Tree of life, are you sleeping?

It is so very cold and lifeless at the allotments at present.  All the creatures are sheltering in the undergrowth, and the only signs of plant life are from the shallots and red onions as they slowly push green tufts through the soil,

I worry about the birds this time of year.  They've been around millions of years in one form or another, and must know all about surviving cold, but they do look so small and vulnerable, and their little bodies surely need more protection than their feathers provide. 

Today I left some wild bird seed for them, some of it in the form of a heart to encourage them.   I hope the small birds manage to get a good share before the rodents and pigeons polish it off. 

It was cold but it was also beautiful today.  Everywhere was decorated with frost, and ordinary things had been transformed into magical versions of their normal forms. 

The ice was around three inches thick in the baths.  I tried to break it so the birds had water to drink, but I just created frosty stars full of rainbow prisms on the surface instead.

As I turned out of my gate I heard a strange plopping sound that seemed to be coming out of the ground, but I think it was water trapped under the ice somewhere.  It conjured in my head an image of a medieval style hybrid creature - half pig and half frog.  I could imagine how people in medieval times thought up those creatures in response to the curious things they encountered in nature. I can understand how it was a way of connecting to those things.  I don't think it was necessarily an attempt to explain or control them, more a pure description of an experience.  I'll try to draw the pigfrog and see if I get even more of a sense of the medieval perspective on nature.

Wassail!

This year I had a go at making cider.  I had no idea what I was doing, so was prepared from the start for something strange to be the end result.  I was not disappointed. 

The first problem was that I didn't have a cider press, or any of the other equipment.  I was shocked at how much presses cost - £70 seemed to be the minimum, and that was a tiny one.  I thought I would ask my mate Pete if I could borrow his, but he'd thrown it away as it had gone rotten.  I really couldn't get my head around making one from scratch, although it seemed quite a simple thing to do once you'd got all the right bits of wood and things. 

So I decided to do it all by hand with cheesecloth, a big jam pan and a potato masher. 
NEVER AGAIN.  I thought I was going to give myself arthritis with the amount of strain and stress I subjected my hands to.  It made a complete mess of my room as well, and apple pulp really does stick with a vengeance. 

The other major problem was I learnt too late that the one type of apple you can't make cider from is russets.  They don't have enough juice or sugar, and the cider never clears.  By that stage I had a huge pan of russet apple pulp quietly fermenting by the radiator, so I was determined to carry on regardless. 

I tried to squeeze juice out through the cheesecloth supported by a sieve over a pan, but it wasn't at all effective.  Then the book on cider making arrived, and I opened a door to enlightenment to the sound of toning angels.  I realized I had to add a lot of water to those russets in order to get any kind of cider for my efforts.  I had already started to do this in a jar. It had started out as an attempt to make apple cider vinegar, so I'd left the top off it and covered it with muslin.  I thought I would combine this with the pulp in the pan and a lot more water.  This was before I'd read about keeping the juice away from air as much as possible if you want to make cider not cider vinegar.  Luckily I think the pulp on the surface of the liquid had shielded it from the air anyway. 

I transferred the whole lot into a demi john, fitted an air lock, and waited to see what I'd created.  What was it to be - Ciderstein or Ciderella? 

A month, and a couple of rackings, later I concluded I had created Ciderstein.  It was very acidic, possibly well on the way to becoming vinegar.  It was also very textured, even after I'd tried to filter it with a sieve and then cheesecloth.  Apparantly filtering is rather sacrilegious if you are a proper cider maker, but I have no shame. 

There was something about it though - almost medicinal, and rather soothing.  I wondered if I had created more of an apple wine, and it might just need to rest a bit.   I had added rather a lot of various forms of sugar to it in order to make up for the lack of inherent sugar in the russet apples.  Rather like Mickey (or should that be Minnie) mouse in the Magician's apprentice, I'd got a bit carried away - I tried caster sugar, honey, demerara sugar, and almost tried raisins.  The yeasts seemed to love it anyway, and the sound of the popping air lock became a comforting rhythm as the year slunk into winter. 

I bottled it up after the second racking, and was a bit dejected.  It definitely tasted sharp like vinegar, but I didn't have the heart to give up, and kept the lids on the bottles to keep the air out as if I was making an alcoholic beverage and not something to cook/clean with. 

