Easy Like Seedy Sunday Morning

Seeds of frogs.. or toads?

 It was a fresh bright Sunday morning in Machynlleth. Birds swooped and sang in the sun, the odd butterfly preened in sheer delight. This wasn't just any Sunday however.  It was the day of the legendary annual event known as Seedy Sunday.  The good people of Mach congregated at the school hall bringing seeds of all kinds, both flowers and vegetables, to swap amongst themselves. I was there as a volunteer, manning the seed-swap table.

Some of the packets had originally been bought commercially and presumably been surplus to requirements. Others, more interestingly, were completely home-made – both the packet and the seeds within. With utmost care and diligence, people had allowed some of their vegetable plants to flower and “go to seed” rather than simply harvesting them to eat, then collected the seeds, dried them, and tucked them into little paper bags inscribed with the type of vegetable, variety, year, and occasionally instructions on how best to sow them.  I looked inside a bulky one marked “carrot” and found a selection of beautifully intricate pale brown candelabra-shaped dry seed-heads, each carrying a vast number of seeds and each one from a single carrot.

Why do people go to this trouble when seeds are not that expensive to buy? Aside from the social aspect of meeting others who are into growing stuff, it's partly about preserving varieties that would otherwise pass into obscurity. Commercial seed growers seek to make profits by creating and patenting new supposedly better hybrid varieties of vegetables (the seed name has “F1” at the end) but which are “mules” – any seeds these plants subsequently produce are useless, so instead of seed-saving you are forced to buy new packets each year. Seed swaps allow non-hybrid, or “open-pollinated”, varieties to be perpetuated – these are the old varieties that have in some cases adapted to regional climates. 

The EU is presently attempting to pass a law that could spell an end to these heirloom varieties, as it forces every seed-seller to pay an annual fee to keep each variety on its enormous “approved” list. It will be illegal to sell a seed variety not on this list.  And it will not be economically viable for any company to register the thousands of heirloom varieties every year, given the relatively small market for each (compared to those sold to industrial-scale farmers).

On an earthier note, I've found a whole load of frogspawn bobbing around in a muddy ditch which had filled up from the rains a fortnight ago. Wildlife carries on reproducing with scant regard for human law-making. Throughout the dry period since, the pool has steadily shrunk threatening the very lives of these tiny frogs-to-be so I've been topping it up occasionally with water from the stream. Now it's raining again I can relax.

Carrot seeds in place

I've been sowing some of my seeds this week (which I'd bought from Real Seeds who only sell non-hybrid): lettuce, broad bean, tomato, carrot, leek and cabbage, all in cell trays in the greenhouse except the carrot which has been boldly strewn on the soil itself. Yesterday twelve rhubarb crowns and sixty asparagus crowns arrived in the post (including three rhubarb crowns I'd forgotten to bring with me from Pilsdon that were kindly forwarded!), which I have already begun to bury in the raised beds. Roll on 2016 when I might with luck be able to sample their delights!

Through A Glasshouse Darkly

The brook that provides me my water

The beginning of this season on my land could not be more different from the beginning of last year's. Then, I was learning for the first time to live completely alone, in a caravan with no mains water or electricity, in an almost totally unknown land. Now I have six months of experience to fall back on and I'm back in familiar territory. Then, I knew nobody at all. This time, in my first week I've met up with five or six friends, and I even had a surprise visit from two guys from the local village donating a trailer-full of fresh horse manure.  Then, the plot was a jungle of soft rush, bracken, brambles and other interesting weeds. And now it is already beginning to take the shape of a cultivated market garden.

 

A heap of free fertiliser

Once I had settled into my tiny home and more or less got my stuff to fit where it should or could or at least would, I was desperate to get started with sowing seeds especially as the heatwave began to sweep across the nation. First though I had to get the greenhouse into working condition. The glassless frame had survived the winter, just. Some steel wire tying it to the base was the only thing that prevented it from being whisked off to England by the gales. With the help of Peter* from Dinas Mawddwy we bent it back into position, tightened up some loose nuts, screwed it firmly to the base plates which themselves had to be repositioned, and more or less managed to get the whole thing level with judicious jimmying of slivers of wood in corners.  The glass panes were then carefully slid into place.

My hitching spot in Mallwyd

At least, the bottom ones were. It turned out I didn't have any of the Z clips that connect upper to lower panes, so an annoying forty hour hiatus occurred until Monday morning when the shops re-opened and I was able to hitch in to Machynlleth and buy some. The rest of the day I spent balancing with the pedantic care of a bomb defusion expert, lowering sheets of glass onto the roof whilst perching on a stack of palettes for height or lifting them up into position from within, then popping in the edge clips to secure them. A second old greenhouse that Peter had kindly donated to me was cannibalised for its glass to replace previously broken panes. And it was done! A thing of beauty to behold. Not since the Crystal Palace was completed in 1851 has a house of glass been so excitedly welcomed.

I'm using straw bales as tables - they help to keep it warmer at night.

A day later, it is full of cell trays thrumming with potentiality, or more accurately damp compost and vegetable seeds. So far there are twenty-seven broad beans, forty 'summer' cabbage, and 120 leeks in there, still in their embryonic form, and perched next to them is the tray of tomato seedlings I started off at Pilsdon with which I had to share my caravan since arriving as the only warm(ish) place for them, until now.

In the midst of all this I have also been replacing my caravan water inlet and pressure switch to fix the long-standing issue with my kitchen taps (I can't tell you how sweet it feels simply to turn a tap and water to flow out), adding lime to the raised beds that hadn't yet had it, picking out the many pebbles of varying size that are strewn throughout the beds, pulling up old cardboard and carpet I'd used to stop weeds growing, planting more small blueberry shrubs to replace the ones that the pheasants destroyed over winter, protecting the garlic shoots which also have been nibbled almost to extinction, and generally having a good time.

