Month: December 2023

From strange weather to spinning

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It’s been odd ~ surreal, even ~ to read reports of the stormy weather further north and hear first-hand from family and friends about the damage and disruption that has been caused. The weather here at present can only be described as being rather lovely (dare I say spring-like, even?) with soft, still days full of painted skies and bright bursts of winter sunshine. It’s too warm for the time of year and that, of course, is a concern, but it is not to be wasted so I have been going off for long walks from home every afternoon. There is still a good deal of water lying in the fields and the ditches are full but the landscape is unnaturally green as neither grass nor grain has really stopped growing. The trees, however, have finally shaken off their autumn apparel and now make starkly beautiful skeletons against the silvered sky.

It feels strange, too, to be walking along my butterfly route without seeing any butterflies, in stark contrast to the summer walks when I counted almost 100 of them in a short stretch. There are still plenty of flying insects about, though, and I’m wondering if some of the hoards of birds filling their boots at the feeding station aren’t freeloading a bit! The tunnel is full of insects and spiders and the garden alive with slugs, not something that have been an issue in previous winters; I’m only hoping that the wet conditions mean there are plenty of amphibians out there tucking in. I’ve been reading reports this week of the adverse effects that climate change is having on many plant and animal species but at the same time, others are thriving under these ‘strange’ conditions. Adapt or die: it’s nothing new, I suppose. Wandering along the lane, listening to and watching the abundant birdlife, my eye was suddenly caught by a flash of yellow in the verge which on closer inspection turned out to be a dandelion in full flower. A little early, that one. Moments later, what I had taken to be a solitary oak leaf fluttering down to eye level revealed itself to be . . . a butterfly! A Red Admiral, in fact, possibly disturbed from its hibernation by something unseen or the warm weather; we sometimes find them trapped in a window or on the front of the house on sunny winter days, but this is a first in the ‘wild’ for me.

I’m still picking up odd bits of litter on my walks but wondering what I’m supposed to do with them once the new rubbish system starts on 1st January. Obviously, I recycle what I can and I’m not an ‘it’s not fair’ type of person but it doesn’t seem right if I end up being penalised for putting other people’s rubbish in the bin. No system is perfect, but this one certainly won’t encourage people to litter pick and, even worse, there could be far more litter about as folks try to avoid using the bins. Local feelings about the new system continue to run high and as the start date looms, there still seem to be a lot of rumours circulating despite the council having issued plenty of clear guidance. For instance, I’ve seen someone complaining that they will never be able to keep their annual rubbish below 300 kilos, despite the fact that the system isn’t going to measure weight but the number of deposits in any year. I was also left wondering how on earth anyone could produce that much rubbish but then this is the very point: the council is trying to find a way to encourage people to recycle and make compost rather than send everything to landfill. There’s (another) rumour that people like ourselves who produce hardly any rubbish may be awarded a refund but we’ll see about that one. Having reduced our household waste to an absolute minimum and inspired by the no-waste systems in the charity shop I described last time, I’ve been looking at the idea of waste from a slightly different angle in the last few weeks.

We’ve been having a bit of a sort out, both of things stored in cupboards and outside in the Oak Shed which is due to be dismantled and redesigned. We’re not hoarders by nature but it seems to me that having ‘stuff’ that is lying idle and not being used is far from ideal; granted, it’s not as bad as throwing it away, but a waste all the same, so we’ve been applying ourselves to finding ways in which everything can be put to good use. For starters, there was still a pile of junk in the shed left by the previous owners; yes, we’ve been here three years now but it really hasn’t been a priority to sort with so many other things to do! Unfortunately, we filled yet another trailer to take to the déchetterie but at least we were able to sort most of the different materials so that, for instance, a pile of rusty bits of metal could be sent off for a new life. Roger managed to mend a broken piece of machinery which has already come in useful and he has tidied up and fixed other things which we can give away or sell. Roofing slates and usable timber have been put to one side for future planned projects and scrap wood chopped into a huge pile of kindling which should last us for several years. Hearing the sounds of carpentry emanating from the barn, I discovered that Roger had set up a workshop turning scrap timber into bird boxes which we will put up around the garden and in the coppice. They are a pretty simple project and there is no need to be too precious about how they look as the birds really don’t care too much about aesthetics!

We’ve also had a good rummage through the kitchen cupboards and made a plan for using up all sorts of dried goods. It’s very easy when we base all our meals on garden produce to forget the dry larder bits and pieces and the idea of them going to waste isn’t acceptable. It’s mostly nuts, seeds, dried fruit and wholegrains so we’ve been making lots of granola and tabbouleh-type dishes to use them up. I was especially thrilled to see (and eat) the redcurrants we dried experimentally in our homemade solar drier and made a mental note to get busy with plenty more next summer. We’ve also been doing a bit of a freezer inventory to inform menu planning; it’s a curious thing, but despite eating our way through a good deal of our frozen harvest, the freezer never seems to look any emptier and it’s all too easy for things to end up buried and forgotten. Much as we love seasonal vegetables, it’s satisfying to find a surprise bag of sweet green peas lurking in the depths ~ I just love them with a gravy meal, a precious little burst of summer in the darkest months. We’re still trying to keep on top of the garden vegetables, of course, although it has taken several meals to use up the monstrous parsnip I dug last week. This was a self-set plant that appeared in a row of dwarf beans last summer and which, unlike many of the intentionally-sown plants, hadn’t bolted (I’m not sure what that has been about this year but something has rushed the parsnips on). It wasn’t the prettiest of beasts but was full of flavour and definitely not to be wasted.

