If It's Not One Thing...

On a walk up to Waun Oer

I'm a bit late sitting down to write this, on Monday evening. It's 9:30pm and I was hoping to get started by 8:30. The joys of staying in an off-grid caravan can be tempered by those little mishaps that seem to crop up far too frequently.

For instance I was just chomping into a post-prandial banana when an almighty crash made me jump. I thought at first it was something in the awning but eventually realised that it came from the shower cubicle - no longer used for keeping clean, but for keeping my harvested vegetables safe from mice. The weight of trays of courgettes and cucumbers resting on the washbasin had caused its hinges to give way, sending the trays floorwards.

Strange clouds

Having tidied up that mini-disaster and reconnected the basin, I began to tackle the piles of washing up, Chopin tinkling out from my mobile phone through the wireless speaker. (Clearly no electric dishwasher here - not enough power in the caravan battery and no space anyway!) The tap immediately began to run dry and I could hear a whirring outside the caravan - the water barrel was empty. This happens every two or three days. I switched off the power to the water-pump as it can be damaged by running in air.

Putting on a headtorch as it was almost dark by now and changing into my outdoor trousers (anything worn outside gets muddy), I headed to the polytunnel, pulled the hosepipe out and brought one end over to the caravan, with the other end connected to the stream-fed tap. Taking the pump out of the barrel and resting a little sieve over the hole as a filter, I position the spurting pipe through the back of a plastic chair to fix it in place, the arc of water landing neatly in the sieve and filling the barrel below.

As it takes several minutes to fill I took the opportunity to check for slugs on the chard and spinach leaves outside which have become quite holey recently - I caught a couple red-handed . Back at the pump I also found five of the critters crawling on my caravan so I popped them in a jam jar to dispose of in the morning.

10kg of runner beans from one long pick!

The barrel was full now so I popped the pump in and reconnected it to the caravan's inlet. Back inside I flicked the switch and could hear the pump whirr as it pushed water into the pipes to provide pressure to the taps. Finally I could start the washing up!

So, having done all that, wiped the kitchen surfaces and sat down with my laptop (running on its battery), I'd better begin my blogpost. Hmm, what shall I write about?

The first achocha harvest!

Cooking up the achocha for tea

The Extraordinary Story of Human Beings, Energy and Happiness

“The Extraordinary Story of Human Beings, Energy & Happiness. The Big bang to big oil & beyond - A story to open new conversations around how we think about our world and ourselves. Multi-media presentation: Paul Allen (www.cat.org.uk) Live piano: Lola Perrin (www.lolaperrin.com)”

This was how last Wednesday's talk was advertised. It drew me in by mentioning (a) the Big Bang, (b) energy, (c), oil and (d) live piano. All it lacked was a mention of food sovereignty but we can't have everything I suppose.

The venue was Machynlleth's Museum of Modern Art, an ex-chapel that still retains all its pews and upper galleries in immaculate condition. Sitting at the back, we even had little name plates bolted to the pew which perhaps denoted where the named dignitaries once used to park themselves. We hoped they didn't show up tonight and claim their seat from us. (They didn't).

Paul Allen works at the Centre for Alternative Technology. He headed up the Zero Carbon Britain (ZCB) report that came out in 2013, a fascinating and detailed study of how Britain could reach zero net carbon emissions by 2030 using today's technology. Now he goes around giving talks like this one, seeking to engage people with the concept of how we can seriously tackle climate change without having to put on smocks and go back to being peasants. We can, according to Paul, transition to a very low carbon economy (the “energy descent”) whilst keeping something approximating to our current lifestyles. Just a lot less meat-eating, a lot less flying and a lot less shopping. More time for learning the trombone?

As the lights dimmed we were treated to static images of starfields and nebulae as some rather cheesy electronic swooshy sound effects provided the aural backdrop to Paul's utterances. The pianist sat there on stage behind the grand piano, waiting her turn. Eventually the swirly music ended and she began playing her pieces, specially composed to provide the right backdrop to Paul's voice. She played as quietly as possible so we could hear him pretty much OK.

