jerseyed

We decamped to Jersey to escape the interminable rain and it almost worked. Well, there was less off it anyway. I'd always suspected that I would find the channel islands rather insular and self obsessed and was not wrong. Some sort of victim mentality seems to have lodged in their souls, but dammit, it was NOT their fault that that shit-head hitler occupied them for five years was it?

Anyway, the two things I liked best about the Island in no particular order were Gerald Durrell's wildlife conservation centre and the remarkable Neolithic dolmen at La Hogue Bie.

I remember two thoughts when I first read Gerald's 'My Family and Other Animals' - lets just call it donkeys years ago - first was...You Lucky Lucky Sod! and the second was.... my mum's almost as mad as that, so why can't we go to Corfu too? But you can see why he devoted the rest of his life to wildlife conservation after a such a childhood can't you?

La Hougue Bie is one of those eerie places. Whoever the Neolithic bigwig was that built this one was definately bigger than my neolithic ancestor who built the one in our family name in Zennor in Cornwall which looks like a toilet by comparison. This one is 4 star bleedin luxury. 'Look at my Neolithic wad...losers.....all offshore dosh mateys!'

After the rather too tidy entrance, you have to lumber forward nervously and awkwardly into the darkness fighting off the claustrophobia and the oppressive weight of 5000 years of time and as many tons of stone, earth and rubble above your head, hoping the neolithic architects knew their stuff.


When you eventually reach the end chamber and can stand up straight once more and look back towards the light of the entrance you begin to get an inkling of just what a stupendous piece of work this is. The two side chambers when excavated in 1924/5 contained the remains of three women and five men along with some pottery fragments. There are some better pictures of the interior stonework here.


And a last one of the end chamber.

Slowly your eyes adjust more and more to the gloom but after a while, in the silence and the darkness, you start to feel a bit dreamy, a bit sleepy, and you're eyelids droop heavily and you think 'Wouldn't it be nice just to have a little lie down, just 40 little neolithic winks!'

polyagapanthus

down by the coldframe in the sqodgy sqodgy ground polyagapanthus has come out to play in an all too brief sunny spell.

damn this stupid stupid rain all the time. The spuds and onions are going to have to come out before they rot. The ground between the shed and one side of the greenhouse traps water and there's been so much off it, the waterlogged tomatoes are suffering and the foliage is looking all yellow and sickly.

....and what we ask is the weather forecast for the rest of the week.....yep....more rain. Gnnn!

pooped

Wake up Stupid....he's coming!




Look, I really don't mind if you want to perch on my favourite garden chair.. . . . . . . ............just so long as your arses are pointing the right way!




Oh....my.......I am just so sorry....It won't happen again. Oh, the shame....I think I may fall off my perch!

jj kale

All that rain was getting thoroughly depressing and it's so good to see some sunshine again. Here it is shining down on the purple podded pea flowers.




I couldn't resist taking a picture of the weekend harvest which consisted of black kale (as in the above pic), spuds, beets, onions, lettuce, courgette, broad beans, carrots etc, which we'll be eating all next week. SWMBO has been making redcurrent jelly and blackcurrant jam and goosegog something or other.


As predicted, there is absolutely no sign of anything happening to move the unwanted pigeon loft off our bottom plot and I am now ammending my estimate of 3 months to 3 years. What this means for Spiller and Chirpy's new home I don't quite know, but they are happy enough in our back garden for now.

goings and comings

We all said a tearful farewell to our beloved hammy who died in the night. Ben made him a last nesting box and as he buried him in the back garden he sobbed out 'you were my best friend...and I never told you'. Now there's a lesson we'd all better learn. Thanks hammy.




But say hello to Spiller and Chirpy. We love them to bits already as they rootle about in the garden, constantly chattering to one another.

I think they are hybrids, possibly of Rhody reds and something else. The farmer assures us they are from good laying stock anyway. They live in the bike shed at night and we even built them a little adventure playground in there. It's got this cute little ladder up to their perch....I know, I know....go on, say it.

INCENDIO!

"Beginning In early May we will be holding 24-hour prayer vigils and hourly book burnings outside the Freehold Iowa Multiplex Cinema. Bring your children for this exciting time of healing and cleansing as we witness for Jesus with picket signs and old fashioned bullhorn preaching. God wants us to prevent every unsaved person in Freehold, Iowa from from seeing the new Harry Potter movie, "The Order of the Phoenix." Our pastors already gave the movie a sin-screening and they tell us it is one of the most deceptively wicked pieces of Satanic filth to ever grace their Godly eyes. We expect over 2,000 church members to be on hand to block the theater entrance on the release date. If you feel God is calling you to stand with us and suffer public persecution and humiliation for His namesake, please visit the church secretary to let her know your schedule for the next month. And if the way into your heart is through your tummy, we're proud to announce that the Ladies of Landover will be preparing pot-luck dinners, and Chick-fil-A will be sponsoring the event and providing daily lunches. We hope to see you there!"

http://www.landoverbaptist.org/news1199/potter.html

Damn.....and there I was, quite looking forward to it *checks schedule for next week*. Double damn....can't go *sobs downheartedly*

Oh....if you do visit the site the pop up quotes are priceless!

