burst of warm and sunny weather has meant that my colony has improved beyond all expectations and furnished me with my very first honey crop.

On Sunday me and Agnieszka went to the Dower House to extract the honey from the 25 frames our bees had produced. This is in addition to the super I have left for them as winter stores. They have in excess of 30lb of capped honey which should be plenty to see them through until the sun starts to poke its thin, watery fingers through winter’s gloom. That point seems a long way off but for now we have honey to see us through.

Extraction is made easy at Manchester beekeepers because we have the use of good equipment in a purpose-built room which is, as any of the people who run the club will tell you, the envy of every other beekeeping association in the land. Despite the range of equipment, you still get sticky. Very sticky. Here’s why.

First you put on a protective coat, so that the stickiness goes on that.
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.

I thought I did quite well, only washing my hands about 50 times and getting it on my trousers, shirt and up my sleeve. It’s now all over the door handles and steering wheel of the car and just about everywhere else. By the time we have everything cleaned, it’ll be near enough time to do it again. Thanks to Agnieszka for doing most of that while I was faffing about.

So how much did we get? Well, we filled almost to the top, three 15lb buckets, plus three jars from the cappings (another 4lbs). considering some people haven’t had anything this autumn, I think I did quite well but am wary of something I read in a gardening book: beginners do well in their first season because they are careful, they don’t know much and they take pains to get it right. In the second season, they know more, experiment more, make more mistakes and thus don’t produce as much, be it veg or honey. So I must be careful to carry on practising good hive hygiene, careful management and be open to new techniques and ideas. That way my bees will be happy and I will carry on having a fascinating and productive hobby for years to come.

Mind the gap / Uwaga na przerwę

Accessibility is important these days, particularly with regard to public buildings and services. To find a town hall or school without hand rails for the inform, Braille pads for the blind or wheelchair ramps for the disabled is almost impossible thanks to the 2005 Disability Discrimination Act that (and I paraphrase here) said these bodies have a duty to provide for a disabled person’s need. In addition, companies not covered by the act, such as bus and train operators, were given a deadline to make sure wheelchair users and other disabled people could use services normally.

That’s the UK. Abroad, it’s different, natch. So it was with a general sense of disbelief that we witnessed the logic of Kraków’s transport strategy to get people from Balice airport into the main railway station. The powers that be have invested in several brand new trains, smartly painted in red, white and yellow and spotless inside, with staff verging on the polite. When you get off the plane you take a bus to the station (ok, so they didn’t really understand the meaning of ‘integrated transport strategy’) and after a few minutes this sleek, polished train glides in, the doors swish open and passengers board. Twenty minutes later you arrive at Kraków Główny station. No problems there you think. But wait, what’s this? The doors open and…
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.

So who is responsible? In Poland everyone blames everyone else, but it is obvious that somewhere along the line someone didn’t think that train and platform have to be compatible. One solution would have been to build a new, lower, platform but that costs money. The official response? We didn’t ask but I would guess if you complained they would shrug, and then order you a taxi.

Czutni chutzpah...

I grew up in a family where tomatoes were a staple over the summer. I have vague memories of my mum selling them to people in brown paper bags, price unknown, and I think this has influenced my growing habits in later life.

After last year’s disastrous harvest of exactly no tomatoes, this year has proved to be a much better deal. Having put up a greenhouse on the allotment and transferred plants there early on, the results have been much better than I expected and we still have fruit in the yard just beginning to ripen. One truss has thirty fruits on it, but the worry is the summer will end (ha, did it ever start?) before they’re ripe.
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.

So what to do with the masses of tomatoes? Well, some have been traded for eggs from local chickens (Thanks Henrietta) and the rest have been eaten in take-to-work salads, made into tomato sauce for pasta, using home grown onions and garlic, and then frozen, or boiled up with more onions, dates, sugar and vinegar to make chutney. Now we have to wait six weeks before testing, so I hope it's ok. We'll see.