We’ve gone a long way to being almost packaging-free when it comes to shopping but as our stores of homegrown onions and potatoes diminish, I’ve set my sights on heading off a problem at the pass. It frustrates me greatly that it is far cheaper to buy both in bulk quantities ready-packaged and that means generally in plastic mesh nets. I’ve seen people turn these into scrubbies for scouring pans but I’m not keen on the idea as I can’t help feeling the plastic must surely break down and enter the water system? There has been a move to sell onions in nets made from plant-based materials but it isn’t clear whether these are compostable and plastic remains the material of choice . . . and a packaging nightmare we don’t need in our lives. My plan is simple: crochet some cotton mesh bags which can be washed and re-used and make a point of buying loose produce from the market. We have a friend here who will not tolerate any packaging and once she has paid at a supermarket checkout, she happily transfers goods like packaged mushrooms or shrink-wrapped bananas (whoever thought that was necessary?) into her own cloth bags and leaves the plastic for staff to deal with; in her words, “Packaging is not my problem!” Sadly, there is still no sign of the supermarket bins for dumping unwanted packaging that are allegedly required by law. I like her style and she’s sending a powerful message but I prefer to vote with my feet: until supermarkets sell loose produce at the same price as packaged, I’ll shop elsewhere.

The pattern I’m using is from My Poppet and is as easy as they come; it’s worked in a spiral and once the first few rounds are done, the rest is simply a case of repeated chain loops. The only change I’ve made is to work a row of UK double crochet/US single crochet along the drawstring to strengthen it a bit. For the first bag, I used every scrap of a 50g ball which made a bag with ample space for several kilos of fruit or vegetables. I had toyed with the idea of adding handles but it is very, very stretchy ~ especially when loaded ~ so there is plenty of spare fabric to grab at the top.

I’m aiming to make four bags in all so that two can sit in the kitchen holding produce and the others can go in my backpack to the market to collect the next supply. To be honest, I think 30-40g of yarn would make big enough bags so it’s a great project for using up scraps and although cotton was my fibre of choice, there are plenty of options out there . . . I’ve even seen them made from garden twine.

On the subject of yarn scraps, I’ve finally got round to sorting out a large box of woolly business which we have carted around on several house moves and which in truth, I should have tackled a long time ago. First, I filled a very large bag with an eclectic mix of wool oddments, the bits and pieces left over from many diverse projects; I’ve always tried to use up what I can by making things like patchwork blankets or soft toys for our grandchildren but there was just way too much for my needs. I took the bag to the charity shop as there are people who look for such things, turning the scraps into hats, toys and other products for good causes: if by giving I can help others to give, how wonderful is that? I then turned my attention to my supply of spinning fleece and was surprised at just how much I have, a consequence of not having done any spinning for three years; initially, this was because we were just too busy after moving here and then since June 2022 my back problem meant I couldn’t even consider it. Well, I’m healed enough to get back to it now so I’ve blown the cobwebs off my trusty wheel and made a start on using up some of that hoarded fleece.


When it comes to spinning, there are some very talented and highly skilled people out there, spinners who can produce gossamer thread fine enough to knit into a Shetland ring shawl or spin metres and metres of beautifully consistent yarn or create clever art yarns or do interesting things with tricky fibres. I am not one of those people. I am self-taught and have learned everything through trial and error, mostly the latter; I am a messing about, dabbling, what-the-heck kind of spinner who will never win prizes for what I produce, but then I’m not trying to. In his recently-published book The Write Time, fellow blogger Páraig talked about being ‘perfectly imperfect’ and I like that because, amongst other things, it smacks of someone being comfortable in their own skin. Spinning for me is a creative, therapeutic, rewarding activity, one that allows me to connect with an ancient human activity and have a lot of fun at the same time; if what I produce is quirky, wonky and smirk-inducing, then so be it. When I first set out on my spinning adventure, I watched a tutorial video where a rather stern lady told me not to even think of starting with fibre until I could start and stop my wheel using only my foot on the treadle. Well, thirteen years on I still can’t do that so it’s a good job I have a rebellious streak! We can learn so much from talented and experienced teachers but sometimes I think we also have to find the courage to dive in and have a go; let’s face it, using my hand to start the wheel turning hasn’t made one iota of difference to anything and strangely enough, the spinning police haven’t come knocking on the door, either.

I need to find some projects for these previously spun skeins or else give them away.

As it’s been three years since I last sat at my wheel, I wasn’t expecting wonderful results since like many other activities (riding a bike, playing a musical instrument, speaking a foreign language . . . ) too long without practice can leave me feeling decidedly rusty. The secret of spinning lies in getting the tension right and hitting the sweet spot is a joy; getting there, on the other hand, can be something of a torment, especially with a wobbly wheel that has a mind of its own at times. For the first few sessions I ricocheted between too much tension (lengths of unspun fibre being yanked onto the bobbin at breakneck speed) and too little tension (highly twisted fibre going nowhere): at times, it felt like I was grappling with tigers where ideally it should be more like cradling hamsters. The fact that I was wearing a kitten attachment probably wasn’t helping matters, either.