'post neo-classical endogenous growth theory'

The man who came up with the above phrase has just been rewarded with the job of secretary of state for children, schools and families. So I guess he'll be making a lot of sense then. Do you think it has anything to do with allotments?

Meanwhile, Blair is off for some middle east envy and rumour has it he is about to join the Holy Roman Catholic Church of Apostolic Child Molestors who's Pontiff wined & dined and welcomed into the Vatican that Iraqi child mass murderer Tariq Aziz and even took him off for a private prayer vigil to Assisi. Obviously, as a member of the "one true faith" Tony should have no problems mediating between the militant islamic factions who would like to kill all jews, christians and secularists and torture all other moslems who practice the heretical 'wrong' version of islam. Catholisism, representing as it does, the one true God meanwhile needs to get rid of/destroy/undermine all other religions including islam and judy-ism. The Jews, who treat the Palestinians/Lebanese so nicely anyway, and who got the rocks straight from God in the first place and the nuclear weaponry from it's God-Fearing allies and have a wall to wail at as well will take on all comers. I think some poetic justice is about to come Tony's way.

Meanwhile I, infidel that I am, am off to buy some chickens in the firm knowledge that they will make more sense than all the politicians and theologians put together.

gnnn!

Will the persons who visited my blog by googling:

"army helicopter pilot eczema"

and

"wise guys exquisite malevolence"

please contact me and I'll do my best to help you.

Plenergy

Now that's a cheery sight! It's goosegogs all the way to the centre of the earth.

We harvested our first batch of Pentland Javelin earlies at the weekend and they are just delicious served with a nob of butter and a sprinkle of salt. MMmmm.

Ben was bouncing off the walls a bit this weekend and when I asked him what was up he invented a good new word for it; he said he was full of 'plenergy' which is what happens when he hasn't had a playmate to help burn of his sometimes rather manic energy. Wish I had half of it!

resistance is futile

Here are a few of the second plot. The derelict greenhouse has been given a makeover and fettled with new glass and a couple of coats of wood preserver on the timbers. It's now back in active production with tomatoes and peppers planted. When we got it, it was, like the rest of the plot, buried in the six foot hight growth you can see in the background. In fact, the whole plot was covered in this and the job of clearing is going to take some time but at least we've been let off the plot fee for this year.

The amount of garbage coming off the site is problematic as it is right at the bottom of the plots and thus a long long way (uphill dammit) from the gate. There is a liquorice allsorts of broken glass, twisted metal, asbestos sheet, plastic detritus and what else and the pile gets bigger and bigger as more of the plot gets strimmed back to reveal yet more garbage. We need to get a trailer as far down the plots as we can otherwise it's going to take forever to clear.


We've dug and planted out a couple of beds so there will be a bit of productivity out of the plot this year as well as what we get from the greenhouse of course.

The plot extends beyond the fence to the huts in the background. The big one on the left is a pigeon loft which has been sold and is to be taken away sometime in the next few weeks though I'll believe that when I see it. I reckon it'll more likely be there for three months. We'll see. The back bit is where the chooks will eventually live but I'm not planning to do any work on that until we're rid of the pigeon loft. Anyone got a spare weekend? We'll feed you, honest.

monday plot

T'was a very busy day with mrs blackbird hopping round our ankles as we planted out the sweetcorn, the sunflowers and the courgettes and pulled up as much horsetail as we could.

There is a chance we might be offered another plot further down on which we could keep chooks. It's wild and knee deep in grass at the moment and there are no chicken runs or hutches on it so they would have to be built. Still, we're very tempted. What slightly worries me is finding people willing to look after them while we go off on our musical jaunts from time to time. The time commitment is somewhat daunting as well. As you can imagine, Ben is hopping up and down with excitement at the idea at the moment. I'm not sure how he'll feel though when one of them gets to be the Sunday roast. Should we? Shouldn't we?

Asparagus

The asparagus bed, although not exactly prolific yet, has provided enough for a few meals so far and I must say it tastes heavenly. This is one that got away.

Our broad beans have been a complete disaster and we've given up and planted some more seed that Jack, our lotty neighbour, gave us.

kale

The flowering kale looks very pretty.

treepeony

We've had the tree peony in our back garden for five years and for the first time it has decided to flower. It was worth the wait.

