Wednesday, 9 April 2008

Food for Thought

I had the enormous privilege last night of listening to Monty Don speaking on the importance of local food.

Monty was guest speaker at a meeting of the West Wales Soil Association in Ciliau Aeron, near Lampeter, hosted by Patrick Holden, director of the Soil Association, who farms locally.

Patrick warned the audience about the impending oil crisis – Peak Oil – where oil production will peak, then decline. He suggested that rising oil prices would force the economy towards a tipping point which means that they way we live now, with our dependence on oil, cannot continue, particularly the way we produce and buy food. He then introduced the guest speaker describing Monty, who now has a farm on the Black Mountain, as a vital bridge between gardening and farming.

The meeting was packed, of course, with everyone from enthusiastic amateur gardeners and smallholders to the leading lights of the organic industry, including Rachel Rowlands, founder of the hugely successful Rachel’s Dairy.

Monty began with an anecdote about his recent travels around the world filming for his TV series ‘Around the World in 80 Gardens’ when he managed to collect the wrong suitcase and, when the suitcase was opened, instead of his suits it contained an array of pink saris and beaded cashmere jumpers. He was four days down the Amazon with only the suit he was wearing.

“That’s how I feel now,” he told his audience. “And I’m still looking for a tea picker wearing a suit.”

He described how his trip to the Organiponicos in Cuba had so inspired him. These areas of horticulture within cities produce an incredibly high standard of fresh food for the inhabitants. It was, he said, an example of how people in the cities can produce their own local food and a model, perhaps, for our own future in this country.

Monty continued that theme describing how small producers in Cuba, the Amazon, Mexico and India used traditional, organic, techniques to provide food for their own needs.

He warned that the UK’s fondness for cheap food meant that we paid for it in other ways, with our health, for example, and said that in this country people have forgotten how important and special food is. Families no longer prepare meals from scratch and then eat them together around a table. He spoke about a gardener he had met in Italy where, despite no shared language, they shared a total enjoyment in the quality of the fruit and vegetables he was growing.

“In the UK farmers are regarded as producing ingredients for the food industry,” Monty said. “We have lost our pride in the food that we produce and farmers are not respected as they should be.”

He also spoke about his project to introduce drug addicts to farming, documented in the TV series and book ‘Growing Out of Trouble’. This project is ongoing, with some failures, but mostly success and Monty said he had been astonished at how the addicts did not know how to eat.

“They would take their food and go and eat it by themselves,” he said, turning into a corner behind him to demonstrate. “When they had food they were effectively turning their backs on everyone else when they ate it. They did not know how to sit around a table and share food with others. One told me that she had never sat down to a family meal and when I asked them to lay the table for a meal they had no idea what I was talking about. They had never done that and they did not know anyone who had either.”

He said the project had its most successful times when they all sat down around the table together and shared food. The participants even began to bring in their own food, such as cakes, to share with everyone else. That was something, Monty explained, that was an important part of their rehabilitation, as was getting up at 5am to pick produce to sell with pride at the Ludlow Food Festival.

It was a wide ranging and inspirational talk in which at one point he even dared to tell the assembled organic farmers that organic was not the most important thing, local was prime and that they should beware of remaining in a situation – a ghetto almost – where they talked with each other, but did not invite other parts of society into the discussion. There were a few intakes of breath, but also murmurs of recognition and agreement.

The talk fired up members of the audience who then took part in a question and answer session with Monty and Patrick. Could the UK, or the world, feed itself under these terms, one wanted to know. Others wondered about how the Soil Association could label air freighted foods as organic. Education was discussed, not just of children, but also of adults who had lost their connection with food and the land. Supermarkets bore the brunt of the blame for the loss of a connection with what we eat and how it is grown. But, as Monty pointed out, as the oil prices increase, the cost of food distribution will go up too, so supermarket food prices will rise, making local food more competitive.