Eventually, though, things settled down as I got back into the swing of it, happily spinning Blue Leicester fleece, which is my favourite British wool breed. The sheep are a bit weird-looking (I always think they look like someone stuck a kangaroo’s head on a sheep’s body) but the wool is delightful: it has a long staple which makes it relatively easy to spin, is soft and silky enough to wear next to the skin, has a beautiful lustre so that it shines when it catches the light, has a gentle drape rather than clingy elasticity and it takes up dye well. My plan is to spin an aran weight yarn (the wheel may well conspire against me in this, it tends to do its own thing half the time), dye it with indigo and then knit it up into a basic waistcoat, something to give me a little extra warmth in cold weather without being a bulky layer. Roger kindly broke off bird box building to fashion me a new wooden lazy kate (a separate bobbin holder) which makes plying easier; the resulting yarn is uneven (no surprise, given the high twist-low twist thing going on) but that’s actually the effect I am after, anyway, as I’d like the waistcoat to have a truly rustic feel about it. Homespun. Hand-knitted. Unique. Or perfectly imperfect, if you prefer. 😉

Solstice sparkle

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It fascinates me how the vagaries of the weather bring such differences to the days at this time of the year. Whether we are experiencing torrents of rain from bruised skies, wild winds that howl round the eaves and snatch the last leaves from the trees, the damp white oppression of fog or brittle blue of sunny days, contrasting moods and atmospheres roll across the December landscape in ever-changing patterns of light and shade, sound and silence. A night of sharp frost and morning sees everything transformed once again; it might be cold, but I can’t resist this shimmering, scintillating, wintry world that calls me to explore. What is more beautiful, the wide sweep of sparkling white or tiny exquisite detail of rime-encrusted leaf or seed head? It’s as though everything has been dipped in sugar and crystallised purely to delight the eye. I also love how the sun brings subtle changes despite hugging the horizon so closely, melting the frost where its weak warmth touches so the garden becomes a chessboard of white and green, the blackbirds, fieldfares and a green woodpecker moving across like living pieces. I am a creature of light and warmth but yet I am happy to acknowledge the lure of such seasonal beauty.

This is a quiet time for nature, an essential period of dormancy as the weather scours and cleanses the land, paring everything back to the barest of bones. There are still shared moments for me to treasure, though. I watched a great white egret alight across the lane and stalk the reedy margins of the pond, its statuesque and pristine snowy form perfectly reflected in the glassy water; I stood, breath held, on a walk from home as a roe deer watched me, all alert with pricked ears and twitching nose, before returning to her gentle grazing; I almost collided with a red squirrel near the compost heap, so intent on recovering buried nuts that it hadn’t noticed my approach. Such fleeting connections are so very precious, real gifts indeed.

The solstice looms and I am thankful; I know it will be late January before we feel any true sense of the days drawing out and the cruellest weather is surely still ahead of us but for me, there is something deeply significant and reassuring about reaching this solar turning point. In fact, I think it is a truer marker of a ‘new year’ than 1st January will ever be and as well as being a time for rest, restoration and refreshment (especially in a festive season that can so often lead to self-sabotage on the back of spiralling demands, unreasonable expectations and overwrought emotions), I see it as a poignant moment for a spot of reflection, too.

I’ve written a couple of posts in recent weeks about how we are doing in terms of our simple living goals so I’m not going to cover old ground again, but rather share a few of my observations and the insights I’ve gained since I started working in the Helianthus charity shop in October and the positive impact these have had on my outlook. To set the scene, the shop is housed in a very beautiful, old and somewhat quirky building just off the main street of a local town; it opens for just two half-days a week for ten months of the year and is run totally by volunteers. People donate their unwanted items (furniture, clothes, books, jewellery, electronic devices, linen, kitchen equipment, bikes . . . pretty much anything and everything, in fact) and they are sold to customers, the money raised going to support local animal welfare. I have only been working there for a couple of months but I already feel I am learning and gaining much from the experience.

No waste

The move away from a linear economy is enshrined in French law and the charity shop is an excellent example of a successful circular economy already in action. Instead of items being manufactured, used and thrown away, they come back into a system which allows them to be re-sold and so lengthens their useful life and keeps them out of landfill. Anything that is in a reasonable enough condition is offered for sale and the amount of ‘stuff’ that moves through the shop in a morning never fails to amaze me. There is a large cellar area where a designated team of volunteers meticulously sorts through everything that is not suitable for sale, ensuring that each item goes to the appropriate recycling point. Any old newspapers, bubble wrap and other packaging are kept by the till for wrapping fragile items as are bags of all shapes and sizes: many of these are very serviceable reusable ‘bags for life’ which tend to come back full of new donations! There are even several ‘wheels within wheels’ in operation, too. One example is a volunteer who takes any books that are past their shelf life for another local charity which recycles them to raise funds for aid projects in Africa. Another is a chap who comes in and buys huge piles of denim jeans and winter coats and jackets; I haven’t been able to establish exactly what he does with them but I’ve been told it’s the very best kind of recycling.

Giving and generosity

There is something very simple yet hugely powerful about turning an act of throwing away into one of giving. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the latter became the normal way of life in our modern society? Much of what is given is very beautiful and even brand new in some cases, other bits and pieces have seen some wear and tear and a lot of love yet there is still such value inherent in these things. I enjoy seeing the smile on people’s faces as they hand me their new treasures, the pleasure and satisfaction of having found just the right thing, the willingness and enthusiasm to take it home and give it a new lease of life. Everything in the shop is priced very, very reasonably ~ paperback books are just 20c each, a pure wool jumper will set you back two euros, a crystal decanter or marble pestle and mortar maybe five euros at most ~ and this, I’ve noticed, has a very positive knock-on effect. There are one or two characters who like to haggle over every last centime (that’s human nature, of course!) but many people are so surprised at how cheap things are that they insist on paying more than the marked price, or operating an extremely generous ‘keep the change’ policy. I can’t help feeling that this is a very different beast to the standard consumerism that prevails in our society, reflecting a far greater sense of appreciation and gratitude for the sheer abundance that is on offer.