Farnworth jest fajne (część 2)

We had run out of milk. I say we, but it's Agnieszka who drinks it. Even on a good day I don't like it that much but particularly not the steri she insists we get from Aldi. But that's another story.

As we hadn't a drop in, we decided reluctantly to walk over to Aldi and, if that was shut, to Asda to get some more. However, on reaching Market Street we noticed the newsagents by the bus stop was still open and, as it was closer than either of the others, we decided to go in and see if they had anything. Many of the shelves were bare and when I asked the woman if they had any milk she did what Farnworth people do in lieu of a greeting and pretended not to hear me. Luckily Agnieszka spotted some right at the back of an open fridge and after a short debate about the sell-by date (the 12th, giving us only four days) we decided to take it.

We put it on the counter and the woman said: 'Just check it's alright. We've had some brought back.'

With that she broke the seal, took off the top, stuck her nose right up close and had a good sniff.

'Seems ok,' she said. 'Here, you try it.'

With that she handed it to Agnieszka who dutifully sniffed it, declared it ok, gave her the money and we left.

Jagody madness

A couple of weeks ago, on a walk around Affetside, we found a patch of blueberries (jagody in Polish) that were just about ripe enough to pick. Mid-way through our scrumping, a police car went past and, seeing us mid-scrump, stopped to ask us if we'd seen anyone thereabouts 'stealing berries'. We said no, but we'd let them know if we did. The urge to ask if they'd seen any police doing some crime prevention was on the tip of my tongue but I managed to keep the words inside. What a patrol car was doing up there, so far off a main road was anybody's guess but when you're on double-bubble of a Sunday, any time-wasting exercise will do. Pardon my cynicism.

We were ill-prepared last week, which meant we had to eat what we picked. Hence the new Goth look of black lipstick sported by Agnieszka:

This week, we set out specifically to pick some and were armed with two boxes and a couple of bags. The sun was beating down as we spent two hours picking up near Belmont and we came back with a kilo and a half, or approximately three pounds in old money.

Checking supermarket websites that night, I found out something quite interesting. I tried Tesco first, but the website won't let you browse without registering. Three attempts to get around this got my back up so I sacked it off in favour of somewhere else. In Asda, you can buy 125g of organic blueberries for £1.98. Sainsbury's were on offer at £1.99 for 225g, although they were normally £3.99 for the same weight. If we had bought the same weight at the supermarket, it would have cost us over £25. I will think of that every night this week as I chomp my way through fresh, succulent, sweet-smelling blueberries that cost us a couple of miles of diesel and two hours in the sun. What hardship.

Looking for a queen on a hot summer's day...

For this week's hive inspection I took along my mentor, Pippa, from Manchester Beekeepers. She has kindly agreed to look after me in the first few months of my beekeeping and is a very nice, very laid back person and great around the hive. Not like some of them on a Monday night at Heaton Park, banging things around and squashing bees through ham-fisted carelessness. I mean, I know eventually I will get stung but the longer it goes when it doesn't happen, the better and I certainly don't want to get the fallout from someone else's clumsy handling.

Anyway, this week was very hot and even with shorts and a t-shirt under the bee suit it was very warm. Sweat trickling down your face doesn't help and because of the veil in the way, you're not able to wipe it away so must suffer. We were met at the gate by one of the allotment holders, who asked if the bees had made any honey. She went on to ask me twice more, and Pippa once, if they'd made any honey and proudly said there were more bees (wasps, it turned out) in one of the compost bins.

The hive looks quite at home now, in the midst of the allotments and the windbreak fence is helping to lift the bees up to a safe height so they don't bother other allotment holders. The posts are sagging slightly so I will have to keep an eye on that as time goes on. The choice of colour was a good one, and unless you know it's there, you can hardly spot it.

There was plenty of activity, lots of brood, stores, eggs and larvae and a lot of bees coming in and going out of the hive. In another week it will be time for a super and hopefully we will have a bit of honey at the end of September. More importantly, the colony should be big enough to over-winter safely and start next spring in good condition. The queen, marked in this picture, is doing well and laying a nice brood pattern and there are plenty of young bees.

