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.


Not counting the occasional shopkeeper, breaking off their Welsh conversation to sell me something in a friendly enough manner, I have met one person so far this week. That's a rate of 0.2 people a day, a significant drop from the 20-30 people a day at Pilsdon Community. The chap in question is Johnny*, a young gamekeeper for Bettws Hall Estate who make it their business to hire guns out at exorbitant rates to those who wish to fire them at pheasants, which coincidentally Bettws Hall Estate happens to keep quite a lot of. Well, "keep" is a little strong, as all they do is rear the little ones in a fenced-off area for two weeks in July before releasing them, cajoling them to head off in the right direction onto a friendly farmer's land and hope they stay there until it's time to shoot at them.  At least I think that's more or less how it works.

The previous owner of my land had allowed it to be used for pheasant rearing hence why a third of it had fencing around it, but she had told me that they weren't going to use it any longer. Imagine my surprise to discover last week that new fencing had appeared, extending the enclosed area to nearly the whole of the land. The previous owner knew nothing of it. It seemed Bettws Hall were taking some liberties. Johnny first appeared last week, just after we had slithered down the slope with caravan in tow, and explained that he was new and didn't know that the land had been sold although it was him who had put the fencing in. He seemed rather embarrassed, as well he might. So earlier this week he turned up to negotiate. I was initially going to refuse point-blank but his offer included bringing a digger in to clear out ditches to drain the bog which, as it covers perhaps a third of the land, is an absolute necessity. We compromised on keeping the birds in the larger portion of the land, but not where I am. So pheasants it is this year with their annoying double-squawk. Maybe I'll try to catch and eat a few. 

Now to put right those of you who are thinking that all I do all day is potter by the river, dipping my toes in and counting baby lambs on the other side, I actually have quite a punishing schedule. OK, not a schedule as such, but a list of things to do, and do them I do. Let's see, what have I done? Created a mulch pit for "grey water" (i.e kitchen and bathroom water) from the caravan. Drawn up a first-draft map of the land, complete with boggy patches. Inspected the perimeter fencing. Stacked the logs strewn around the place from when firs had been felled to make way for the electricity pylons. Opened up the old pheasant fencing to make access to the stream easier. Installed a safety rope by the waterfall. Established a relationship, by telephone, with the owners of the land and house next door (it's their second home, they're normally in Staffordshire). And begun the back-breaking task of clearing and double-digging a section of ground for the planting of potatoes, to test the soil's fertility. With the many rocks I dig up I'm making a path from the caravan through the mire that surrounds it. I've been so busy I haven't even had time to go fishing.

On top of all this activity I have to keep myself alive. Breathing is the easy bit. Keeping warm is fairly simple as it's been quite mild weather and the caravan can be heated. Drinking is so far a matter of buying bottled water as I haven't yet dared drink the water from the stream. Eating is trickier as I now no longer have a meal bell dinging at 1pm and 7pm with piles of food just appearing on the table, a la Pilsdon. Here I must concoct my own nourishing fare in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp. There's a knack to it and I think I'm beginning to get it - it's a matter of being meticulously tidy and scrupulously clean. And once I've captured one of those irritating pheasants maybe I'll have a bit of meat. 

P.S. A few of you have asked about visiting. The answer is - yes please! It'll bump up my current rate of 0.2 people a day, and it'll be lovely to see you. There are two ways of visiting - 1) stay at a nearby campsite or inn, or 2) camp on my land. The caveats with option (2) are that there is only one car parking spot at the track entrance (you need a 4x4 to get safely down and up the track) and that I'd ask you to work with me on whatever needs doing. As I'm only allowed to live there if I'm actively doing seasonal agricultural or forestry work, so should others staying there as well. Give me a call and we'll sort out timings, whether you plump for option (1) or (2)

*As usual, names changed to protect the not-so-innocent.