Creativity

I believe that humans are inherently creative beings and that creativity itself ~ which amongst other things, can be defined as the use of imagination or original ideas to form something new and of worth ~ is an aspect that should definitely be encouraged and valued, especially in a society where it is easy to buy what is needed ready-made and be influenced by a steady stream of social media. There are members of the shop team who are especially skilled at creating eye-catching displays, combining often disparate bits and pieces in unusual and artistic ways without using anything more than is to hand. I love to hear from customers who are buying bits and pieces for re-purposing or upcycling about their plans and ideas: how wonderful to take an old curtain, picture frame, teapot, pair of trousers or whatever and transform it into something else. There are many opportunities for people to explore new or different creative activities at very little cost, too. Instruction manuals, jigsaw puzzles, games, art materials, knitting and sewing equipment, musical instruments and kitchen paraphernalia are just a few of the items that invite customers to try their hand at something new. After all, if it only costs a couple of euros for a pasta machine, fondue set or specialist cake mould, then why not give it a whizz? Who knows where such dabbling might lead!

Community

One of the things I noticed very quickly is just how popular the shop is; we had been regular customers previously, in particular appreciating the wealth of English books on offer, but I had never really noticed how many other people frequented the shop. I’m getting to know familiar faces and use names for some customers now and it is abundantly clear that for many, a trip to the shop is a social occasion; the shop serves as a welcoming and vibrant community hub. People come in to chat to staff and to each other, passing the time of day and setting the world to rights in equal measure and it’s a vitally important and wonderfully refreshing part of the whole ethos. There is no need for rush or bluster but plenty of time for chatting, joking, laughing together . . . the atmosphere is overwhelmingly one of happiness, tolerance and co-operation. Given the nature of the charity, there is also a stream of visitors coming in to borrow or return cat carrying baskets, to collect coupons to help towards vet bills or ask for help with abandoned kittens and the like and this helps to serve as a reminder as to what it’s all about: almost 300 animals helped this year, including this one . . .

From abandoned kitten to safe and happy cat: little Pwdin is my constant companion and believes in ‘helping’ me whenever she can . . .

We can’t sell fresh produce in the shop but we can give it away in exchange for a donation and through this scheme, I am now gaining a supply of beautiful free-range eggs and giving away our surplus squash. I’ve written before about how too many of last winter’s squash ended up on the compost heap because they weren’t keeping well and I had no mechanism in place to give them away; trying to grow fewer last year backfired on me when the plants all produced copious amounts of fruit but now I can pass them on to good homes. It makes my heart sing to see people happy to tuck a squash under their arm and I’m enjoying the many discussions to be had about the best squash recipes (“You should really try my butternut velouté with chestnuts, c’est top !”). I work alongside French, British, Irish, Dutch and Belgian volunteers and comparing notes and swapping ideas and ways of doing things is an enriching experience; it’s also encouraging to meet new like-minded people and feel my personal ‘tribe’ extending outwards in warm, supportive and beneficial ways.

The reason I’m sharing this is that everything about my experience so far has been incredibly positive. I am deeply concerned about the state of the planet and what sort of future our children and grandchildren will be left to deal with and it’s very easy to become overwhelmed. I like to stay informed and read widely but I’ve recently unsubscribed to several feeds because I find them too depressing. This isn’t ostrich behaviour (as Dick Strawbridge once observed, burying your head in the sand leaves your backside exposed and vulnerable!) but rather a gesture in self-care; if I am going to continue moving forward, making changes and reaching out to help at whatever level I can then I need to be the best version of myself and that means clinging to my optimism, cheerfulness and confidence at all costs. Only then can there be hope. I’m already finding ways of weaving the valuable threads of my experience into my life ~ of which more next time ~ so that as I bring in greenery from our woodland and light candles to welcome the return of the sun, I am looking to the future with bright and hopeful eyes. To all my blogging friends and readers, wherever you live on our precious planet and whatever the next few days hold for you and your loved ones, I send you all my warmest wishes for a happy, peaceful and restful time.

Flood and fire

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Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass…It’s about learning to dance in the rain.

Vivian Greene

It would be churlish of me to moan about the rain given the prolonged drought and low water table that have been a prominent feature of our time here so I won’t complain. Suffice to say, nature has more than repaid the debt: it is wetter now than it has been in the last three years and still the stuff falls from the sky. As a gardener, I’m very relieved that the thirsty earth is at last receiving the soaking it needs and the water butts are all full to overflowing and then some. I don’t know about dancing in the rain, though; it’s more a case of wellies squelching across a wet sponge, avoiding several new temporary ponds that have appeared around the patch and engaging in some serious mud wrestling whenever we need root vegetables for dinner. We’ve had some tremendous blasts of winds during the storms, too, so the leaves are all pretty much down now but the countryside is still very green, especially when ~ finally ~ the sun breaks through the gloom and sets the landscape alight.

I initially thought about cropping the corner of the polytunnel out of the photo as it’s not exactly the most beautiful of features but I decided to leave it with the sunlight streaming through as I have been giving it a bit of a spring clean this week. The polythene cover was looking decidedly green with algae and it’s amazing just how much of a difference that can make to the amount of light that filters through so, given that every scrap of light is precious at this time of year, I decided it was time to get busy. As I like to apply my lazy super-efficient gardening approach to all tasks, I decided to let the rain do most of the work (on the outside, at least) so I took a long-handled mop to it in a torrential downpour and watched happily as the green slime was washed away. Obviously, I had to make more of an effort inside but soon all was as clean and sparkling as is possible under the circumstances. I also made a very interesting little discovery. It hadn’t escaped my notice that the few spare cardboard rolls left over from pea-planting had been quietly disappearing over the summer months . . .