They do seem to be using a fair amount of syrup though, and it's starting to become expensive, purchasing sugar to feed them, but it has to be done. Without it they couldn't produce wax to make comb and therefore nowhere for the queen to lay. Aside from worrying about them when I am not there, and resisting the urge to open the hive every five minutes, they are getting on with business without me interfering. It is very pleasant to sit and watch them gliding in and taking off, bringing bags full of pollen and crops full of nectar and generally just enjoying watching them flying about. The next job now will be to name them all...

After we left and I had dropped Pippa off at her house, she gave me some redcurrants which I used even more sugar to turn into redcurrant jelly. Such sweet pastimes!

Pierwszy dzien pszczelarza

It wasn't without some nerves that I went up to Harwood on Saturday night to collect my very first colony of bees. They'd been left outside on a table and, when I removed the lid, they were all sat quietly, helped by the dull and cool evening air. When I picked them up, they started to buzz but a gentle kind of murmur rather than an angry whine. Settling them into the boot we set off for the allotments and their new home, me driving carefully so as not to upset them, Agnieszka quiet, saying occasionally that she could hear a buzzing, both of us checking in case any escaped.

Luckily none of them did and we arrived safely and, after donning my full gear (and feeling a bit of a tit as the bees were so quiet and uninterested), I installed them in their new position. As soon as I took out the foam block and replaced it with the entrance block bees came out, flying backwards to check the position of the hive before going round and round it to imprint its position on their memories. A slightly nervous night followed, where I worried about their safety: were they ok? Taking the sugar syrup? Finding their own nectar? I needn't have worried, as my next visit on the Monday night showed they'd definitely found, and emptied, the feeder, and were happily bussing in and out of the hive. Now all I have to do is keep them from swarming and hopefully they'll produce a frame or two of honey for us later in the year.
The box in the back of the car after jolting its way from Bolton. A few dead ones in the bottom but generally they seemed ok.

The hive on its stand on the allotment site, ready to have the travelling screen and foam travelling block removed and the feeder added.
Getting ready to go in. As it turned out, I didn't need all the gear on, but as a beginner it is better to be safe than sorry I think.
Giving them some smoke before taking off the screen and re-assembling the hive.

Since then I have visited only once, to top up the sugar syrup and look forward to doing my first proper inspection this weekend. If only the weather would improve, then they can get on with what they do best - making honey.

Basket cases...

I'm not very good with flowers, having neither the patience nor the knowledge to sow a border and make it look good. In Farnworth I don't have much choice as we have no borders so I am limited to hanging baskets. These are pretty much my first attempts and I am quite pleased with them. Fuchsias and trailing lobelia. There is supposed to be a trailing begonia in there too, but it doesn't seem to have come up...

Digging the dirt...

Last weekend’s visit to the allotment left us with plenty of foodstuffs and severely extended stomachs. We picked 2kg of blackcurrants, which are now sitting in eight jars in the kitchen,

some raspberries, which disappeared almost as soon as we got in, and some spinach, which I made into a pasta dish on the Monday. We also dug a few potatoes and got some beans off the straggly plants – both spuds and beans tasted fantastic.

Other jobs included lifting all the onions and garlic, which has started to get mildew and had to be taken out so we didn’t lose it all. Some of them haven’t fattened up but there should be enough for a couple of months and the garlic looks very tasty. That won't last long at all in our house.
The radishes, which were planted three or four weeks ago. These are grated and then mixed with plain cottage cheese for a tangy breakfast treat.

My planning has gone a bit awry, however, as we now have nothing to plant for autumn cropping which made me a bit mad, but we'll try and get some winter veg in before it's too late.

Help wanted, bring your own matches...

The following advert appeared in the Manchester Evening News last week and it seemed worthy of a post.

I agree that it's a unique opportunity but I do have some reservations about the rest of the job. For a start, what do they mean by 'optimum productivity' and, later, 'bonus opportunities'? If you're a few dogs short of your bonus one month, can you use cats? How many rabbits would you need to equal one horse? Would you put lots of pets into one box, thus cutting down on fuel for the pyre and earning yourself 'technical ability' points? If no-one was booked in, would you go out at night seeing what you could run over?

