Month: January 2024

Planting

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It’s been a wonderful week for getting things done outside so there hasn’t even been the faintest rumour of housework ~ ah, happy me! Within the space of twenty-four hours, the temperature hiked from many degrees below average to many degrees above, which is why averages exist, of course. Gone were the penetrating frosts, the freezing fog, the ice and bitter winds and in their place, days so soft and mild and blissfully dry that the urge to be outdoors was overwhelming. It wasn’t just us celebrating, either; suddenly the hedge bottoms are white with drifts of snowdrops, hazel catkins are bright with pollen and the first crocus have opened their yellow and mauve cups across the lawn. On 24th January, I saw a beautiful Red Admiral butterfly whilst admiring the snowdrops and three days later, the first Buff-tailed and White-tailed bumblebees, plump, velvety queens newly-emerged from hibernation. This is a couple of weeks earlier than last year, according to my records, but I’m under no illusions: there’s a long way to go before spring truly arrives but how uplifting to be catching the first tantalising whispers, the promise of good things to come.

The first job on my list was some planting in the polytunnel; with the days lengthening, the sun climbing higher and the freezing weather gone (for the time being, at least), the temperature in the tunnel rises to a perfect one for planting and sowing the first batch of seeds. That said, there was a bit of damage limitation to be done first as the voles have had a field day with the autumn-planted peas and haven’t been very generous in what they’ve left for us. The Swiss winter sugar peas ‘Frieda Welten’ were an experiment and although we’ve lost a fair few, I’m hoping at least to get enough seeds again for another try this autumn. The peas germinated well but I think grew too quickly in the mild weather so they have gone through the winter as bigger plants than was ideal. However, they’ve fared better than the ‘Douce Provence’ row which has almost been wiped out, both as seed peas and young plants. Wretched rodents! 😥 While Roger went to cut some twiggy hazel sticks from the hedge to make supports, I moved the few ‘Douce Provence’ plants to join the sugar pea row and hopefully now we will have some sort of early crop, even if it’s a bit thin on the ground. The row looks slightly pathetic at present but it’s amazing what a bit of warmth can do and with the end of our Persephone period arriving in the second week of February, plants will really start to grow strongly again .

As I’m planning to grow fewer things in the tunnel this summer there is plenty of room for planting now, so I went for two rows of broad beans (Seville Long Pod and Aguadulce) and a very wide and thickly-sown trench of ‘Douce Provence’ peas. A dozen ‘Charlotte’ potatoes will give us ample meals before the later ones are ready outside; we debated whether to plant into the soil or under hay and decided on balance to do the former as we think slugs will be a worse problem than wireworm this year. There is much wisdom surrounding the art of chitting seed potatoes but it will probably come as no surprise to regular readers that I disregard pretty much all of it. We store our harvested spuds in wooden crates covered in newspaper in the cave, eating our way through the biggest and best and leaving enough small ones to use as seed for the next year. For this first phase of planting, I trust nature to do all the work so I haven’t been laying potatoes out carefully in labelled trays or egg boxes in a frost-free place, I just lifted the newspaper and ta-dah! There was a pile of little beauts with lovely new shoots all ready to go. Why do more work than is necessary? I’m seriously thinking about changing the title of my blog to ‘This Lazy Life’! 😉

So to outside business, and we’ve been planting trees, something that has been a way of life for us for decades; in fact, I don’t think there has ever been a single winter when we haven’t planted at least a few trees and over the years they have added up to several thousand individuals. As we’ve moved house many times, it’s been an ongoing exercise in leaving orchards, woodland and hedges for others to enjoy but then for me, that’s the point: we don’t so much as plant trees for ourselves but rather for the environment, the planet, and for others to enjoy. They are an investment in the future and a very worthwhile one, at that, providing shade, habitat, food, various useful materials and that all important carbon capture. What greater legacy could we leave?

First, a dual-purpose apple ‘Reine des reinettes’ which is truly the queen of French apples, dating back to the eighteenth century and the number one choice of variety for making tarte tatin and apple cakes. It’s also a good eater, with an initial burst of acidity quickly mellowing to sweetness (it’s known in the anglophone world as ‘King of the Pippins’) and keeps well, so this is definitely a worthy addition to our orchard. Next, another French beauty in the form of a golden mirabelle, a plum variety for which the Lorraine region is famous; in fact, the world’s highest density of mirabelle plum trees grows there. It can take eight years for a tree to bear fruit so we might need to be patient with this one but I think it will be worth the wait. The English ‘Victoria’ plum should be bearing fruit far more quickly and although it’s perhaps not the most imaginative choice of tree, it is easy to grow and such a reliable cropper that it has always been one of our favourites. It’s a good dual-purpose fruit, sweet and juicy to eat straight from the tree but sharp enough to make a good breakfast jam, too. Finally, we planted another ‘Burlat’ cherry, a French bigarreau variety which crops very early, producing clusters of dark red fruits; as this is very much cherry country, we just can’t plant enough!

Cherry blossom is one of the garden’s delights to look forward to in April.

I’d also meant to pick up a ‘Beurré Hardy’ pear, another French classic, but I was distracted by the nurseryman offering me a bundle of sea buckthorn plants at a ridiculously knocked-down price because they were already budding up and he wanted shot of them. I hadn’t planned on buying any as the ones I planted a couple of years ago died, but these are much bigger, sturdier plants and as there turned out to be ten of them, I feel that surely some of them stand a chance of surviving. After all, they can survive temperatures down to -40C, heat, drought and salt air so they ought to be indestructible, not shrivel up and die at the first hint of tough times; that said, I’m struggling to grow willow here and who’d believe that? Anyway, my arm was well and truly twisted so now I’m keeping my fingers crossed because if they thrive, that will be another useful and very healthy additional edible in the garden and if we have a big enough harvest, I shall make some sea buckthorn ice cream in honour of our trips to Norway where it is hugely popular. We also planted half a dozen bird cherries to add to our native woodland areas and thirty beech, mostly to plug gaps in the hedges but also a few as specimen trees. Most of the saplings we plant come from our own patch and Roger has been lifting holly seedlings from the coppice this week to add to our little nursery. Slowly but surely our orchard and wooded areas are growing. As for that pear tree? Mmm, might have to go back . . . 😊

We planted a small beech hedge along the east side of a gravelled sitting area to give us a living protection against cold winds.