. . . and, peeling back a flap of polythene by the door, I found out exactly where they had gone. Hidden from sight by the flap, it seems that some wasps had been busy building a small nest without me even noticing. Well, that’s wildlife for you.

Days of sunshine like that are few and far between at the moment but they lift my spirits no end as I struggle with the low light levels and gloom at this time of year. I know that it is all part of the seasonal shifts, the perfect balance to those long, light-drenched days of summer, but acceptance doesn’t mean enjoyment. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have SAD (seasonal affective disorder) as I don’t tick many of the symptoms boxes: for instance, I’m not depressed, I don’t lack interest and pleasure in everyday activities, neither do I feel despair, guilt or worthlessness. I actually don’t like the label ‘disorder’ much because I think it’s perfectly natural to feel tired and low on energy at this time of year, as well as to crave carbohydrates . . . there’s a reason the term ‘comfort food’ exists!

Strawberries are a summer treat, but I love the splash of colour their leaves are currently bringing to the garden.

I am grateful that I no longer have to get up early for work so that on most days I can just go with the flow of my body’s sleep patterns and allow myself to wake naturally. It also means I am free to get outside during those short daylight hours; when I was working, there were many weeks over winter when I only saw home in the dark ~ no wonder weekends felt so precious. I’m an outdoor creature by nature who craves daylight and fresh air so no matter how sleepy I feel, in all but the very worst of weather I wrap up and head outside to move my body whenever I can. It helps, and so does colour which I seek out everywhere; I’m delighted that so many local hedgerows haven’t been cut this year and they are aglow with holly berries, rosehips and spindle berries and strung with bryony and honeysuckle berries like bright beads on a necklace. I’ll take these little jewels over tinsel and baubles any day.

Current sunrise time here is 8.45am and yes, even I am up and about by then. 😂 There have been some truly spectacular skies in the south-east to relish, an artist’s palette of warm, glowing colours; they are fleeting and, on most mornings, the cloud descends within minutes but there is such pleasure in drinking in their transient beauty as I enjoy my morning mug. There is colour in branches, too. The few tough survivors in our failed willow hedge are flaunting the bright colours in their bare branches I’d hoped for when we planted them; they will be loving the wet conditions now so with any luck, there will be a few cuttings to take next year to plug all the gaps. No such problems with the red dogwood cuttings, they have flourished into decent little bushes already whilst the vibrancy of their parent plants makes me smile every time I see them.

Back indoors, and I’ve finally got round to making the fire cider I’ve been planning to try for about two years now; ah well, better late than never, I suppose. This is a supreme example of my ‘slow food’ passion since I started several weeks ago by making some cider vinegar just for this purpose and it’s something that can’t be rushed. I chopped some of our very last apples into a large jar, covered them with filtered water and stirred every day until the apples sank to the bottom, then strained and left the liquid to continue fermenting into a fragrant vinegar. I am still astonished by how simple and effective this activity is and I remain indebted to Marita for her method. I know that at least one of our daughters is now doing the same and is delighted with the result and I love this sharing of skills, knowledge and ideas (les astuces, as the locals say) which I think is so important to our way of life. With the vinegar nicely matured and a perfect ‘mother’ sitting on top, I decided it was time to go forth and research fire cider recipes.

It didn’t take long to realise that, apart from a few key ingredients, pretty much anything goes and for me there is great satisfaction in using as much as possible of what we have to hand. To that end, I plumped for onions, garlic, horseradish, chillies, rosehips, thyme and rosemary from the garden along with bought orange, ginger, peppercorns and a cinnamon stick. I chopped the chunky things and grated the horseradish but left the hips whole, then simply layered the lot into a couple of plastic-lidded jars and covered to the brim with the apple vinegar ~ what a welcome splash of colour to brighten a dull day! The jars are now sitting for a few weeks while the flavours mingle, then I shall strain the liquid off and bottle it ready for use. It can be sweetened with raw honey or maple syrup but as I don’t have a sweet tooth and enjoy a bit of culinary heat, I probably shan’t bother; either way, I’m hoping it will be a useful and effective remedy should we succumb to winter bugs . . . and if not, we can always use it in cooking.

I’ve been discussing the idea of fire cider with several friends this week and the responses have ranged from genuine interest and enthusiasm to no way, I’ll stick to paracetamol, thanks! Well, we’re all different, of course, but what has struck me is that for many, it’s horseradish that is the bête noire and I think that’s a real shame because in my opinion, it’s a wonderful food. Horseradish (Armoracia rusticana) is a prolific and reliable hardy perennial which sends long edible taproots deep into the earth; the leaves are also edible and I like to shred young ones into spring salads but obviously at this time of year, it’s the roots that are king. It’s incredibly nutritious, packed with vitamins and minerals and having antibacterial, antioxidant and immunity-boosting properties; it’s also undergoing current research as a possible anti-cancer food. Given all these healthy benefits, anyone who has never tasted horseradish is probably wondering why many people aren’t fans. The answer is simple: it’s eye-wateringly fiery stuff!

Their scarlet berries have all gone, but the cotoneaster plants are still putting on a show.

