He's Not A Pheasant Plucker, He's A Pheasant Plucker's Son

The Cleifion forms the southern boundary

So five days in as a solo member of Project Off Grid, Matt and Mary having left on Sunday to return to a life of instant hot water, indoor toilets and no mud, but not before leading the design and implementation of the wooden frame and corrugated iron roof of possibly the finest bog toilet this side of the Severn. I dug the hole and occasionally wielded a hammer. Details such as floor, seat and walls have been left in my not-so-capable hands; fortunately there's a caff down the road with outside loo so I'm not without options.

Everything I Touch Turns To Mud

The fact that I am writing this in a warm, dry and level room, lit by electric light with all my possessions stored in an adjacent room safe from the lashing rain outside, after having cooked and shared a meal with friends, may not seem in any way remarkable. Yet to me all these things are worthy of celebration for they are the result of months of preparation and several days hard labour. I am finally situated on my land in Wales. A new chapter, and blog, begins.