There are several mantras I keep in mind as encouragement in the life I’m trying to lead, simple questions and reminders that can have a powerful effect on my actions. Three of the most important ones are as follows:

  • Do we need it?
  • There’s no such place as ‘away’.
  • Can we use what we already have?

The latter was very much at the forefront of my mind when I read Lisa’s excellent blog post about peat-free compost (see The Compulsive Gardener) and I have decided to see if we can manage this year using only our own compost. It’s very frustrating (and a bit surprising) that peat-free compost is so difficult to source in France but I refuse to buy anything else and, given that our own composting system is now well-established and doing the business, I’m interested to see if we can be totally self-sufficient. There are many different ‘recipes’ for making seed compost but I’m not using ingredients such as sharp sand, grit and vermiculite as they would be bought imports so it’s a matter of using what we’ve got ~ in this case, our homemade compost, garden soil and well-rotted leaf mould. Seeds are little energy bombs packed with everything they need to germinate and start growing so they don’t require a nutrient-rich growing medium which is why our compost alone would be too potent. However, by mixing with soil from molehills (nicely tilled by nature’s little diggers!) and fine leaf mould, I can create a balanced seed compost which is light and fluffy, free-draining and warm.

First butterfly of 2024.

The moles are insanely busy at present so I’ve been scooping up their hills to make a pile of soil in the tunnel, along with the same of our finished compost and leaf mould. A few days inside allows it all to warm up and dry out a bit before processing and whilst hauling countless buckets around the patch it occurred to me yet again that much of my gardening these days revolves around moving various piles of organic materials from one place to another! I decided to sieve my ingredients as the compost in particular is a bit coarse and found out very quickly that making half a bucket at a time is ample as it’s quite laborious and the mixing requires a surprising amount of elbow grease. It’s a very gentle, therapeutic activity, though, and the amount of finished compost is mounting up rapidly. The problem with homemade seed compost is that it’s not sterile and I know that if I were doing this properly, I should heat the finished mix in the oven to kill pathogens and unwanted seeds. However, apart from seeming like too much of a faff, common sense tells me that heating would also kill beneficial life and as the mix is full of tiny worms I’m not going to do that. I can easily identify the seedlings of all the things I’m going to plant so it’s no trouble removing any weeds that pop up and if we end up with a few rogue tomatoes or peppers, that’s all part of the experiment. The only thing I’m concerned about are the very tiny seedlings like aubergine, Cape gooseberry and celeriac so I’ve set several trays of the compost to stand in the tunnel where the warmth will force germination of anything in the mix and then I can nip them all out before sowing the tinies.

As broad bean seedlings are chunky enough to hold their own against all comers, I’ve planted 36 straight away in individual pots and also prepped 40 cardboard tubes with compost ready for peas. Experience has shown that pre-sowing like this is by far the best way to ensure good germination and strong growth as well as thwarting a variety of pests, giving us healthy and robust plants to transplant into the garden beds once the soil has warmed up. It also gives me an excuse to be busy planting this early in the season! No such strategy needed for radish, though, so a row of those has gone straight into the tunnel soil whilst outside, I’ve planted several rows of rose garlic to complement the white garlic that was planted in November and is growing well. Having managed to finish using shredded hedge prunings to convert a rectangular bed into a horseshoe-shaped planting area, I also planted garlic all around the outside of the keyhole path which felt like a satisfying start to yet another experiment.

The new keyhole bed is ready to go: I’m interested to see how it develops through the year.

The birds have become noticeably busier this week and there is a very definite dawn chorus now as well as new melodic voices such as song thrushes and woodlarks to enjoy during the day. There is a flurry of hectic blue tit activity around the nestboxes so the bid for territorial possession has begun! I’ve taken part in the Comptage national des oiseaux des jardins, the French equivalent of the UK’s RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch, which takes place annually during the last weekend in January. Like the eBMS butterfly walks I started to do last year, this is an exercise in citizen science where ordinary folk are asked to count the maximum number of each bird species they see in their garden or a public place such as a local park over the course of an hour. The French approach, however, differs in a couple of ways. First, there is a second national count in May which allows breeding pairs and summer visitors to be counted; also ~ and to my shame, I’d forgotten this ~ once a garden has been officially registered on the system, data can be submitted throughout the year, not just the two ‘big’ days, and the suggestion is to carry out a simple 10-minute watch which I could do every week just like the butterfly count if I got myself organised. The results from my hour’s observation of the feeding station were very much in line with last year’s data, with house sparrows, blue tits and great tits being the most numerous visitors. Prize for the most entertaining has to go to a pair of siskins, though, who despite being small and pretty things, dominated the feed table with an aggression that far surpassed their size. Not to be argued with, that’s for sure!

I’ve seen the first honey bees on the heather this week.