After enjoying Patrick’s delicious chocolate brownies and coffee and the meeting formed into small groups, each discussing and issue that had been raised by the talk. Issues raised included that Farmers Markets should be held more often, farms should twin with cities, more co-operation was needed between growers, particularly micro-producers who currently find it difficult to get their excess produce on sale and those new to food production should be offered more help. Allotments and their increasing popularity was another point raised with Patrick Holden and it was suggested that the Soil Association, which already does so much for farmers and gardeners, should find some way of including them. The meeting broke up reluctantly and everyone went home with plenty to talk and think about.

It was a fascinating evening and it was a privilege to have been able to listen to Monty and Patrick’s views on how we are to feed ourselves as a nation in the future. But it was frightening too; we cannot continue wasting food and the planet’s resources with the profligacy that we have become accustomed too. We must take more responsibility for feeding ourselves and not rely so heavily on supermarkets. It was certainly food for thought.

Sunday, 16 March 2008

Seven things about me...

I have been tagged by Zoe to share seven things, some random, some weird, about myself.

So, here goes.

1. I'm addicted to muesli. My current obsession is Dorset Cereals' 'Berries and Cherries'.

2. I'm ashamed to say that I actually quite fancy David Cameron. *blush*

3. The last trophy I won was for a windsurfing race.

4. I used to be in the territorial army (officer cadet). I'm a pretty good shot with an SA80 rifle and can take a sub-machine gun apart and put it back together again whilst blindfolded.

5. I once whipped my older sister with a riding crop when we were teenagers. She was being an absolute cow and I was armed... (Sorry Jax!)

6. I slammed a door during a teenage row with my Dad. All the glass fell out. For about 30 seconds it was absoloutely glorious, then the sh*t hit the fan!

7. The best thing in life is kissing my beautiful daughters' sleeping faces goodnight.

I'm now supposed to tag up to seven others, but it's difficult to keep up with who has been tagged and who hasn't, so if you'd like to volunteer, please do so now!

Friday, 14 March 2008

A tile tale

How long does it take two people, a man and a woman who are married, to buy twelve boxes of ceramic tiles for a bathroom floor?

Three months.

Okay, so that isn't the world's funniest joke, but we finally have our bathroom floor tiles after so much tearing of hair.

The story of the new bathroom began last September. We bought the new suite, Brian put down the cork tiles, did all the plumbing and it looked as if completion date was nigh.

Then we had a leak. Not one of Brian's joints, but on a proper plumber's joints. Hot water. VERY hot water. It melted the cork tiles. We decided they were a bad idea.

Which is why, in December, Brian went into a tile shop and brought home three samples. We liked one of them, it looked nice in the bathroom, so we decided to buy it. Brian took the samples back.

That is the point at which he should have bought 12 boxes of tiles, but he didn't, because Christmas with all its incumbent expenses was nigh, as was January with the promise of sales.

So, in January, we visited Focus. We found the tiles and we disagreed. They were £5.99 per pack in the sale. But I didn't like them. I wanted nice, warm charcoal grey slate effect tiles. Bri said they were too dark and instead plumped for tiles the colour of sun-bleached, dead camel bones on the Sahara.

"We have a black dog," I reminded him, envisaging chasing said dog and his four muddy paws around daily with a mop. Surely the tiles should match the dog?

Impasse. We both sulked. For three months.

So yesterday we headed to the first of our three nearest Focus stores. Focus in Cardigan didn't have my favourites, or Brian's. But they did have a third choice, a possible compromise.

"Let's see what they've got in Haverfordwest," suggested Bri, thinking fondly of breakfast at Vincent's on the way.

It was the same story in the Haverfordwest Focus too.

"Let's go to B&Q," we suggested. In Carmarthen.

"Yuk," I said looking at tiles supposedly made to look like slate, but in fact looking and feeling like concrete. One benefit, we supposed, was that they eliminated the need to pumice one's hard skin.

"They give me the nadgers," said Brian.

So we went to Focus. The third Focus of the day, in the third county of the day. We decided to buy the compromise tile, of which there were hundreds.

"How much?" we asked the handle-bar mustachioed man who was in charge of the tiles.

Miraculously the Carmarthenshire tiles were twice the price of those in Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire.

"Something doesn't want us to buy these tiles," Bri said. We left.

On the way out of the estate, tile-less and despondent, I spotted a tile shop.

"Why don't we go there?" I asked.