On Solstice I thought I would wassail my apple trees with it anyway, as it did have a kind of medicinal magical quality which would surely be a protective talisman.  I found a little wooden egg cup and decanted some into a small bottle.  I toasted my friends over the solstice fire, and was pleasantly surprised.  It didn't taste like vinegar anymore.  It was much softer, almost like wine, though still incongruously grainy in texture.  I think it might be rather interesting after another month or so, when I may try filtering it again.  The texture is part of its charm really though. 

I wassailed the apple trees with a simple blessing, and felt very good, like I was rooting myself into a very old pulsing network that had been there all the time, just waiting to be noticed again. 

I'll give myself plenty of time to make a cider press next year.

Solar Flare

A bonfire is always therapeutic, and a Solstice fire doubly so. 

I made my way to the allotments with a fair amount of adrenalin coursing through my veins, as I knew this would be a fire that would demand constant attention.  I had decided to build it over a hawthorn stump I have been wanting to remove for four years, since I became guardian of the plot.  I had gradually pecked away at it so it was half dead anyway the poor thing, and I suddenly realized as I was sitting by it one day how it would be the ideal place for a fire pit, and how I could clear that space by making a fire. 

The trouble was, it would be a fire that would be very near my shack, a bamboo fence, and directly below the boughs of an overhanging ash tree.  One cunning spark could create a festival of light in totally the wrong way. 

I always like a challenge, and I have a deep love for fires and tending them, so come Solstice I had a happy heart as well as coursing adrenalin. 

I had been collecting scrap paper for kindling for a month or so, so started building with a good foundation. I made a pyramid shaped cage around it with the old wood I had kept dry in the greenhouse and shack. Some of it was old wisteria branches, and one of the undulating shapes was too beautiful to burn, so I saved it for decoration. 

It took the flame quickly and in no time was fully alight.  I added more wood and watched as the flames became more mature and established.  The dried rosemary really set if off, and released a magical fragrance.  Then I added an old sheet and a mouse eaten rug, and things started to get a bit interesting.  The flames were at one point about four feet high, and I followed every spark upwards on its journey to the dry looking leaves of the aspen tree.  I hurriedly prepared a bucket of water just in case, but all was well. 

I took a series of photos of the flames as they were so dramatic, and looking back can see a young girl fiery centaur and a small flame fairy driving a fiery chariot, amongst other things, so there was a lot going on.  I think I had started a fairy fire party, which can only be a good thing.  Nothing like fire for fertility, and I am now having dreams of the vegetable beds catching light and growing flames, which is very startling and exhilerating.  I am looking forward to what the plot will produce next year. 

I scattered dozens of Satan's horde, aka sycamore seedlings, into the glowing embers of the fire and smiled as they popped randomly and violently.  It was very satisfying. 

I'll have to remember to toast chestnuts on the fire next Solstice, and bake a potato as well.

stag beetle karma

I have blood on my hands.  As I was harvesting the compost from the pile, I kept uncovering huge larvae.  They looked like massive vine weevils, so I exposed them for the birds to feast on. 

There was something nagging at the back of my mind though, and gradually it came to the surface.  What if they were stag beetle larvae?  I Googled them, and sure enough, there was a photofit image on the screen.  I was wracked with guilt.  Stag beetles are endangered, and are very good for the soil, both in their immature and adult forms, breaking down dead matter to create rich compost.  Which is what they were doing in Brian's lovely heap of yew chippings. 

As soon as I realized the truth I gathered up the surviving ones that I had exposed, and returned them to their earthy home.  I hope the stress didn't kill them. 

Chocolate covered strawberry

My strawberry beds are usually a source of pride for me in the summertime, but this summer I couldn't look at them without feeling guilty and ashamed .  I didn't have the time to weed them or mulch them, so they became choked up with couche grass, mugwort, st. John's wort, nettles and dandelions.  You name it, it was in there.  The poor fruit struggled to compete, and the crop wasn't half the size of previous years. 

The compost was so rich it really did look like the very best dark chocolate, so what better than chocolate and strawberries.  I gave the first barrow load to the strawberry bed in my long allotment, because it was the least I could do to make up for its suffering throughout the gowing season. 