Taking a break on a garden bench, a mug of tea and the last official mince pie of winter in my hands, I turned my face to the sun and felt supremely happy. How wonderful to be out and active in such warm, soft air with no need for a coat or hat; how lovely to listen to the birds singing and the occasional deep hum of a passing bumblebee; how nourishing to have emerged, like that beautiful Red Admiral, to stretch my limbs and be busy in the garden I love. Then, with a sudden jolt, I remembered that it’s only the last week of January, not the middle of March; it’s far too warm, far too soon, and with record high temperatures having been recorded further south in France this week, it’s a very worrying trend. I refuse to end a post on a depressing note, though, so I see this as a compelling reason to keep on with what we’re doing here, to take positive action where we can. Another mantra springs to mind, and it’s one I’m happy to keep front and centre in an effort to maximise our carbon capture efforts. “Build soil. Plant trees. Repeat.” 😊

Welcome back, bumbles!

Unravelling

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January has hurled just about every kind of unpleasant weather imaginable at us this week: ice, snow, fog, floods and what must be one of the worst forms of precipitation out there, la pluie verglaçante or ice rain, which fell in torrents all through one night, coating everything in a frozen glassy casing and rendering conditions treacherous under tyres and feet. On a brighter note, the hoar frosts have been spectacular, dusting the landscape with a confection of crystalline rime, it’s just a shame there haven’t been many blue skies to provide a stunning backdrop to this winter wonderland. The garden has been shivering and shimmering in white, every blade of grass, twig and leaf crisp and sugar-coated yet there is plenty of life and busyness despite the inclement weather. The moles are lifting chains of dark tumps like volcanic islands across the garden, each one frozen so solid that I risk stubbing my toe if I don’t watch where I’m putting my feet! The birds at the feeders and elsewhere have tentatively started trying their voices, and they are flitting and flapping through the bare hedgerows as the urge to pair up accelerates. Flocks of fieldfares are still clacking and chattering through the orchard and as I walk the lanes, small groups of lapwings foraging on the winter fields take to the air briefly with their sweet ‘peewit’ call; they are a bird I love to see, especially in large wheeling murmurations against the steely sky. The mistle thrushes are calling, too, their charming fluting songs chiming out from treetops near and far; it is not quite as mellifluous as a blackbird’s song, being a little disjointed and stop-and-start at times, but for me it is the song of the season. Spring might be a long way off, but the first tender suggestions of it are there if I care to look and listen.

I’m still waiting to get busy planting in the tunnel and trying not to feel frustrated at the delay, it makes more sense to wait for warmer weather and I know things will catch up anyway. First on the list are a dozen or so ‘Charlotte’ potatoes and a row each of ‘Aquadulce’ broad beans and ‘Douce Provence’ peas to give us an early harvest ahead of the outdoor crops and as I shall be planting from our own saved tubers and seeds, it feels almost like food for free. The salad leaves are still growing well in the tunnel despite the cold and we are able to pick several times a week, with the zingy spice of rocket, landcress and red mustard being perfect warming flavours for the time of year and baby leaves of beetroot, red sorrel and pink ‘Candyfloss’ kale providing a splash of colour against the green. The outdoor vegetables have been looking a bit sorry for themselves but there is still plenty of good food there. The leeks and parsnips have been rather disappointing this year but we are eating the best celeriac we have ever grown and there are black radishes, Jerusalem artichokes, kale and Savoy cabbage in abundance. I always marvel at the tenacity of these hardy troopers: looking at the heavy frosting on the purple sprouting broccoli plants, it’s hard to believe that in a few weeks’ time we will be struggling to keep up with the harvest.

With nothing much to be done in the frozen garden this week, I’ve been concentrating on indoor activites between my walks. After much soul-searching I have decided to abandon the Welsh learning course I started in late October, not because I wasn’t enjoying it but because I simply don’t have the time to commit to it properly. It’s an excellent course but one which requires dedicated daily practice and as I was reaching the point where I needed to join up with another student to practise conversation together, I decided the time had come to bow out since I don’t want to start letting other people down. I’m putting it on the back burner for now and will go back to it at some point in the future when I can give it the attention it deserves. I’ve been a language learner for most of my life, starting in high school with three years of Latin (which I loathed) and seven years of French which I loved. Since then I’ve learnt basic Welsh, Spanish to an ‘able to get by reasonably well’ level whilst living in Asturias and a smattering of Norwegian and German just for fun. I’ve been toying with the idea of re-doing the intermediate French course I completed a couple of years ago, just dipping in and out when I can to refresh those areas where I’m still not fluent but then an unexpected opportunity presented itself this week, one I couldn’t resist. Goodbye Welsh, hello Catalan!

Let me explain. One of the most difficult issues I find to square with my eco-warrior conscience is the subject of foreign travel to visit family. It’s a big blot on our carbon footprint and one we try to minimise and mitigate against as much as possible and it was certainly a deciding factor in our decision to leave Asturias. I also strongly dislike flying and would be deliriously happy never to set foot on a plane again. I’m very excited, therefore, that we have been hatching plans to spend time with Sam and Adrienne in the summer by meeting up with them in the Spanish Pyrenees. When we thought about it, there is no need for us to travel to Norway or them to come to France, especially when this idea reduces the travel burden for both parties: they can fly directly to Barcelona instead of having to hop in two or more flights and we can drive. With green tourism in mind, we have looked at the possibility of travelling by train but my goodness, the price is prohibitive and this for me is one of the huge drawbacks of public transport: it has to be affordable if people are going to switch!

I’m very excited about exploring a different range of Spanish mountains with Sam and Adrienne.