He spoke of all our energy as stored sunlight, whether it be stored for millions of years in fossil fuels, a few decades in trees, or converted by solar panels into electricity. Wind too is caused ultimately by the sun. Nuclear power didn't get a mention but the ZCB report argues against it due to the problem of what to do with the hazardous waste, and the risk of very serious long-lasting damage from natural or human-caused disasters.

A meal entirely made up of veg I've grown!

He talked about the upcoming report he's working on, collating all manner of projects worldwide that are combating climate change. The point being, there is hope. Despite the UK government slashing renewable subsidies, despite the risk of Donald Trump becoming US President, we can still talk about the post-fossil-fuel future in positive terms. And that may just lead to real change in our own lives.

Gardener's Question Time

My quinoa is turning yellowy-brown, and may soon be ready for harvesting

Last Sunday was the Farmer's Market at my local village. It used to happen every month until it closed down last winter due to some dispute over who should pay for the heating. Some brave soul has decided to try to start it again and contacted me, and presumably all the other stallholders, to ask us to come along.

As it turns out, only three of us did. A look of surprised disappointment crossed the face of each expectant punter as they stepped inside the door of the hall. Instead of a room packed full of tables with tempting meats, cheeses, coffee beans, vegetables, cakes, breads, jewellery, knitwear, potted plants, and a variety of other artisan products, they found two stalls selling bread and cakes, and one selling veg (me!) We did our best to make them welcome but the mostly empty hall echoed with their footsteps as they made the short circuit around our three stalls.

My stall... but where was everyone else?

Of course I did quite well and sold nearly everything, seeing as there was no other veg stall and people came to spend money. But it doesn't bode well for next month as it's possible they won't bother coming back.

I rushed on from there to a Cream Tea Party in Machynlleth. It was to celebrate the formal opening of the “Show Allotment” by the town hall, the newest Edible Mach site in which veg is grown in public spaces around town. This one has about twelve beds bursting with all manner of edible vegetation (including some curly kale I donated in late spring), and even has a small shed just like a real allotment.

My veg in full bloom

After people had had their fill of scones and cream we sat down for a Gardener's Question time with a panel of four local gardening experts fielding questions from the floor (literally the floor in my case, there weren't enough chairs). They spoke knowledgeably on a wide range of topics from why someone's cucumber plants were yellow to why it is dangerous to use municipal compost made from garden waste (because weedkiller from grass cuttings can find its way into it apparently).

A pheasant stands impertinently on top my polytunnel despite my shouting at it to flap off.

Two vegetable-related social events in one day - not bad! And I even made a bit of cash.

When The Saint Goes Marching In

Sat on a large flat rock associated with St Tydecho. I found it a bit slopey for comfort

Exactly 1500 years ago a small group of men set off by boat from Brittany and ended up on the Welsh coast at what is now Tywyn, no doubt a bit seasick. They were Christians from the Roman church and may have been seeking a quiet spot to settle and form a monastery, but they ended up spreading across the countryside preaching and setting up churches.

One of them, Tydecho, made his way up the Dyfi valley with his goats and there are now four churches bearing his name including my own local church at Mallwyd. Another such church is further up the valley at Llanymawddwy, and last week I headed up there with the current incumbent of St Tydecho, to take photos of the places the saint had lived and farmed a millennium and a half ago.

St Tydecho with his shepherd's staff

There is St Tydecho's Seat (Cadair Tydecho), a rock formation way up in the hills overlooking the farmland for miles around, where he rested from his labours from time to time. Religious graffiti artists have scratched crosses and dates into this Seat, one reads 1859, another 1799. The current Reverend had inscribed one in 2012. He had farmed this very sheep farm for 25 years before becoming a priest, and so feels a kinship with this ancient saint who according to the legends farmed the same soil, ploughing the ground apparently with a deer and a wolf instead of a horse. I suspect there may have been one or two embellishments to the facts over the years.