The twelve raised beds soon to be bursting with edible vegetation

* names changed as usual

Back to Basics

I have re-entered a world of solitude, of brutal beauty, of labouring heavily to meet the simplest of needs.

The overwhelming emotion on arriving back on my patch of land on Monday afternoon was relief. I had dreamt up nightmare scenarios of the river bursting its banks and washing my raised beds away, of a fallen mature oak caving in my caravan, or high winds toppling it over. If the weather hadn't ruined things, surely thieves would have found the van and smashed everything up, after taking the 180W solar panel stored inside? 

The caravan was upright and intact, no thieves or rainwater had got in. Even its battery still had power. The raised beds are still raised, though perhaps the paths between are slightly higher from erosion. The fencing around the growing area is still in good condition. The compost loo is as I left it, nestled amongst the blackthorn thicket, and the glass panes for the greenhouse are still stored leaning against it. The ground is mostly wet, the soil become a thick sticky mud in many places, but not worse than I expected.  One or two trees have been blown over on the wooded bank above but none appear to have fallen onto the road.

The winds had ripped off the corrugated iron roof of the makeshift woodshed and torn part of the palette walls off, but the wood is still dry under a tarp I had tucked over it.  The greenhouse frame, despite being tethered to its base with wire, had been warped by the storms. I am hoping I can warp it back into position. Most of my garlic cloves seem to have sprouted but their leafy stems have been eaten, no doubt by hungry pheasants. I don't know if they will continue to grow.  All in all though, it could have been a lot worse.

After a night's rest I had to find drinking water. This meant a cycle to the petrol station shop a mile away. Next up was to ensure the caravan battery wouldn't run out, by wiring the solar panel to it – the green light came on immediately to indicate charging. Water for washing was a matter of filling up the water barrel with buckets from the stream, fixing the water pump attachment to the van, popping the end in the barrel and screwing the taps back on inside.  It worked, though it still has the annoying glitch of it being only the shower tap that causes the water pump to whirr into action and deliver water to all the other taps.

I still hadn't unloaded the car and trailer. Before I could do that the caravan awning had to go up, a dry place to put everything. This was not an easy task for one person. Both it and me got very muddy as I wallowed around trying to get the awning cover to slide into and along the runners that line the edge of the caravan. Somehow I finally succeeded, and then erected the poles inside it that hold it up. A doubled-up dry tarp was laid down inside after levelling the slight slope with a spade, and then – I could unpack! Everything had to be carried 50 metres from the trailer in the parking area to the caravan, as there was no way I was going to repeat last year's ordeal of getting the car stuck in the boggy ground by the van.

So, I'm here. It feels good to be back. The start of the growing season. A new business to be formed, a new life to be forged. The pheasants seem pleased to see me.

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.

If I Had A Hammer

I have less than three weeks left before my first off-grid season is up and I head back south to Pilsdon for the winter. When I arrived in April I set myself six months to determine whether this is the right step by answering three fundamental questions: is the land capable of supporting a small land-based community; do I actually want to live in this manner; and if so do I want to live in this particular area?

By the time I return to Dorset I will need to have all three points answered although in fact I’m fairly sure already. It is with an odd brew of emotions that I will be leaving Wales in October. I have made some good new friends here these last few months and look forward to building on those relationships next year. The openness and friendliness of people in the local villages of Mallwyd, Dinas Mawddwy and Aberangell have made me feel very welcomed, something that I absolutely do not take as a given as an Englishman arriving in the Welsh heartlands. The craggy beauty of the area has made a deep impression on me. And the work itself, although often laborious and completely unpaid, is nonetheless rewarding because it's not someone else's project I'm labouring for. Yet I do look forward to rejoining the Pilsdon community for the winter, to catch up with friends there, to participate again in their rhythms of life and crucially to warm my digits by their beautiful open-hearth log fire.

If I had decided not to return in the spring then I don’t think I would have erected a greenhouse and a firewood store last weekend. Yet this, with the invaluable help of Matt and Mary who came all the way from Dorset for two days and Grainne who came from Machynlleth on Saturday, is what I did. With the principles of reversibility (the ability to return the land easily to its original condition) and sustainability (using local and/or recycled materials) in mind, we managed to put up both buildings within the weekend and still had time to spare for an evening’s cosy campfire made from a huge fallen ash branch.

The greenhouse I had bought second-hand from someone in nearby Ruthin. For its base I decided to buy twenty interlocking “Ecobase” tiles made from recycled plastic instead of using cement, sand and slabs – more expensive but less damaging to the environment (cement production releases tonnes of CO2) and easier to remove cleanly. Below the tiles is just earth that I had removed bracken roots from, which we then packed firm and levelled off using wooden boards, a spirit level and some synchronised jumping. The glass panes will be put in next spring so there's no risk of them being blown out over winter. The end result looks great, and the pheasants love it too as a high perch.

I had designed the firewood store around the odds and ends I have accumulated for free from locals wanting to be rid of them – two large MDF boards, two pallets, two corrugated iron sheets – and four upright posts made from my own Christmas trees. Mary had studied architecture and Matt carpentry, and I’m pretty good at holding things still in the right place, so we had the perfect mix of skills. It just needs some side walls (a couple more pallets should do the trick) and then I’ll fill it with chopped firewood to see me through the ravages of winter 2014. Incredible what a few extra hands for two days can achieve!