Anyway, travel issues aside, I’ve decided to dip a toe into the Catalan language to at least make up in a small way for my withdrawal from Welsh. I’m using good old Duolingo and as features like learning streaks, gems and league tables hold no interest for me whatsoever, I can just do a bit of study whenever I have a few free minutes without making any great commitment. I’ve always thought that Catalan sounds a bit like Castillan Spanish minus the ‘lisp’ mixed with French and seeing it written for the first time, I began to understand why. For example, ella menja una poma (she eats an apple) bears a closer resemblance to the French elle mange une pomme than the Spanish ella come una manzana. I’m going to enjoy this language, I thought. Bring it on! What I didn’t realise as I signed up is that on Duo, there is no Catalan course for English speakers so I am having to study it in the assumed role of a Spanish speaker instead. Good grief, talk about synapse gymnastics! However, it’s actually great fun, not least because I’ve let my Spanish slide badly since leaving Asturias so this is a brilliant way to revise and also, comparing it directly with Catalan is a fascinating activity. There is much research which suggests that learning new languages can help to thwart the onset of dementia and I’m wondering just how many new neural pathways I’m building by studying a new foreign language through another foreign language? Or have I just finally lost the plot? 😂

As if to bear out the somewhat haphazard approach to knitting I wrote about last time, the ‘simple’ neckwarmer project turned into something of a saga, all of my own making. My first mistake was to choose the thicker skein of Blue-faced Leicester, being drawn to its chunky dense warmth and fluffy slubs. Unfortunately, it didn’t sit very happily on the needles and I wasn’t very impressed with how things were panning out; in particular, the ribbed top section seemed very loose and baggy and although the pattern wasn’t designed to be close-fitting, I didn’t really see the point of a neckwarmer if it was going to let in cold draughts. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either and I became less enthused with every round: about two-thirds of the way through, I admitted defeat. Time to unravel the lot and start again. I opted for the thinner wool this time and the difference was immediate ~ this is just the way things go sometimes with handspun yarn. I modified the pattern by using a twisted knit for the ribbing, just to add a little extra structure to avoid that gape but also to bring some interesting visual texture to the part of the garment that would be the most visible. I was so pleased with the stitch definition that I also decided to revert to the bands of double moss stitch in the original pattern and everything was going very swimmingly until I realised that, despite having checked several times, I had fallen into the classic bear trap of knitting in the round: there was a twist in my knitting. Instead of an even tube, I was creating a very impressive Möbius loop which might be mathematically fascinating but totally hopeless in a garment; this, my friends, is why I can feel no love for circular needles. Big sigh, deep breath . . . and unravel once again.

Reflecting on the whole pattern whilst trying to untangle Pwd from the wretched needle (it obviously offered far more fun as the latest kitten toy for her than a crafting tool for me), I saw no reason why I couldn’t just knit the piece flat in a back-and-forth manner on traditional single-pointed needles; true, I’d have to seam it up the back but that was a small price to pay for my sanity. Luckily, I had super long needles in the right size which would hold all the stitches as the piece grew so I cast on yet again: here’s to third time lucky! Well, it certainly was because from then on in it was sheer joyful stitchery; the yarn felt soft and warm and had a certain light sponginess to it that, coupled with the stich patterns, gave the piece a lovely bounce while the famous BFL lustre made it shine like silk. It was finished in no time and I’m really very pleased with it; typically, the bitter weather is now forecast to morph into wildly mild temperatures but I have managed a few wears first on cold walks and it felt just right. As for the thicker skein, I’m mulling over a few plans for that ~ maybe chunky mitts or slipper socks? ~ but there’s no rush.

The finished piece before seaming the edges . . .
. . . and in action on a chilly walk.

To remind myself that I enjoy knitting in the round, just not on a circular needle, I decided to whizz up a pair of socks which are always my ‘go-to’ project in times of need. When I sorted out my yarn oddments for the charity shop, I set the scraps of sock wool aside because as long as I can rustle up roughly 100g then I can make another pair of socks from the leftovers. They’re quirky, of course, using three or more different self-patterning yarns, but I have a soft spot for them because they mean zero waste . . . and who looks at my socks, anyway? After knitting the neckwarmer, this work with tiny stitches feels very fine but I’m safely in my comfort zone and zipping along merrily despite my little helper having discovered the joy of batting balls of wool around while I knit. Actually, she’s changing rapidly from cute kitten to jaunty junior this week, tearing around the house like a whirling dervish, haring up and down the stairs in hob-nailed boots (for something so small and dainty, there’s nothing sylph-like about her!) and generally leaving a trail of mayhem in her wake. What a difference from the timid little kitty I discovered living under a box in the barn. Roger has christened her ‘the furry-pawed terrorist’ and it suits her well; now I simply think she needs to find a new hobby that doesn’t involve my wool basket.

Scrappy sock #1
The resident chaos-monger.

When the cloud finally lifted late one afternoon to reveal a sky of achingly beautiful blue, I couldn’t resist heading out for a decent walk, chilly though it still was. What a difference a dose of sunshine makes! It was interesting to note the changing arc of the sun’s path ~ our evenings are clearly drawing out now ~ and also the distinct contrast between those places that had been kissed by the sun’s warmth and others that lingered in shade.

Although I prefer to see the countryside fully leafed-up and blooming with fecund growth, I can’t deny that there is a certain fragile and spartan beauty to these winter landscapes. There is so much sky ~ albeit it scribbled and criss-crossed with contrails ~ and, like my handspun knitting, I find a certain charm in the textures of field, tree and hedgerow stitched together in simple patterns.

I loved the bright curve of the moon almost caught in the bare branches of an ash tree and the warm coppery glow the sinking sun brought to this stretch of lane close to home. Later, as I stepped out in the darkness, I saw a huge halo around the moon, a magical circle of moonlight light refracted through ice crystals. Breathtakingly beautiful: I’ll have that over a circular knitting needle any day. 😊

Winter warmers

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As a child, I loved snow. There was something truly thrilling about pulling back the curtains to find that the world had been transformed silently overnight into a magical winter wonderland; even better if those longed-for flakes had been driven into blizzards by a powerful wind, filling the roads with sculpted drifts and closing schools for a day or two. As an adult, I’m not so keen. Yes, it’s all very pretty and certainly more seasonal than the crazily mild weather we’ve been having in recent weeks but I’m not a fan of the cold. I realise for those readers who live in far harsher climates where months of deep snow and extreme freezing temperatures are the winter norm, it probably sounds very wimpy on my part to be grumbling about a couple of centimetres of the white stuff and just a few degrees below freezing, but that’s how I am. As soon as life starts demanding several layers of clothing, hats, gloves, mittens, scarves, thick socks, extra blankets and hot water bottles, I’m dreaming of spring. That said, I couldn’t resist wrapping up and heading out to capture a few images around the garden . . .

