In The Line Of Fire

My very own potatoes

The shot rang out across the narrow valley. Instantly everyone hit the ground and there was an awful second of silence before the screaming and shouting began. It was impossible to tell at first if anyone had been hit. I was by the tent where my sister lay sick with diarrhoea, and had been trying to explain to one of the visitors what was wrong with her. Now we both lay almost on top of each other, shaking with fear. A little way across camp a group gradually converged around a prone body, it looked like Maria. I suspected the worst but then she raised an arm, gripped her leg. Another two shots burst across us. We were suddenly galvanised and everyone made for the two 4x4s, running low. The visitors at first tried only to take Maria but six of us managed to force our way on and the drivers, yelling in anger and desperation, floored it out of there.

In case you are concerned that Wales has recently and dramatically spiralled into a chaos of refugee camps, armed bandits and NGO's, let me assure you that this is by no means the case. Wales is as placid as ever. Neither have I moved in the last few days to Kandahar. This was merely a training simulation, mocked up to place some charity workers in a scenario they may one day discover out 'in the field', or in layman's terms, abroad in a danger zone. The training was taking place not far from where I live, a friend of mine was involved in running it and someone dropped out so she drafted me in at short notice to play an 'Internally Displaced Person' living in a refugee camp, tucked away in a gorge below Cader Idris.

During the day we had four groups of delegates visit us, each presented with the same nerve-wracking situation and each handling it slightly differently. They had had to negotiate their way through two checkpoints, one governmental, one rebel, to be with us, neither of which gave them an easy time.  Any of us refugees who managed to get a lift out of there were summarily executed by the rebels back at their checkpoint, being of a different tribe. I died twice. The point was, I think, that every decision taken has its consequences so you must prepare for every eventuality in detail beforehand. It was all captured on camera and the highlights were screened that evening to various people's embarrassment and merriment.

Back in the rather less charged atmosphere of my plot of land, I am proud to announce that the soil has produced its first cultivated vegetable under my diligent management. Having planted about twenty humble 'seed' potatoes (i.e. just small potatoes that are supposedly guaranteed disease-free) in May, I noticed a couple of weeks back that four plants were wilting and going yellow so I cut the stems off at the base and left the potatoes underground for a while for the skins to harden. Yesterday I dug these ones up. They're on the small side, probably as it's a bit early to dig them up yet, but they haven't been nibbled by any creepy-crawly which is a reason to celebrate (last year at Pilsdon most of the spuds had holes from eelworm). Time to distil a batch of vodka with my land's firstfruits... or maybe I'll just boil them up with butter, salt and spinach for dinner.

On the left, the potatoes from double-dug soil.
On the right, those from non-dug soil (with bracken roots and all).