Grating horseradish can be an interesting experience ~ Alys Fowler recommends wearing swimming goggles ~ but I have to admit I don’t tend to suffer too much, maybe because I wear specs? That said, releasing those volatile compounds into the kitchen air is generally enough to clear out my sinuses and it’s not a foodstuff to be wolfed down in massive quantities at a time. Once I’d taken what I needed for the fire cider, Roger packed the rest into white vinegar and we will use it mixed with crème fraîche to make a simple ‘sauce’. Although traditionally served with rich, fatty meats such as beef and mackerel, it is a wonderfully versatile ingredient with many, many uses; I particularly love it stirred into a creamy root mash or dolloped onto a jacket potato. Actually, I also love it straight from the jar . . . but then, as I’ve admitted before, I am a bit weird.

December fire ~ I loved the effect of sunlight caught in these slightly out-of-focus radicchio leaves. Despite the colour and unlike horseradish, they are bitter rather than fiery in flavour.

In complete and cooling contrast, I’m really chuffed with the carpet of chickweed that has appeared in the tunnel over the last couple of weeks. Reading Zia Gallina’s recent excellent post about wonderful weeds I was reminded that this humble little plant with its white starry flowers is a good indicator of balanced soil. Given how hard we’ve been working to improve the soil ever since the tunnel went up, it feels good to think we’re making progress at last . . . not to mention that we are enjoying the fresh nutritious shoots in our salad bowls. Weed? No, this is ‘wild food’ at its resilient and regenerative best.

The combination of a single hard frost and endless wet weather have finally done for most of the flowers in the garden; the tardy nasturtiums collapsed into a soggy mess as soon as the temperature plummeted to zero degrees, whilst hardier specimens such as the echinacea which has delighted me so much this year have only just given up the ghost. I could probably rustle up a few water-stained roses from sheltered spots but my mind has turned to more seasonal things of late. The hedge along our lane is one that has been cut but the council have ~ thankfully ~ turned away from the brutal flailing machines that wreak such destruction and instead are now using discs that simply slice and drop the growth; it’s a method more akin to pruning than savaging. On one of my wanders a couple of weeks ago, I rescued several cut branches from the ditch, a mix of fiery russet beech leaves, deep green holly with scarlet berries and spindle with fruits of bright pink, splitting their pleated skirts to flash shockingly orange seeds. I have loved their cheery colour in a vase on the kitchen mantelpiece ever since, they seem to be such a true and vibrant representation of the season . . . autumn fades, winter beckons. In a few days’ time, I shall tramp up to the coppice and ask for the gifts of holly, ivy and fir which, along with a little mistletoe from the orchard, will form the basis of our solstice decorations: add a few white and beeswax candles and we’ll be done. Until then, however, I’m enjoying every last scrap of colour I can find! 😊

Journeys round the sun

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 In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.

 Great Law of Iroquois Confederacy

I’m about to celebrate another full turn around the sun and although I’m not really a birthday person, it has given me pause for reflection and a useful little peg on which to hang a blog post. I don’t look for fuss and I certainly never expect to be showered with cards and presents; messages from loved ones, a walk somewhere if the early December weather is feeling kind and then an evening cooking a special meal with Roger is, for me, the perfect day. It’s interesting how birthdays have become such a ‘thing’ in people’s lives, especially when you consider it’s not so relatively long ago that I wouldn’t have known my date of birth ~ ‘half a moon before the winter solstice’ would probably have been the closest description ~ or exactly how old I was. When I was researching my family tree some years ago, it fascinated me to compare consecutive census returns, starting with the earliest in 1841, and finding that many ancestors had lost or gained additional years in the ten-year interval; they literally didn’t know how old they were. These days, of course, our date of birth is a key piece of personal data required by many of the institutions in modern society and age brackets tend to bring a certain set of assumptions and expectations with them.

I’m about to become 57 and it has me wondering when exactly do we move from being middle-aged to being old? Is there an identifiable time of life in between? Should there be? Several years ago, at the beginning of a unit of work about life cycles, I asked my class of ten and eleven year-olds to draw and label a timeline with their own ideas of what constituted the different stages of a typical human life. The resulting class consensus read as follows: babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults, old grannies. Well, the latter prompted some lively discussion as you can imagine, especially when I pointed out that I had thee grandchildren and was ‘only’ 49 so somewhat reluctantly they changed the label to ‘old folks’ instead, starting at 60. Maybe I should make the most of the next three years, then! 😂

Our birth date is something we can’t choose but as a child, I loved the fact that my birthday came when it did because somehow it marked the start of our countdown to Christmas. My brother and I shared a small cardboard advent calendar (in the pre-chocolate and gimmick days when each window simply revealed a picture of a Christmas pudding or toy train) and being a loving big sister, I always insisted he had first go which meant I would get to open it on my birthday. 😆 Not that he minded as he was counting the days to his own birthday on Christmas Day: December was quite the month for our family! In later years, it didn’t seem such a great time of year seeing as the growth in Christmas mania and consumerism meant that’s what everyone was focusing on. The shops were full of seasonal tat, the restaurants churning out Christmas parties, weekends were packed with a vast array of festive events. When I was teaching, the school Christmas performance ~ a carol service one year, musical show the next ~ was the highlight of many people’s year but it always fell in my birthday week and I found the whole thing completely exhausting. I’ve often wondered whether one year I should have a ‘half birthday’ in early June, just to experience the joy of long days and sunshine, roses and honeysuckle, swallows and strawberries . . .

Would a June birthday feel very different?