As this cold snap had been well-forecasted, I had time to make sure that anything remotely tender in the garden was tucked up as snuggly as possible under a deep blanket of hay. I’d already covered the asparagus, rhubarb and Vietnamese coriander and piled hay around the globe artichoke plants so I topped them all up a bit and then covered a pile of plants overwintering in the tunnel. We grew Vietnamese coriander for the first time last year and it proved to be a real hit in the kitchen so I took masses of cuttings in autumn, one of which I planted in the ground in the tunnel and the rest are overwintering in pots. Given the miserable temperatures, I’ve brought one into the house just in case along with a couple of jars stuffed with perennial kale cuttings. There is no excuse other than my laziness for losing such plants in this weather and I always feel it’s well worth the effort. Before the cold weather arrived, I managed a couple of useful days outside, putting down the bark paths in the mandala bed and making a start on my new keyhole bed where I’m using the shredded brush to create a keyhole-shaped path and to take the corners off the rectangular bed to form a horseshoe shape. Trudging down to the compost heap, I noticed that the blackbirds had already redesigned my carefully-laid keyhole, scratching and scattering the bark in angry dark scars across the snow. Well, they’re hungry so I have to forgive them . . .

The mandala bed: there are new paths there somewhere!

The birds are hammering their food and it’s almost a full-time job keeping the feeding station and bird table replenished and their drinking bowls free of ice, they are so hungry in this weather. I’m planning to take part in the official garden bird census during the last weekend in January but I’m already wondering how I can manage an accurate count of how many house sparrows in particular I see at once since we seem to be feeding the entire region’s population. (As an aside, the last time I did the count, my figure for blue tits was questioned as being unusually high until I sent a photo to prove I wasn’t making it up!) I live in hope that the sight of the feeders from the lane might just encourage passers-by to put some up themselves, there is a plentiful supply of wild bird food available in the shops but as far as I can tell, we are the only people locally who bother. We’ve been invited to join a new local association which is being set up to protect and increase biodiversity in the local bocage landscape and encouraging others to feed the birds in winter, put up nest boxes and plant avian shelter and food plants are on my (very long!) list of suggestions. It’s amazing what simple gestures by a few willing people can achieve.

This hungry great tit braved a raid on the bird table before I’d even finished putting out food.

Stocking up on bulk bird food at our local country store this week, I picked up a free calendrier lunaire specifically designed to help gardeners choose their activities according to the phases of the moon. It’s a pretty popular approach here although I can’t say I noticed any discernible difference when I tried it a few years ago. My plan for the calendar is slightly different because, regardless of the moon, it struck me as being a perfect resource for recording my sowing and planting dates through this year. I’m very lax at keeping any records, relying far too much on mentioning things in my blog which I don’t always do; for instance, I have peas, broad beans and potatoes to plant in the tunnel as soon as the temperature lifts a bit but I have no record of when I planted them last year. Knowing me, I’ll make a good start and then it will all go to pot as soon as the major planting season begins but I live in hope of going the distance.

It’s hard to imagine the summer potager when it looks like this.

As there’s not much I can do in the garden in this weather, I’ve been spending a bit of time by the fire with various woolly projects and whilst researching a few ideas, I came across a couple of interesting commentaries on knitting with homespun yarn. Apparently, a significant number of handspinners won’t use the skeins they make either because they don’t think they are good enough to work up into a garment or conversely, they feel they are too precious to use at all. What a daft species we are! I think it’s a crying shame that the conformity of mass production leaves us seeking so-called ‘perfection’ in all things, rather than celebrating the unique and distinctive qualities of hand-crafted items. If something is a little idiosyncratic, quirky or eccentric, then so what? Surely it’s far more rewarding than being predictably banal and uninspired? As for not touching a precious skein, what a pity to spend time, energy, skill and love in creating something never to be used. One of the many things I enjoy about reading other people’s blogs is the abundance of vibrant and passionate creativity; whether beautiful recipes, gardens, handicrafts, artwork, poems, stories or ideas, all are celebrated and generously shared for the pleasure and enrichment of others. Having re-established a working relationship with my spinning wheel, this week I’ve embarked on a new project which I’m already making plans for, regardless of the quality of the finished skein; good or bad, it will be used. I’ve blended Merino fleece (the finest sheep’s wool in the world) with tussah silk, both of which I dyed some years ago using a commercial powdered madder root. I planted several madder (Rubia tinctorum) plants which I’d grown from seed in the garden when we arrived here and the roots should be ready for harvest this year so I should be self-sufficient from then on in; there’s also some woad out there somewhere (my flower bed is a bit on the chaotic side) which I’m looking forward to comparing to indigo. I’m spinning from rolags made on my hand carders into a very fine yarn: if you compare with the skein of aran-weight yarn in the photo below, you can see the difference ~ the thicker yarn looks like rope!

I’m hoping the finished yarn will lend itself to making a lightweight scarf, the kind that is a decorative accessory suitable for wear at any time of year rather than the thick, chunky, keep-out-the-winter-weather kind I’m wrapped in this week. I detest lace knitting, mostly because I am supremely terrible at it, but I’m thinking a simple cat’s paw motif in honour of Pwdin might be fun, especially as the scarf itself won’t need to be very long. Unfortunately, my little spinning companion must have caught wind of this as one of her less endearing tricks this week has been to climb into my spinning basket, turf out several rolags and then shred them to pieces! Since when did cats chase sheep? Not content with that, she then decided to involve herself with the latest mesh vegetable bag construction, not in any helpful way, I must say, although she did look quite business-like with my crochet hook in her mouth. I’d forgotten just how ‘interesting’ life can be with a kitten in the house.