There is a stream called Llaethnant, or Milk Stream, which must be the very watercourse that in one story our saint is credited with turning into milk.

St Tydecho's at Llanymawddwy

We walked up behind the church at Llanymawddwy and found the large flat stone that Tydecho apparently caused his enemy's backside to be glued to by some heavenly power. (That's the photo at the top of this page, but I remained unstuck, thankfully.)

The church here is now closed due to safety concerns with its end wall being in danger of collapsing outwards, but we obtained the huge iron key from the neighbouring house and tiptoed inside, to admire a beautiful stained glass window depicting Jesus with St David and St Tydecho on either side.

1859 graffiti

1799 graffiti

St Tydecho's "Well"

St Tydecho's Seat

On our way back we paused briefly at the hill where his goats had rested, exhausted from the long journey from the coast. Taking this as a sign from God, Tydecho had been about to select the spot as where his church would be founded when the goats got their second wind and trotted on for another mile or two to what is now Llanymawddwy. Their original resting spot was nevertheless remembered as a relatively holy site and marked centuries later by a chapel (now converted to a holiday home.)

These photos will be on display at our church's Open Day on Saturday 17th September which I hope you will all be able to attend (I'll be playing the organ with Anna on violin) but for those who can't be there, at least you can get a flavour of them right here.

The view from his Seat overlooking the upper Dyfi valley

Where Have All The Signal Strength Bars Gone?

The shopping aisle between mange tout and runner beans

I am in a communications black hole. Right now on Monday afternoon I have no television, radio, internet or mobile phone signal. I am typing this in my caravan on my laptop watching the battery percentage slowly tick down in the right-hand corner of the screen. (I'll post it online on Wednesday). Raindrops patter onto the roof from the sodden overhanging branches of the alder trees. Cars occasionally pass by on the road above, or the growl of a gamekeeper's Mule as it heads further up the hill beyond the road. The only way anyone can get a message to me now is by coming to visit.

I'm used to the absence of internet, of TV, of radio. The lack of these things for me is an enormous privilege. It can bring an absurd sense of peace. I don't have the self-discipline to resist the urge to browse the web or check email, so for that not to be an option allows me the mental space to think, or to read, or to attempt the cryptic crossword, or simply to snooze. I don't have the subconscious conflict of whether to stop reading and see if there is something more interesting on Youtube instead. There almost certainly is but it'll have to wait till I'm next in the library, or at Anna's.

Salads for Friday's delivery round

But the lack of mobile signal is new. Well, about five weeks new. I can't call anyone. No one can call me. Texts are now permanently queued for sending unless I travel at least a mile from home in a quest for signal strength. Has the world war three started? Have aliens made contact? Has someone discovered where all our missing biros are? As things stand, I would be the last to know.

Mysterious network outages have happened here before, and then after a few days or even a couple of weeks of frustration, it's shimmered back into existence and pretended it had never been away. I kept expecting the same to happen this time but it seems to have gone for good. Was it something I said? It didn't even leave a note.

An ugly kohl rabi

After a month or so of mounting annoyance I rang Three, my network provider (although I actually use Orange because Three have no mast near my land). Having no landline to call them on I had to remove myself from the problem zone, or “home”. Naturally there have been many calls, not just one. Each time, after twenty minutes of call queues and first-line support checks, I am told that they are looking into it, or that they have identified a problem and are working on fixing it. Then the next day or whenever I am next away from home I get a voicemail saying they need to speak to me. Another half an hour of trying to get back in touch leads me to speak to a different person from the one who left the voicemail. I was told by one man that it's fixed. Nope.

At least it's not just me. One of the local gamekeepers tells me the mast on the hill is “down”, though whether that means it's been knocked over by a low-flying jet or has just stopped working, is not entirely clear. It's the only mobile network in the area. So my neighbours and I are all effectively knocked back to the mid-90's when we relied solely on the landline. For me, without landline, TV, internet or radio, it's the 1890's. I think the postal service still works, just about.

And all his ugly kohl rabi friends. No idea what's made these blemishes on the skins.