It first needed thorough weeding, and that was no small task.  In fact I can safely say it was the most horrible weeding I have ever had to do, and I've done a fair bit of it.  The weeds were so firmly attached to the ground.  The worst things to remove were hundreds of small sycamore seedlings with hideously long tap roots.  I had no idea where they had come from, as I could see no sycamore tree nearby.  There is an aspen that drops thousands of fluffy catkins everywhere in the spring, but these were definitely sycamore because a few of them were sprouting healthy identifiable leaves. 

Once weeded, I thoroughly covered the strawberry bed with a generous helping of chocolate compost, and was well satisfied. 

I had noticed the strong gusts of cold wind as I worked.  The sound they made together with the quality of the air reminded me of being on Dartmoor.  As I was having a break from the barrowing, there was another strong gust, and I watched as hundreds of brown sycamore seeds gently fluttered down, rustling through the air onto my freshly weeded and composted beds. It reminded me of Milton's description of Satan's army in Paradise Lost.

I got up to look in the direction they had come from, and at once saw the culprits - a group of sycamore trees on the land next to my plot.  They were easily identifiable by the huge clusters of winged seeds hanging from their branches.  It may have been just my imagination, but to me they seemed to be sniggering like a group of wayward teenagers. 

Well at least I knew what was going on now, as I'd seen it with my own eyes.  I had no choice but to walk round and gather up every member of Satan's horde into a plastic bucket, where they will wait to be burnt on the Yule bonfire. 

It's something I will have to do more than once I'm sure, judging by the number of seeds still hanging from those trees.  Time to go and buy the bargain net curtain fabric in the market to place over the beds at this time of year, so I can just gather the seeds up all at once for burning.

Manna for vegetables

A few months ago I met Brian chipping wood onto a huge pile in the allotments.  He'd just removed a yew tree for someone, and was leaving the chippings on the pile.  He said I was welcome to take some when it was rotted down, as it was a pile for everyone to use.  I'd been told when I first took on the plots that it was somebody's property, so had left it alone.  I was so glad to hear that I could use it.

My long allotment has very poor soil, as the land had been left unused for many years.  It has been disheartening to plant onion and garlic sets, put time and care into them, and then unearth vegetables that are much smaller than those grown in my Dad's rich humousy  beds of home made compost.

I've been waiting until I have enough time for the labour intensive task of transferring barrows of compost.  I thought nobody else would be interested, as other plotters seem to prefer manure.  I prefer to avoid manure, especially if it is from a non-organic farm.  I don't want to put antibiotics and steroids in my earth for my vegetables to absorb.  Even horses not given synthetic drugs may have things in their dung I would rather not put on my land.  I was considering using seaweed fertilizer, but it's quite expensive even on ebay, and I have a lot of beds to condition. 

The other day I saw a fork planted in the pile of compost, and my heart sank.  I felt that I was too late, and the beautiful free gift of manna for vegetables would soon be gone.  I saw a sturdy man heartily filling his barrow.  It would be gone in no time at this rate.  I was busy trying to light a damp bonfire, so couldn't take action immediately.  Anyway, it may have started an awkward battle of the barrows.  It could even have led to a full blown fork war, so I thought I would retreat and follow the peaceful path home.

I returned in the afternoon fearing the worst, and preparing myself to see a flat space where there was once a rich glowing pile.  However, I couldn't believe my luck - it was mostly still there. 

I set to work immediately, covering my strawberry patch and a bed that afternoon, and then today covering the two beds that didn't already have green manure sprouting from them. I was a bit anxious all the time I was barrowing the precious stuff onto my land, as I couldn't quite believe it was true and such beautiful compost was free for the taking. 

This compost would have been better than green manure, but perhaps it's best  that I stop the heavy lifting for a while anyway.  Also it will be interesting to compare the relative fertility of the beds given compost and those given green manure. 

The one area left that does badly need that compost and is presently clogged with weeds is the fruit bed in the small plot.  My next job is to clear and reorganise it, and then I'll be ready to load up the barrow again.