The second discussion of handspun yarn was written by someone after my own heart who clearly understands the impatience I feel to get stuck in to a new project; a conscientious spinner/knitter would take time to assess the weight of their yarn in several ways before launching into the creation of a garment, but that’s not me. I’ve been knitting since I was about seven or eight years old and I have never in all those years bothered to knit up a single tension square because it seems like time wasted that could be spent on the garment itself. I realise I’ve been breaking a pretty big rule and taking my chances that things would turn out the right size, but that’s me. In a way, perhaps this maverick approach means I don’t allow myself to feel stressed or disappointed when things go a little pear-shaped. For instance, I’ve ditched my plan to knit up the Blue-faced Leicester yarn into a rustic waistcoat because having wound the washed skeins into balls, it was abundantly clear that I didn’t quite have enough yarn and I really can’t be bothered to order more to spin. Time for Plan B and an idea that came to me on one of my walks this week on a brilliantly sunny but bitterly cold afternoon, that wicked north-easterly going right through me and making my eyes and nose run.

Winter artwork: nature’s champion spinners have no problems with lace.

I only have one thick scarf, a colourful stripy number which is fine but it’s very long and bulky and, despite not being made from wool, it’s a bit scratchy against my skin. As the BFL is a super-soft wool with natural drape, I think it will be perfect for a knitted neck warmer which is something I’ve never made so it’s a journey of discovery. As with all my handspun projects it will be fraught with unknowns and potential disasters but for me, that’s all part of the fun; if I wanted the security of working with a consistent, well-behaved yarn, I’d go out and buy some. I’m using a basic pattern from Drops Design (if you like knitting and/or crochet, there is a treasure trove of free patterns to explore there) and I’m just going for it. I’ve already ditched moss stitch in favour of stocking stitch as there are enough lumps and bumps in my rustic skein without the need for additional texture, plus I think it will drape more naturally. I’ve also decided not to dye the wool, partly because I think the natural cream colour will lend itself to going with whatever I’m wearing and I love the pearlescent lustre of the fibre but also because indigo dyeing is a messy business, best done outside on a hot day when I can tap into free solar power to keep the vat warm.

Blue skies are a rare occurrence at the moment but I loved the splash of hazel catkins against this one.

My second least favourite thing in knitting after all things lace is using a circular needle. I learnt to knit on straight needles and taught myself how to knit in the round using short double pointed needles so I came relatively late to the world of circular needles which perhaps is why we’ve never got on. I understand all the thinking behind them but am I the only knitter in the world who ends up wrestling with that length of joining plastic as it twists and buckles and generally refuses to co-operate? Still, I wrote about edges and comfort zones last time so it’s time to put my money where my mouth is and enjoy the challenge. Who’d believe knitting could be so exhilarating? 😂

Rosehips and hoarfrost make a striking combination.

With my mind on warming things, I decided the time had come to strain the fire cider that had been maturing for several weeks. I have to admit, I have been dipping in and out for a taste now and then because all I can say is: wow! Why on earth has it taken me so long to getting round to making some? The taste is like nothing else and virtually impossible to describe, it’s every individual flavour yet none of them, if you see what I mean ~ herbal, fruity, spicy, garlicky and a lot more besides. The heat is pleasantly warming rather than fiery and it has turned out a beautiful deep pink colour although I assume if I’d added turmeric it would be orange instead. I’m happily tucking into a spoonful every day as a winter tonic and next year I shall certainly be making a lot more; in fact, I need to get some jars of apple vinegar fermenting as early as I can instead of waiting for the last few windfalls. Having strained the solid ingredients (onion, garlic, horseradish, rosehips, orange, ginger, cinnamon stick, peppercorns, rosemary and thyme) out, it seemed a terrible waste to consign them to the compost bucket as they were still full of flavour and just lightly pickled in the vinegar. Roger applied his cheffy thinking and, having removed the rosehips, used half to coat some baked pork steaks and blitzed the rest into a Thai-style broth. Yum.

The cold weather is set to stay until next Sunday at least and with a day of heavy snow forecast midweek, it could all get a bit interesting. It’s at times like these I am so grateful for our simple, self-sufficient lifestyle which means we have everything we need to be warm, fed and comfortable and there is no need for us to travel anywhere away from home. I dislike inactivity but some time spent by the fire in quiet contemplation and fiddling about with bits of wool feels like a nourishing form of relaxation, a gentle recharging of my batteries before the busyness of springtime beckons. The rustic yarn is so dense that I can feel the growing weight on my needle with every round; I suspect it’s going to seem like I’m wearing half a sheep (albeit a very soft, silky one) round my neck but given the weather forecast, that might be no bad thing! 😉

All change

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‘A comfort zone is the most dangerous area anyone can stay in. It is a place of no growth and no challenges.’ 

Brian Cagney

I’ve never been one for making New Year’s resolutions, not because I think they’re a bad idea but simply because I don’t understand the timing. If someone wants to give up a bad habit or embrace a new one, then why wait for New Year’s Day, which is just an arbitrary date, after all? Also, certainly in northern climes, January can be the grimmest of months and perhaps not the most uplifting time to be making radical changes in life that are all too often based on a sense of struggle or self-deprivation; various reports suggesting that as many as 80% of resolutions fail perhaps bears out my thinking to a degree. Each new day offers promise and fresh possibilities so why on earth restrict ourselves to one out of the whole year? Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way averse to personal challenges that bring positive elements to our lives ~ in fact, I believe they are a very good thing. Change might not be easy to deal with but it’s the only constant in our lives and making a resolution gives us the opportunity of being in control of at least one of those changes. I also believe that it’s important to wander beyond the safety of our comfort zone now and again however tricky that might feel. Permaculture reminds me to value the ‘edges and margins’ and this applies to all aspects of life, not just the garden; it’s at these fertile boundaries that innovative and exciting things happen and stagnation is dispelled. Incredible things can happen if we are brave enough to approach our own edges and dip a toe in.