Sambo's Grave

I still find it difficult to believe that this beautifully insignificant little city of ours was the fourth biggest slaving port in the UK. It is one (of many) uncomfortable historical facts that we must simply acknowledge and live with.

I don't though, really understand the current vogue for apologising for distantish historical events. Where would that logic take us? We would need a ministry of apologetics and a team of stuffed shirts with university degrees in sincerity working round the clock. Doesn't rattle my chain at all. Reparations though! Now that might actually be of use to someone. Is there anyone seriously offering to do this or is pious apology the order of the day?

A few miles up the coast at Sunderland point, we do have a rather poignant and permanent reminder of Lancaster's less than savoury involvement in the slave trade in the form of Sambo's Grave.

The story behind it (at least the one people like to tell), is a rather romanticised tale of a slave cabin boy, abandoned by his beloved ships master and pining away broken heartedly on the shore to be reunited with his captain. Bollocks. Not, I suppose, that some such couldn't happen, I just think the truth is much more likely to be a brutal and unpalatable one.

It's not a very sensible contribution to the debate just to feel crap about it all is it? Sometimes music helps pull me back a bit though, and I guess if anything remotely positive can be said to have arisen out of slavery then I guess 'the blues' might just come close. Not even sure of my ground there though either.

Anyway for what it's worth, here is my recording of Blind Willie McTell, a Dylan song about slaves, plantation owners, chaingangs, and fine fine blues singers, none of which apply to me; although I do of course work on a plantation of sorts and SWMBO likes to keep me in bondage ;-)

Blind Willie McTell mp3 4mgb

*May*

May already......how did that happen all of a sudden? It's that time of year when everything needs doing at once isn't it? And not just in the garden either. We spent most of Monday up on the plot catching up with the planting out and making another makeshift coldframe so that we could clear the greenhouse and make room for the tomatoes. They look good too, healthy and vigorous. Wonder which will be the tastier variety?

Weekend spent in Derbyshire at GG's 65th state pension party where we all met up at the Old Poets Corner in Ashover and attempted to drink the micro brewery dry. Well, some people did anyway. Tch!

primaeval grind

On reflection I think the required collective noun should be a 'grind' of gurdies.

The local EHO (environmental health Office) issued no health warnings and imposed no exclusion zone round the city and the whole weekend was a great success on lots of levels.

There is possibly a tendency towards anorakishness amongst the elder statesmen/women of the gurdy affliction but perhaps not much more so than for any other instrument. Anyway, it was nicely balanced by some highly frivolous and hugely enjoyable dancing during the evening concerts.

I drank far too much of this.









Cliff's band stopped with us and seemed totally unfazed by our degree of decorative disorder and domestic chaos and our only regret is that they couldn't stay long enough for us to get stuck into a session with them which we would love to have done. C'est la vie, tant pis, domage, ect ect......maybe next time. If they come round your way then go see them andro the night away. 'Primaeval' = Cliff Stapleton, gurdy: Sunny Davidson, guitar, accordeon, percussion: Jonathan Shoreland, pipes, flutes ect ect.

And best of all....it rained too......fantastic!

Hurdygurdyman

This weekend sees our beloved city hosting the UK's first Hurdy Gurdy festival. That should clear the decks a bit!

I have mixed feelings about the hurdy gurdy because although one of my all time favourite records** is by gilles chabenat (the best gurdy player ever), playing alongside frederick paris (one of the best clarinet players ever), and is a record I have fond memories of rocking ben off to sleep with when he was a babe in arms. That's right, I did say rocking a baby off to sleep to a hurdy gurdy record! Unbelievable no? It IS that good.

On the other hand, and after a while, (gilles excepting), listening to a gurdy can be like having someone slowly saw your neck off with a dado rail. The thought of a (insert preferred collective noun for a bunch of amateur gurdyists), churning away all weekend in my favourite pub may see me having to hack of some limbs and crawl to the door in order to escape.

Anyway, my job this weekend is to finish the wallpapering and put up the dado rail, not saw my neck off with one.

Unlike SWMBO, who is teaching some french dance workshops, I do not have any duties at this festival so I could probably ignore it but for the fact that we are putting up an unknown number of gurdyists in our house. I may be forced to take the air bed up to the allotment shed and hide!


One of them, however, will be the delightful Cliff Stapleton and it will be nice to see him again. Last time he stayed,we spent an entertaining and fairly surreal evening discussing the idiotsyncracies of a bunch of Steiner theatrical types with whom he toured for a while. If I remember rightly, there was much hilarity and drinking of red wine and I swear blind he said he was jacking it all in after that to go and become a spud farmer in New Zealand. Perhaps that's what everyone sais after spending time with Steiner type people.