All that said, I feel like in recent years I’ve come full circle to not minding an early December birthday again. Roger and I celebrate the winter solstice rather than Christmas and somehow it feels right to be acknowledging the season, fully stripped of the false festivity I deplore, in the run-up to that pivotal solar turning point. The nights are stretching to their longest limits, often sparkling with frost which brings in the cold but also the most beautiful of glittering, starry skies. Days can be grey and heavy with fog but yet, even when I feel wrapped and muffled in the oppressive gloom, it always strikes me that sounds become more poignant: the fall of a single leaf, the dripping of water from branches, the harsh ‘kraark’ of a passing heron, its heavy wings perfectly camouflaged against the leaden skies. I’m not a fan of the cold but there is a timely beauty in sunshine trapped in ice crystals, soft clouds of breath caught against a porcelain blue sky, sweet wood smoke spiralling upwards from the chimney as I return home from my walks.

I’ve enjoyed standing in the leaf dance from this beautiful oak tree this week.

Food, too, is an important marker of the season. Gone now are the summer crops and in their place, those tough hardy troopers that may not grow in such abundance but offer us a variety of nourishing fresh options all the same: parsnips, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, black radish, carrots, leeks, kale and cabbages (plus the ever-plentiful squash and beans in store) form the basis of hearty meals. Pans of warming lunchtime soups simmer gently on the woodstove, filling the house with the aroma of earthy vegetables and herbs and, although we rarely eat desserts, the occasional apple and blackberry crumble with a deep topping of oats and nuts, is the ultimate comfort food. I’m not a fan of cake so I never look for one on my birthday but having made mincemeat some weeks ago, I shall bake the first batch of mince pies instead; it’s a little tradition I love.

The ugly veg ball . . . gone are the colourful, clean summer divas but celeriac, parsnip, black radish and Jerusalem artichokes make a wonderfully flavoursome mash which is perfectly suited to cold weather.

The weather has turned colder during the last week and with that have come drier, brighter days that are perfect for getting things done in the garden. Activities at this time of year feel very nurturing, focused as they are on feeding and tucking everything up for the colder months to come. It’s a wonderful opportunity for reflection and coupled with the idea of being a year older, I’ve been thinking very much about what regenerative gardening really means to me. There are plenty of different definitions out there but perhaps the simplest is that it’s about seeing the garden as part of an ecosystem and growing plants in an environmentally-conscientious way; it’s not all about us or our consumption, but every single life-form that we share the space with. I keep in mind, too, the philosophy quoted at the top of this post so that not only am I striving to leave this precious patch of earth in better shape than I found it but also to create a regenerative, resilient and abundant ecosystem worthy of inheritance by my great-great-great-great-great grandchildren. That’s pretty mind-blowing when you think about it!

What, then, does regenerative gardening look like to me?

Nourishing the soil

I recently read a quotation to the tune of when we stand on the earth, we stand on the roof of another world and I think that is a superb image that sums up the sheer complexity of life in soil. I know I’ve said it many times but healthy, vibrant soil is the key to everything; we need to nurture, treasure, nourish and protect this most vital of resources in order to build biodiversity and health and sequester carbon dioxide, too. This means using a no-dig approach, leaving roots in the ground as much as possible, keeping soil surface covered and feeding from the top down with layers of organic matter in much the same way as nature does itself. In the polytunnel this week ~ the most contrived of our growing areas ~ I’ve been dropping the spent aubergine, pepper and basil plants, leaving the roots in situ and spreading the chopped foliage across the soil surface; I then sprinkled the lot with donkey dung, watered it thoroughly and mulched everything with chopped dead leaves.

Feeding the soil from our own garden

This follows on naturally from the last point. Ideally, we should be able to feed our soil using only materials from the patch without the need for any amendments imported from off-site. As the soil quality we inherited here was pretty poor, we have made good use of a load of well-rotted donkey dung to help increase the percentage of organic matter and kickstart microbial action but once that has been used up I’m confident we should manage without any other imports. (For an excellent example of successful regenerative market gardening without animal inputs, see Tolhurst Organic.) Making compost is a way of life and not a scrap of biodegradable matter is wasted; however, we can’t make enough to feed the entire garden to any great depth and fill all our seed trays and pots so we make use of other amendments such as nettles and comfrey grown on site, or cover crops of green manures such as phacelia and buckwheat or simply just annual weeds. In the photo below, young shoots of white garlic, growing up through chopped dwarf bean foliage that previously grew in the same spot, have been mulched this week with the last of this year’s comfrey leaves and chopped dead leaves: the worms will do the rest.

Using what we have to hand

Using and reusing materials from the garden ripples out beyond just feeding the soil and each year sees us turning increasingly to what we have to hand rather than having to source things elsewhere. I’ve just finished reading Professor Dave Goulsen’s Silent Earth which I think has to be one of the most sobering popular science books I’ve ever read and I agree with Isabella Tree that it is a ‘wake up call for the world’ (how to persuade the world to read it and then act urgently in order to halt and reverse the rapid decline in insect populations is, of course, another matter). His ‘view from the future’ is scarily apocalyptic ~ and we’re talking about my grandchildren here, not the seventh generation ~ but on a positive note, it has made me think even more deeply about regeneration and resilience. What if we had no access to commercially produced goods and services? What if there were no seeds or compost or whatever else we might need to buy? What if there was no clean water piped into our house? What if we had to mend and make do with what we have now forever? What if we had to hand-pollinate everything? For me, this naturally connects with several permaculture principles, and I believe there is a satisfying creativity to meeting our needs with what nature gives us. In the photo below, asparagus, globe artichokes and rhubarb have all been tucked up against the frosts with hay cut from our meadow areas. This year’s hazel growth from the laid hedge on the right has been cut and spread over garden beds until the leaves fall off; the bare sticks will then be sorted to use as plant supports next year, for making woven hurdles or shredded to make paths. The comfrey has been cut back and used as mulch, a compost activator and left to steep in rainwater to make a liquid fertiliser and the soapwort growing beyond it has been dried to use as a natural cleanser.