 

Ancient rites

 

 

It was a truly primal feeling to create furrows in the soil and sow seeds in them.  I bought a tool that was a triangular blade one side and two prongs the other to help me create them.  I wasn't sure it would work, but I knew that it was a very traditional tool that vegetable gardeners had used for many years, which gave me hope.  It turned out to be absolutely perfect for the job.  The prongs loosened the soil so I could accurately create the straight drill line with the blade.  It wasn't quite as good as a horse and plough, but much better than just me and a planting knife.

For much of the time I had 'Plough the fields and scatter' playing in my mind, which was very annoying.  That and the bad guys song from Bugsy Malone, which may have been the unruly nature spirits not wanting to get involved.  I think I managed to persuade them though. 

Last year I just randomly cast the seed over the ground, as you would grass seed.  This year I've done proper research, and have learnt that lines of wheat allow for easy weeding of the soil.  I know I'm going to have to contend with some very old and established stinging nettles and bindweed in that area of ground, as well as the couche grass, which is so persistently vigorous that I think only exorcism will eradicate it entirely.  Easy access to the weeds is exactly what I need, especially if I need to bring a priest in there.

The future is golden

The other thing I have been focussing on is my dream of growing traditional long stemmed wheat for corn dolly making.  It has been a difficult quest but I refused to give up.  Last year I finally found someone who would supply me, but vermin (probably muntjak or rabbits) feasted on the green shoots as soon as they sprouted.  This year I'm trying an area in the small plot as a site for growing, as it's well away from the fence where all the creatures have their right of way, so maybe out of sight will be out of mind.  I'm also going to fence it off with netting to be on the safe side, and I'm going to plant lavender and artemesia round the edge to discourage nibbling mouths. 

I plan to sow poppies and cornflowers in with the wheat, so it will look like a proper traditional wheat field, only on a small scale.  When everything is blooming I hope to make paintings of it, but there's a lot to navigate through first.  When the grains ripen I may have to cover the whole crop to prevent mice eating it all.  I am prepared because last year some grains must have fallen in the front garden on my way to the allotments, and the brave stems grew very well, and produced good ears.  Just as they ripened every grain was eaten. 

I am now dedicating the small plot to grain and fruit, which I think will suit it better than pretty flowers and herbs.  I don't think it's really for me to spend a lot of time in.  Even before I had the unfortunate encounter with the neighbours it had an unruly wild energy about it.  I had a bonfire in it one Yule and had a vision of the space I have now sown with wheat as being full of wild colour, like a meadow.  When the bonfire began to die down, there emerged a blackened timber with one end the shape of a hand, pointing to my main allotment.  I had a bit of an Ebanezer Scrooge moment, as if it was the ghost of Christmas future. I think it may have just been the energies in the land telling me what was required.  My place is in the long allotment, and the wild spirits have the small allotment.

They are very robust fertile energies, and so are ideally suited for the germination of seeds in the greenhouse there, and for the ancient practice of growing wheat.  Before I sowed the wheat I asked for permission to be guardian of the plot, and encouraged them to engage in the growing of the wheat with me.  Time will tell if it has worked or not. 

I think he looks a bit like this:

Back to basics

I have more time for the allotment now the winter is here, so have been gradually reining it in.  Both the plots really went a bit wild over the summer, and I was panic stricken when I thought of the work it would involve to bring them back in line. 

I know, shameful isn't it?

I decided I needed a different approach.  When I took my plots on I had a lot of time on my hands.  I skipped about like a Babycham Bambi and made pretty borders and beds, which quickly became magnets for weeds.  I naively increased the amount of grass I had to mow,  even though I knew how difficult it was to get a mower onto the land.  The lithium battery on the strimmer was soon down to half power, and I frequently found myself wading through a sea of green.  Then the lawn was taken over by an invasion of tall daisies which spread like wildfire, and the only thing I could do was smother that part of it with black plastic.

It is time to focus on what is central, both spatially and in terms of goals.  I need to work on the fruit and vegetable beds, to increase the fertility of the soil, and make them weed free and manageable. 

I also need to cut down on the amount of grass.  In fact, it's my aim to gradually replace it with green plants traditionally used in medieval times for creating lawns.  I have pennyroyal, creeping thyme and lawn chamomile ready in my seed box for sowing in the spring.  Together with golden and common oregano, I am hoping they will gradually drive out the grass, and then the green areas will hardly need mowing.  There is a patch of oregano in the lawn which already seems to be doing this quite successfully, so I think it might just work. 