"That's where I got the samples from last year," he said.

They had 14 boxes left of our original choice. We bought 12 of them.

So how long does it take a husband and wife to buy bathroom floor tiles?

Three months, three counties, hundreds of miles and many 'discussions' in the tile aisles. Then we bought the first ones we saw.

Monday, 10 March 2008

Time to GALMI...


I have spent the last few days fixing things, being stoical and ‘thinking outside the box’.

So a few things have gone wrong. The dishwasher finally curled up its toes, but we had been expecting it. We had already spent £60 call out fee, plus £20-odd soldering to its beleaguered circuit board and said that next time it ailed; we would pull the plug on it. So it tried to catch fire, and now we’ve pulled the plug. One day we might buy a new one.

Then the washing machine followed its cousin’s example. We had a few days of very excitable spinning, then it stopped mid-cycle. Never mind, we have a contract out on that machine which means we GALMI (Get A Little Man In) if something goes wrong. Last time it was the drum, and we were given a shiny new one. The old one is still a feature in the garden, although it did have a starring role on bonfire night when I filled it with wood and lit it. So I took two loads of washing, school uniform-coloured, to the launderette in Narberth, which is always a convivial thing to do and only lasts half an hour to forty minutes as the machines there are impressively quick.

“And anyway,” I said to B, “At least I don’t have to put the crockery in the car and cart it down to Narberth to get it washed!”

How we laughed! Then we ran out of oil and the boiler stopped. Ha ha! No hot water to wash-up in. We boiled kettles. The novelty of that has never really worn on. And how I missed my lovely hot baths.

So Saturday was spent fixing things. First of all phoning for oil. I braced myself for the hike in the price. Gobsmacked best describes it. So having organised the oil and boiled a couple of kettles for washing up I then contemplated the task of getting the four of us presentable and sweet-smelling for school/work/housework avoidance on Monday. I figured that a good marinating in chlorine might keep us clean-smelling until the boiler is started up again. So we availed ourselves of the lovely hot showers at Fishguard swimming pool. We showered on the way in and we shamelessly hogged them again on the way out, lathering away to our hearts content.

The oil arrived at the crack of dawn this morning. All 1,200 litres of it. I shut my eyes as I wrote the cheque, but I know that it was over £600. The GALMI has temporarily fixed the washing machine, but it Needs A Part, and He’ll Be Back.

Meanwhile I have moved furniture around in the hope of harnessing the power of Feng Shui. Perhaps the armchair was in the wrong position. Perhaps my wealth corner is not the best place for an airer full of drying washing. I think I might need to consult a book…

Wednesday, 5 March 2008

Bird brained


I don't need my alarm clock any more. These days I am blessed with a Great Spotted Woodpecker who has a drumming post not far from my bedroom window. Each morning, just after 7 am, I am woken by his vibrating rattle.

Last year he drummed much further down the row of ash trees and it was a nice little far off sound, which I always found amusing, imagining his little head tap tapping at the tree. Now, though, with his drumming post just feet away from my slumbering head, he is proving a little less popular. Later on he can be found hanging from the peanut feeder, no doubt topping up his calorie levels for another early morning assault on my ears.

Not that I really mind. I love the fact that our garden is choc-a-block with birds. When the berries were still on the hawthorn tree I once counted six blackbirds at once. All male, all squabbling over the berries. We have one blackbird which flies through the front garden at dusk at a height of about four feet from the ground, shrieking in alarm. If you walk round the corner of the house at the right (or wrong) moment, you can have a near miss with one very angry bird.

At our previous home, our neighbour used to call "Blackie, Blackie" out of her kitchen window. When we had just moved in we once called over to ask her if she had lost her cat.

"No!" she laughed. "My blackbird."

Sure enough she called, and Blackie popped out from the hedge between the two houses for the tasty morsels she had put on her birdtable. We got into the habit of feeding him and calling him too, although, since they all look the same, for all I know we spent years feeding a whole host of blackbirds, all smart enough to answer to the call for "Blackie, Blackie"!