Planting with a purpose

I will freely admit that there was a time when, perhaps having been given a garden voucher for my birthday, I would happily trundle off to a nursery and spend it on whatever I thought looked pretty. Anything quintessentially ‘English cottage garden’ ticked the box and would be merrily gathered up without a second thought. Luckily, many of the plants I chose were beneficial to the wildlife in our garden, but these days I am far more discerning when it comes to adding any new plants to the ecosystem (plus I tend to avoid commercially-raised plants for many reasons). That said, I’m not a total convert to the ‘everything must be native’ movement, a debate that seems to get quite heated in some quarters. For a start, what counts as native? How long must a plant have lived somewhere before it can be awarded that label? I imagine most people in the UK would regard nettles (Urtica dioica) as being native but rumour has it, they were introduced by the Romans. Also, would it be truly sensible to ditch those non-natives such as verbena bonariensis, phacelia and borage which are undeniably an excellent food source for so many insects? On the other hand, it makes sense that native plants are best suited to native fauna and so I think a pragmatic approach is the best; I can plant exotic buddleias as an attractive late summer food source for many butterflies, but if I want to encourage Brimstone, Comma and Holly Blue in a more specialised yet holistic way, then I also need to plant alder buckthorn, nettles and holly respectively.

Perennial plants play a major role in regenerative gardening as they grow in one place for many years, giving an increasingly abundant harvest without any need to disturb the soil or replant; they are the ultimate in low-maintenance, long-term cultivation. Since moving here, we have planted a wide range of trees which will easily outlive me, even if I make it to my official life expectancy of 87, as well as edible hedgerows and soft fruit bushes; I sincerely hope that there will still be enough insects to pollinate where necessary in seven generations’ time. The list of perennial vegetables doesn’t always read as very interesting or practical (there’s only so much horseradish you can eat) but they most definitely have their place and provide pretty reliable crops when planted in the right conditions. I say that, because I found a list that included runner beans which apparently have been known to live for 20 years or more; mmm, not in northern France with the current climatic patterns, that’s for sure! This is the first season for perennial kale in our garden and I have to say that compared to the annual plants, it’s romping away: definitely one to spread around.

Planting in polycultures

‘What would nature do?’ has become one of my favourite gardening mantras and I turn to it time and time again throughout the year. When it comes to planting, there is no question that nature would prioritise diversity and opt for a polyculture so that is what I try to emulate in our patch. Vegetables, herbs, fruits, flowers, companion plants, green manure, nitrogen-fixers, plants to attract beneficial creatures and plants to deter the not so helpful ones are all crammed in cheek by jowl, scrambling up and across and through; seeds are allowed to self-set and annual weeds to proliferate. There’s no bare soil and no real sense of organisation or tidiness but what the garden lacks in aesthetics, it makes up for in an abundance of life and food. This approach also lends itself to copious seed-saving opportunities and that is something I believe is becoming ever more important; perhaps one day, our saved seed and cherished tools will be the most valuable legacy we can leave our loved ones?

In a regenerative garden, nature knows best and is a wise teacher, one we do well to respect and listen to. I can’t grow French marigolds (tagetes) here for love nor money and to be honest, I’ve given up trying; a few volunteers usually pop up in the tunnel and I satisfy myself with spreading them around then scattering plenty of seed heads in the hope for the same thing next year. This year, only two plants appeared which was dismal even by my standards, but what a surprise to find several second generation plants in full flower amongst the salad leaves this week. It’s December, for heaven’s sake! On further inspection, I don’t remember planting that pink kale in there, either. A huge part of me wonders if one day, the garden will simply plant itself without any help from me whatsoever? Regeneration in the greatest sense of the word. How I would love to live to see that.

Welcoming wildlife

Modern society has bred an individualist culture which doesn’t easily lend itself to a comfortable ethos of sharing, co-operation, giving or letting go. If we are lucky enough to own land then it can bring with it attitudes of superiority, entitlement and control (I am of course, making a very sweeping generalisation here) which makes it difficult to accept the need and importance of sharing it on equal terms. In the past, I’ve thought of myself as being a custodian or steward but I’ve since ditched those terms as they still suggest that I’m top of the creature tree. My name might be on the property title deeds but I’m just passing through, a miniscule part of its history and a minority species in its ecosystem; there were myriad life forms already here when I arrived and they will ~ I hope ~ continue to thrive long after I’m pushing up daisies. To shake off the shackles of being superior is incredibly liberating, to acknowledge the vast amount of diversity and other life in the garden is humbling, awe-inspiring and life-affirming and I revel in the idea of being part of this most intricate, fragile and beautiful web.

What, then, can we do to welcome wildlife in the garden? Avoiding harmful practices (including the use of toxic chemicals), planting trees, shrubs and hedges, thinking carefully about how we manage trees, hedges and grass-cutting, rewilding in parts, creating habitats, homes and hibernation spots, leaving piles of organic materials scattered about (there’s no need to be tidy), making compost, banning outdoor lights at night, planting food sources and supplementing food and water when necessary are just a few ideas, none of which takes very much effort but all of which pay dividends. Above all, I think observing the creatures we share this patch with is key, not only because it is a fascinating and rewarding pastime but also because it helps us to better understand their needs, life cycles and relationships. In turn, that leads to an acceptance of the right and importance of everything to be here, of the integration and interwoven nature of all life. A truly regenerative garden doesn’t pick and choose, prioritise or banish species . . . not even up and coming old grannies, I’m glad to say! 😉