Fresh soil, clean seed trays

I have learnt the hard way about the importance of using new soil for seed germination.  I was so careful to wash the seed trays in hot soapy water, and rinse the soap off them afterwards.  The trouble was I didn't have any new seed compost around, and the weather was so disgusting that it discouraged me from travelling anywhere to get new. 

I lovingly sowed my chilli seeds in two trays.  I am rather fond of chillis, as I am fascinated by the huge variety of shapes, sizes and colours they choose to grow in.  They come in very handy in winter to give extra warmth and interest to comforting meals.  This Christmas for the first time I pickled some in kilner jars as presents.  I decorated the lids with spicey coloured Liberty lawn, and they went down very well. 

I planned the sowing so that the seeds would be just germinating when I returned form skiing, and it was such a surprise to see them all glowing healthily under their tray lids.  Then a couple of days later it was like they had been hit by a pox.  Healthy young leaves all nibbled along the edges.  I wracked my brains about what could have caused this; was it baby slugs, or mice?  There was no sign of slugs hiding anywhere around the trays, and I suspected that both creatures wouldn't just daintily nibble the very edges of seed leaves, but gobble the whole plant entirely.  I put organic slug pellets down, but there were no takers. 

Then I realized how similar the damage was to the damage on my broad bean leaves one summer.  It was some kind of weevil, almost definitely.  The pea and bean weevils lie unnoticed in the soil until they hatch, and crawl up the stems of plants to eat their leaves, and when they are finished they crawl back into the soil again to mutate. 

When the weather became kinder I bought some fresh soil, and transplanted the least damaged of the little seedlings into it.  I was very careful to wash the old soil off their roots as much as I could.  They do look in a sorry state though, and I don't know how healthy the muture plants will be.  I'm going to have to sow another batch. 

Time to be tarped

I have neglected my shack this last year, much as I have neglected this blog.  The truth is, I found myself embroiled in an Allotment War last year, which caused me to become rather disenchanted with allotment gardening.  In fact, I would have given up completely, if it were not for a friendly allotmenteer, who refused to let me go.

The experience rather shocked me, as I am the gentlest and friendliest of Pixies, but found myself harshly judged publicly after standing up for my rights and my land in a manner I felt to be civilized and reasonable.   The whole situation reminded me very much of a cross between Lord of the Flies and Animal Farm.  

I now choose to avoid certain members of the allotment committee, as my life is more peaceful that way.  This means that I haven't been visiting my plots as much as I would like, and as much as they need.  Things are getting a little ragged at the edges, and it is hopefully something that I will remedy this year. 

I soldiered on last year, but as usual the vermin ate most things I planted.  They continued to do so throughout the winter.  I no longer have any garlic or onion tops, and I rather suspect that all my Maris Widgeon shoots have been nibbled away.  Really I need to secure the side fence, through which all the  badgers, muntjak and rabbits in the vicinity nimbly and happily skip, knowing that their bellies will be soon be filled. 

I cleared my shack of all my personal items when I thought I was leaving, and actually it felt good and wholesome to have a clear brown timbered space inside it again.  As it turns out, it was just as well I did empty it, as the storms have wreaked havoc inside and out.  The plastic has been torn off the roof, along with half of the ashfelt on one side.  The gap where the two halves of the roof no longer meet at the apex was exposed to the elements.  The rain has poured down through it, and through the unprotected part of the roof, so inside is totally sodden. 

Nevertheless, I rather like this raw elemental space inside my shed.  I go there to think, and it gives me a sense of being at one with the elements, protected, and at peace.  Things are always changing in my plots though, and this year I feel it is time once more to take hold of the land a little more strongly, and see what the outcome will be. 

I'm still standing

My greenhouse has bravely stood firm throughout the winter, but this last storm was too much for it.  I discovered it yesterday with its door on the ground and 10 panes of glass missing.  It looks as if the wind just lifted the door out of the frame and blasted straight through the greenhouse and out the other side.  The door was always a bit loose, but it doesn't stay on at all now.  There is an inexplicable half inch gap where it should rest on the frame.  The only solution I can see is to lengthen the adjustment holes with a metal file.  A gardener's work is never done..