It is always a thrill to see some of the birds who visit our birdtable. The upside-down nuthatch with their spiky streamlined beak, the twitchy wren hopping about on the wall, the squabbling tits - blue, great, coal and willow - the occasional goldfinch and all the other various sparrows, chaffinches, dunnocks and siskins. We also get pretty pairs of collared doves and jays by the half dozen. Magpies laugh from the ash tree branches above and squirrels hang gracefully upside down while their wicked, clever paws peel open the feeder to greedily grab all the nuts.



Domestically we have only one duck left now. Poor old Persil is alone. Ecover was grabbed by the fox early one morning. I think Persil must be one very scared little duck. I sympathise with him and he quacks back. Still the same, dim duck, probably wondering where all his friends have gone. The only evidence of Ecover are some alarming fox-shaped footprints scuffing up the bark and a sad puff of feathers.
Still, Persil soldiers on alone and as long as he continues to put himself to bed early (a habit he has gained after Ecover's demise) and remembers to have a lie-in in the mornings, he should last a while longer. Meanwhile plans are afoot for Fort Knox (or should that be Fort Dux?) and once built, Persil, if he has managed to avoid Mr Fox's dinner table, will get some new friends.

Tuesday, 12 February 2008

Out and about

Today we went for a walk in search of frogspawn. The sun was so warm we were out for the first time this year without the need of a coat or a fleece. We even spotted a lone bumble bee happily buzzing about.

The frogs have been very busy already. This is in a pool left behind in what used to be a small stream. Unfortunately the storm in October 1987 changed the direction of the river and now the water rushes on past instead of through the field along the path of this stream. Instead we have a huge soggy ditch with occasional pools fed partly by a small stream froom higher up our land and partly by run off from the fields. The frogs and toads seem to thrive in it though, and last year we spotted newts too.


These daffodils bloom on the bank outside what is now our tractor shed. They are the traditional native Welsh daffodil and are much smaller than the garden sort, but extremely pretty and always the first to bloom. It's always a bit of a race between these and my cultivated Tete-a-tete's, but these 'won' this year by a day or so.

I think this is called pennywort. It has large fleshy circlular leaves, like an old-fashioned penny. It grows everywhere here and I really like it, for its quiet, unpretentious green-ness.


This ash tree is really climb-able. I was half up onto the lowest branch when I remembered that I was setting a bad example to the children. Immediately beneath me was a rather too large drop (the tree is growing on the top of a high hedgebank) and at the bottom of the drop is the tractor's silage spike and a few other bits of old, rusty farm machinery. Hannah said: "Get down Mummy!" in a bossy head-prefect type voice. Down Mummy got. Mummy has a six inch long scar on her hip from a similar escapade in her youth involving a fence and part of a grey Ferguson tractor. Some people never learn!

Monday, 11 February 2008

Book Meme


This is my Book Meme and I have been tagged by Zoe, via her blog The Glory Hole.


The rules are:


1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences.

5. Tag five people.


Okay, here goes. The nearest book, as I am sitting at my computer, is "Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within" by Natalie Goldberg. It is the Shambhala Pocket Classics edition and usually lives in my handbag for those emergency I-need-something-to-read! moments, but I had evicted it from said bag on Friday before going away for the weekend.


Page 123 falls at the beginning of the chapter entitled 'Big Concentration'.


"As you become single-minded in your writing, at the same time something in you should remain aware of the color of the sky or the sound of a distant mower. Just throw in even one line about the street outside your window at the time you were carving that spoon. It is good practice."


The book only measures 7.5 cms by 11.5 cms and it usually goes everywhere with me. It is what I turn to for comfort. It's a bite-sized book, formed of bite-sized chapters. I've been a fan of Natalie Goldberg since the brother of my mother's late partner (that's a convoluted link!) was recommended "Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life" at a Skyros writing course. The brother (Paul) bought a copy for Michael, and Michael bought me a copy. In Wild Mind the writer refers to "Bones", and my sister bought me a copy for my 40th birthday. It's never far from my side and usually fulfills the title 'nearest book'. I use it for those moments when I want to write, but my brain says: "What?"
Now, to tag five others. If you read this, consider yourself tagged! (But I'll be back to check if I have five 'tagees'!)