Out of office

I'm temporarily back on-grid, spending the winter down in Dorset volunteering with the Pilsdon Community.

Check out my Dorset blog to catch up on my whereabouts.

I'm Like A (Migratory) Bird

Can it really be? Already? It's my last week living off-grid, this year at least. Six months have ripped by faster than a pheasant escaping a shotgun volley (an everyday occurrence around here at the moment) and it's nearly time to pack up and head south for the winter – no not South Africa or even Seville, but sunny Dorset where I will be picking up my volunteer duties at Pilsdon Community again. I'm hoping that the art of hand-milking cows is like learning to ride a bike, as no doubt I'll be rota'ed to get up before sunrise on Monday to be reacquainted with the Jerseys.

So much has happened here since I first inched the Suzuki Jimny nervously down my narrow steep windy track with caravan in tow and a sheer drop on the right. It's time to take stock and cast one's mind's eye (does the mind have only one eye? like Sauron from Lord of the Rings?) back over the half-year gone, to assess, compile, summarise, and otherwise make up a compelling narrative from the myriad events both small and great that have happened (to me at least) since April. What have I actually achieved? Have I learned anything? How have I actually survived this long without radio, TV or internet? Have I lost my grip on sanity? 

Let's start with the achievements. And these are not things that I can blow my own trumpet about, as much of it has been down to other people's generosity of spirit and open-heartedness. In no particular order:

–        A growing area (700 sq metres) with twelve large raised beds and space for twelve more has appeared, replacing a jungle thicket of juncus.  This was in fact all my spade-work (it's what I've mainly been doing) apart from the tree stumps removal which my neighbour's digger made short work of.

–        A pheasant-proof fence and netting is being constructed around this growing area by the pheasant-keepers to stop their birds eating my crops, in return for which I am letting them use my land again next year for rearing.

–        My “test” potatoes have successfully grown which I am steadily working my way through every dinner. However salad seeds came to nothing, possibly due to the acidity of the soil so I am adding lime to the raised beds to try to fix this.

–        With help from Mary and Matt a beautiful compost loo, a gracefully proportioned greenhouse and a sublime wood-store have all been erected.

–        I have made contact with a veritable host of friendly people both close by and over at Machynlleth, many of whom have provided help, advice, manure(!) and even the possibility of working together in the future (e.g. raising pigs to sell the meat locally, and a veg-box scheme in Mach). I have even made actual friends (not invisible ones).

–        I got a local ecologist to carry out a “Preliminary Ecological Appraisal” on my land before I did anything, to check I wouldn't be destroying the habitat of any protected species with my spade.

–        And not least, I have survived six months of living alone in a tiny caravan with no mains supplies and no radio, internet or TV. It has been really quiet. No distractions at all. During the day I have generally been digging whilst listening to the birds and the rushing river, and at night after a meal I'd read a book or write a blogpost. I have found it particularly calming to know that I can't be interrupted from my tasks by anyone and nor do I have the ability to interrupt myself, by checking the news headlines on my phone or switching on the TV. I imagine I must be in a tiny minority in the UK who can say this.

What have I learned? Well, I like it here enough to want to come back next spring. The people are welcoming and open, the surrounding mountains, rivers and valleys are stunning, and Machynlleth is a fantastic small town with an independent spirit. I've found that I am quite content to live solo, at least for these six months (winter in a caravan might be more depressing) but would consider getting a volunteer or two next year to help with the work. On the financial side, by keeping a careful eye on expenses since I got here I've found that I've been spending £28 average a week on food, £24 a week on other consumables (petrol, toiletries, propane, travel, gifts), and a total of £1650 on other stuff I've needed. So next year I'd better start earning some money! I've got to know the land quite well, at least during the more pleasant months – where the sun falls during the day, which direction the wind tends to come from, what new streams form during a deluge, what plants are naturally growing here. I've seen toads, frogs, grey squirrels, bats, some kind of shrew, moles, mice, butterflies, all kinds of birds – heron, robin, woodpecker, blackbird, buzzard, red kite, crow and many others I couldn't identify. I've heard owls after dark, and maybe they've heard me.

On the question of my sanity I'll leave that for others to judge.

This Saturday I'll drive off leaving my caravan locked up and “winterised” (drained of water to prevent pipes bursting in the cold). It'll be March before I set foot in her again and start the next chapter of off-grid living in Wales. This is my last post on this blog for now, thanks for tuning in everyone!  Those who want to continue to follow the remorseless saga of Matt Swan's life, service resumes next week on the mattswanindorset blog. Those who don't can go and watch Homeland instead. Bye!

Mr Writer

My raised beds beginning to take shape

Rooting around in an old suitcase I have stashed at my parent's house, where I spent a few days last week to celebrate my mum's birthday, I discovered an old newspaper clipping. It was an article from the Guardian written by George Monbiot, undated but I believe from the 1990's, which expressed the fact that humanity is not living within its means. We are chewing up resources at a faster rate than they can replenish. Unless we make some pretty big changes this is not going to end prettily. This was the first time I had encountered this rather troubling problem and it made quite an impression on me, enough indeed to cause me to make the only newspaper cutting of my life.

I hadn't previously heard of George Monbiot, and didn't come across anything else he had written for some years hence. In fact it probably wasn't until the Guardian went online and I began reading it more often that I realised he was a regular columnist, a hard-hitting investigative journalist, a controversial environmental spokesperson and an author of several books. I liked how his (always strong) points of view were rigorously backed up with lots of references to authoritative sources, e.g. peer-reviewed scientific papers. I read his book on how Britain can massively reduce its carbon emissions to combat climate change (“Heat”, 2006) and another on how the UK government allows itself to be swayed by corporate rather than the public interest (“Captive State”, 2000). And in the last couple of years I've met environmentalists deeply angered by his switch to a pro-nuclear-energy stance (his reasoning being it's the least bad of a bunch of options for keeping the lights on – in his view renewables alone can't provide enough energy, and at least the nuclear industry doesn't emit much carbon.)

So when he walked into the kitchen yesterday as I was weighing vegetables and introduced himself, it was quite a moment for me.  Admittedly it was his kitchen so perhaps it was more a surprise that I was there rather than he. No, I haven't become a stalker of well-known Greens, breaking into their homes to effect a meeting. It just happens that he lets the local veg-box scheme grow some produce in his back garden and box it up in his kitchen, and yesterday I was volunteering some time to help them with their weekly harvest. All quite plausible really, m'lud.

Suffice to say he was very pleasant to us despite us getting in the way of his making dinner, admiring the bountiful veg on his table and making small talk. This was the second author in two years I had met by chance whose books had made a significant impression on me (the first being Tobias Jones last year.) Both their works have actually caused my direction in life to change. Having spent fourteen years in London where you can't move for writers and hacks, it  seems strange that I had to leave it to meet two of, at least for me, the most influential ones. I'd be predicting that next year I'll be bumping into Douglas Adams (my childhood, teenage and perhaps also adult favourite writer) in some out-of-the-way country pub were it not for the fact a heart attack took him 12 years ago whilst running on an exercise machine. Gyms are dangerous places.