The older I become, the more I realise how essential it is to keep my mind and body active and engaged and I feel a strong sense of responsibility to myself, my loved ones, community and society at large to make an effort in safeguarding and promoting my own health and wellbeing. This can be challenging and uncomfortable in some ways but if nothing else, the pain and frustration around my back problem has highlighted just how important it is to keep everything as finely tuned as possible! Although this might get more difficult as I age, when it comes to embarking on new activities, whether physical or mental, I don’t subscribe to all that ‘too long in the tooth’ and ‘can’t teach old dogs new tricks’ stuff. In fact, it’s all relative and in many ways I’m still a spring chicken, having read this week about a lady who didn’t start running until she was my age and is now in her eighties and aiming for her 300th marathon. Wow! Whilst obviously everyone is unique and there are many factors that can hamper or restrict us, in some ways our capacity to change can be as wide as our imaginations: it all comes down to self-belief and the courage to have a go. It’s something I’ve been reflecting on a fair bit this week, quite by accident in a way . . .

Whilst spinning up my second skein of Blue-faced Leicester wool, my mind drifted back to some of the spinning and dyeing projects I have done in the past; unlike more organised and conscientious folk, I never bother to keep any records or notes so I have to largely rely on my memory. However, it suddenly occurred to me that my old blog might still be active despite me having abandoned it in September 2018. This was a free WordPress site where I wrote about our first couple of years in Asturias and I stopped using it when I ran out of space ~ photos have always been by blogging weak spot! It was while we were living there that I really started to explore spinning techniques, a range of fibres and experimenting with first chemical and then natural dyes, so after a bit of initial faffing about with the login I was delighted to find it was all still there. Oh, those happy days of spinning outdoors in every season!

Having revisited all the posts that mentioned spinning and dyeing, I then found myself wasting far too much time looking back through other posts, not from any narcissistic point of view but because the memories brought such joy. We must have been bonkers to pack up and leave a comfortable life, home and job in Shropshire to live in a hovel on an Asturian mountainside; it was without doubt one of the most difficult house renovation projects we’ve undertaken and creating and maintaining a garden on the steepest of slopes proved to be an ‘interesting’ challenge. I don’t have a single regret, though, as the close to five years we spent there were some of the happiest, most fascinating and rewarding we’ve had together. It was a reminder of how sometimes we have to grasp life by the horns, take some risks (although I would say we did all our homework thoroughly before moving, particularly where finances were concerned) and just go for it: who knows where such adventures might lead? Two months after arriving in Spain, the result of the Brexit referendum shook our world and I feel desperately sorry for how much more difficult and complicated that has made things for UK citizens hoping to do the same as we did; it’s why we’re in France now, not the UK, as we continue to feel very privileged to have this wonderful opportunity.

The view from our home in Asturias was one I never tired of.

What I also realised as I read and smiled and grimaced (aaargh, the state of that house when we arrived, those bedstead fences, those snails! 😬) was just how much the years there changed me and I think that’s an important point to share. I was roughly six months short of my fiftieth birthday when we arrived and that’s a time of life where I think it’s all too easy to feel settled and comfortable with the same old same old. Does Granny really need new adventures? Well, yes, I think she does and for many reasons. The women of my mother’s generation could take their state pension at 60 but I will have to wait until I’m 67, if indeed such a thing still exists then. When you think about it, that seven year difference is quite a proportion out of an adult life, especially when you consider that (somewhat weirdly) my official life expectancy is actually two years shorter than my mum’s. I knew in my late forties that I no longer had the fizz of energy and enthusiasm that I believe a primary school teacher needs so the idea of carrying on . . . and on . . . and on really didn’t appeal; it seemed far fairer on everyone ~ especially the children ~ to bow out and hand over the reins to a younger teacher. I’m lucky in that I could afford to do that, although part of the deal was obviously living on a much reduced income. I loved my time in the classroom but to leave was one of the best decisions of my life.

One of the ways I changed in Asturias was to embrace running as a regular habit. I know I’ve said it many times before but I still stand by the simple fact that I don’t like running. Ever. However, I know it brings real benefits to my health and wellbeing and I have to admit I have always felt better after a run, even the truly terrible, horrible, difficult ones (which is all of them, really 😂 ). Encouraged by Roger, who as a speedy athlete enjoyed a wonderful time in the vibrant and friendly local running community, I even entered a few races, plodding along at the back of the pack. Well, why not?

My first race in Asturias was the Luarca 5k. Note (a) the lack of runners behind me ~ I had a habit of being the penultimate finisher (b) Roger fresh as a daisy in his bright kit on the left ~ he can run 5k almost twice in the time it takes me to get round once (c) the big smile on my face because I can see the finish line.

Having turned fifty, I then decided I would run a half-marathon in aid of a charity very close to my heart. What was I thinking? I didn’t enjoy running and I struggled to run ten kilometres yet alone twenty-one; living where we did meant there was a choice of horrendously steep up or equally horrendously steep down just to leave the house and relatively flat stretches of road or trail were few and far between; I chose a marathon in September which meant doing all the hard training in the hottest weather; oh, and did I mention I don’t like running? Towards the end of my training, when the day came to run 18k for the first time, the weather closed in and the rain came down in buckets. Roger suggested I defer the run but I insisted on doing it and I’m glad I did as the weather proved to be very similar on race day. After ten minutes I was soaked to the skin and when, after two roughly hours I returned home, I could literally pour the water out of my trainers. Yuk is an understatement and I smiled ruefully to see that ridiculous picture of myself again . . . but then I read what I had written about the run and it struck a chord because my attitude remains the same today.