The other thing I thought was interesting was they ask, obviously, for people who have experience of working in a crematorium. Failing that, you could work in a waste management / incinerator business. Now, just bear with me for a second, but isn't that reducing the last rites for a much beloved family pet down to a 'shove it on the fire' attitude? Would Granny Clamp's moggie just be another tick on the bonus sheet? Little Johnny's stick insects merely extra heat...

I suppose I'm curious about the whole set-up. If you do fancy applying, I left the details on the advert. Do let me know how you get on...

A grave matter...

In recent weeks I've been to two funerals, both of uncles, and returned from France to find out a friend from Liverpool, who was only a year older than me, had been found dead in his house only a few days before. It made me think of how vulnerable and soft people are, how easy it seems to be to snuff out the light of life, and how coping with death can be a difficult and painful process.

In Bayeux, we passed a funeral shop and were smiling at the stones available to adorn graves. At first I thought they were ridiculous, but having reflected on it for a few days, why shouldn't people have images on the stones that portray their life-long loves and hobbies? Here are a selection of the ones in the window:

For the gambler, an unbeatable poker hand to give them a good start in the next world.

For the farmer, a reminder of all those early starts with only the occasional pat on the back.

And for the motorist, chugging along heaven's highways in an upturned pram.

Nests of a different kind

On the return from our week in Brittany we had a couple of days in Bayeux. It's a lovely town, albeit slightly over-run by American tourists doing the whole Normandy beach thing. You could see them at bars and cafés around the centre, retelling the stories of death and glory. Our charming bed and breakfast was close to a museum and one of the war cemeteries where so many of their comrades ended up. We walked around part of it one day, the rows of white stones bright in the late afternoon sun. A group of English school kids were coming in as we were leaving and I heard one lad say vehemently, 'It's not nice, it's depressing' and that was exactly what it was.

So it was with more positive feelings that we saw this tank, parked outside the museum. Inside the end of the gun turret, a pair of sparrows had built a nest and the parent birds were busy going to and fro feeding their family. If only all gun barrels could house a family of birds then maybe there wouldn't be so many sad stories in the world.

From Farnworth to France in one day...

A week in France was just the ticket. A break from the routine of work and daily life and far away from the hell hole that is Farnworth. We drove down to Portsmouth, taking the ferry to Le Havre overnight. It was Le Mans weekend so we were accompanied on the boat by every red-blooded, car-mad, testosterone-filled bloke from the south coast, eager to show off their driving skills to the French public, none of whom give a toss about driving. Or skills.

For the first night we stayed within sight of Mont St Michel but were so knackered after the ferry that we crashed out at 8pm and didn’t surface for twelve hours. A week in a gite followed; a week of morning coffee, fried fish, salad, bread, chilled cider, cold wine and the greatest discovery of recent times – mayonnaise and mustard. Mixed. In one jar.

Having breakfast outside the gite, determined to enjoy it, even when it wasn't that warm and sunny.

The beach at Pleneven where we went a couple of times...

And the moules frites we had which were covered in garlic and made Agnieszka a bit ill.

The green man at the crossing in Erquy, hidden by signs to other things...

Us having a walk along the front at Erquy, which was tranquil and calm, if a bit cloudy.

A street in Dinard where we went for the day out and where we climbed to the top of the horological tower which made me very frightened, especially when the bell rang the quarter hour...

Leeks and other veg ready to go out into plots and gardens, spotted at a market in Lamballe.

Me trying to have a quiet slash behind the cathedral in Bayeux. It reminded me of the book, Clochemerle, where the town council builds a pissoir next to the convent and how it divides the town. Very funny in a French farce way.

And finally, Leo Sayer's older, uglier, madder brother, spotted in St Malo trying to chat up a couple of birds and, despite the leather waistcoat, hat and face like a folded napkin, doing quite well.