In a very strange way, I actually enjoyed this run because it reminded me why I wanted to do this in the first place and how far I’ve come in the process. I wanted a personal challenge and I certainly got one: this has been SO hard, physically and mentally. I have managed to find the self-discipline to train which has surprised me, but I still don’t ever look forward to a run. There have been days when I felt like I was running in concrete boots through treacle and others where my feet had wings. There have been low points with aches and self-doubt and tears, but like all bad times in life, they have passed; equally, there have been high points and surprises and things to celebrate and smile about. Have I changed? Well yes, I have. I am certainly much fitter than when I started (Roger says faster, too, but I’m not so sure about that one!) and if nothing else, I have proved to myself that with the right attitude, determination and effort, it really is possible to achieve what I thought was beyond me. That alone is a great lesson for life.

As well as running, the time in Asturias changed me in many other ways. Starting from scratch, I learnt to speak Spanish, never very fluently but well enough to get things done and chat to people along the way. In embracing simple living, I explored and learned a wide range of new skills from making soap to upcycling clothes and started a new blog to share my experiences. I re-learnt and improved old skills, too, such as how to make crocheted blankets and play the recorder. I began to study permaculture which ultimately led to a change in my approach to gardening; I actually find the photos of digging and bare earth a bit shocking now which shows just how far I’ve come, although in all fairness, no-dig would have been very tricky to establish on those slopes without some serious terracing works.

The main vegetable patch looked like this when we arrived . . .
. . . and this some months later.

Please excuse me if this seems like a bit of a self-indulgent nostalgiafest (it is, of course) but it seemed to be a useful and, most importantly, very personal way of looking at intentional change and the possibilities it brings. As far as resolutions are concerned, I think that ‘aspirations’ is a better and more balanced word. Coming from the Latin root aspirare meaning ‘to breathe’ (the words respiration, inspiration and spirit all share the same root), to me it suggests a powerful metaphor for resolutions: we can choose to ‘exhale’ old and stale habits or behaviours that no longer serve us or ‘inhale’ fresh new ones to energise and enrich our lives. I think there is something more positive about the idea of aspirations, too; this isn’t about being resigned to something painful and negative or beating ourselves with a big guilt or deprivation stick but embracing change with curiosity and joy.

The latter is, I think, an important point and maybe one that is pertinent to the success or failure of a new resolution. In an age of instant gratification, it can be hard to feel like we’re doing without something we actually quite enjoy; at the same time, we live in a society that champions success, scorns failure and is driven by goals, data and technology. There seems to be an app and social media platform for everything including a whole raft of official ‘no’ months and whilst I understand completely that these things may be of huge help and benefit to people trying to stick to their plan, sometimes I think we need to take a step back and remember that we are human beings, not robots or numbers in an algorithm. No matter how much support we have from others, self-discipline comes from within (based, I would say, on self-belief and our deep inner wisdom as well as grit and determination) and it’s for us to decide how to use it. What do we do when the Munchies Monster says one cake won’t hurt or the Sofa Sloth finds a reason not to exercise or that pesky Wine Witch starts tapping her wristwatch at 5 o’clock? Well, that’s entirely up to each individual but I would urge everyone to exercise a little self-compassion, whatever happens. It might lead to feelings of guilt, inadequacy or failure to take a little tumble off the wagon but you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. I didn’t learn to speak Spanish or run a half-marathon or change my gardening habits in a few days; I had some major setbacks and made some horrendous mistakes along the way but the point is, I got there in the end. I did it and what’s more, I did it with a smile on my face (eventually).

With all this said and done, my opening paragraph may now strike readers as being supremely hypocritical when I say that I am doing Dry January ~ well, sort of. The month is actually a complete coincidence as it could just as easily have been a Dry April, June or whatever because I decided to try a few weeks of sobriety on the back of finally managing to run again in late December after eighteen months out. It’s a very slow, gentle jog with a lot of walking in between but it’s massive progress; I never thought I’d see the day that I felt such profound gratitude at being able to run! (Leopards really can change their spots, it seems). I have no goals, no plans, no desire to log distance, speed, time or anything else, I’m just enjoying the moment. Where Dry January is concerned (or in my case, Dry January plus a bit of December, too), I’m simply curious to see what effect a period of abstinence has on my body and mind whilst acknowledging that a break from alcohol (well, red wine, at least, since it’s all I ever drink apart from an occasional glass of bubbly*) is probably going to do me some good anyway. So far, so good.

*Reading that back, I’d like to clarify that I was talking about alcoholic drinks only: I also drink lots of water, tea, coffee, herbal tisanes and fruit juice! 😉)

Going a long way to overcoming a crushing fear of heights was an unexpected change that life in Asturias brought me.

All the photos in this post came from my old blog and I’ve tried to select those that give a taste of some of the beautiful places in Asturias I found myself in during the first part of our life there. As well as exploring the landscape and a new culture, there are plenty of ramblings about gardening, house renovation, nature, running and woolly things amongst others and an unapologetic overdose of colourful photos. If anyone is interested in having a peep, the link is here.

If you have made a New Year’s resolution or are committing to positive changes during the year, I salute you and wish you all the luck in the world ~ bon courage, as our French friends say. Indulge in abundance thinking and embrace the positives, be kind to yourself and be curious about what you can achieve and where it might lead. It’s the beginning of an exciting journey so please smile and enjoy it. 😊