Talking of allotments, which I wasn't, the ground is so dry now it looks like it does in July/August after a long heatwave; all cracked and parched. I can't remember when we last had a drop of rain here and it will be refreshing when if finally arrives. I've drained all the barrels dry already and we're having to make four or five trips up to water every week.

Maybe I could take all the hudygurdyists up to the allotment pretending it's a workshop venue and there surreptitiously turn all their instruments into serial water pumps which will not only water the garden but entertain the plants as well as driving off any Steinerists lurking locally *sighs* See how green one can be with a little imagination?

*picture of cliff stapleton eating a banana after eating a hurdygurdy which caused flatulence. ~They do that.

**Duo CHABENAT PARIS
De l'Eau et des Amandes (1995)

blackbird

So after work I go up to water all the seedlings in the greenhouse and contemplate planting out some of the lettuce in the cold frame. I have to stop because I notice a label stuck into the soil indicating that there might be carrots present. I am dubious but still it is a possibility as SWMBO was up yesterday and might just have planted some carrots in there. I go into the shed and sit on the chair to muse about this possibility and other things. A female blackbird hops on top of the shed door and looks in at me inquisitively. 'Hello', I say, 'what do you want?', and start chatting to her. I tell her all about my day and ask her if she is hungry. She hops down from the door and stands in the entrance to the shed. 'Look,' I say, 'I have nothing for you, all the hobnobs have gone.' She hops up onto a fork and then up onto the potting bench where she is now at eye level a few feet from me and better placed to interpret what this obvious nutter is trying to say. I continue to tell her the list of things we no longer have like cream crackers, bread crumbs, crisps ect ect. She is long and elegant and bright eyed and I think if I was a male blackbird I would fancy her like mad. She turns her head from side to side, evidently listening intently to what I have to say. I love her for this, even my own son will not do this for me. 'Look,' I say, 'the only thing we have that might conceivably interest you are some packets of seeds in the tray up on that top shelf.' She at once flies up to the top shelf and starts rootling around. I begin to wonder if I am speaking the ornithological equivalent of parceltounge. I am so enamoured of her I am prepared to let her peck away at our seed packets. My downfall is that I want to take her picture but the camera is outside in my coat pocket hung up on the greenhouse. 'Look, I'm just going to move a bit and I don't mean you any harm, I'm just going to get the camera and if you don't mind take a picture of you.' I hope the ornytounge is still working. She let's me too and stays on the shelf when I come back in with the camera. Oh, I knew it was a mistake, I would have to raise my arms to bring the camera up to her level to get the picture and it was just a little too threatening for her - sorry. She jumped off and flew out the door but not far away though, looking at me as if to say 'you blew it', as if I didn't know. I hope you'll come back, I'll be looking out for you.

Pilchardpower

After work I often sink into a semi-comatose state for an hour or so and yesterday it happened to be while GQT was on the radio. When I came to I could've sworn I heard Bob Flowerpower advising us to dibble a hole and put a pilchard in it prior to planting our sunflowers out. I wasn't sure if I had dreamt this or if it was a product of my sick imagination so this morning I had to go to Radio 4's listen again just to check it out. Seems I didn't dream it and the man really meant it. Waste of a pilchard if you ask me.

Talking of pilchard's,

I got a letter back from Clarence House thanking me for "bringing the plight (of Manor Garden Allotments) to Hrh's attention", written doubtless by a minion and more than likely consigned to the trash recycling bin shortly thereafter.

However, I note with great satisfaction that the matter is now going to court in a legal action supported by Friends of the Earth and that the closure date has been postponed until July and hopefully it will be put off forever and ever and ever, amen.

april come she will

We fell off the end of our assorted paint brushes, scrapers and plastering trowels long enough to get some serious seed sowing and bed preparation done at last.


It was a joy to be out in the fresh air, tilling this beautiful earth once more instead of breathing in wood dust, paint and varnish fumes.


The end of all that is hopefully not too far off now....well, maybe the end of this month will see it finished.


The seedlings all seem to be thriving and we've potted on all the tomatoes and have started giving them away as I don't see any reasonable way of fitting 60 plants in an 8x6 greenhouse.

hindsight

I now realise it is better not to fart while wearing a wetsuit

Bring The Sun To Me

Our Turkish friend Kamal asked us to team up with Nazli to play for an international society concert up at the Uni. Kamal plays the Baglama, a seven stringed instrument that looks for all the world like a big gourd with a long neck.

It was difficult at first for us to get our heads round the style of the Turkish rhythms and melodies but we got there in the end and managed to put four songs together.

There is nothing understated about the Turkish style; it is all about passion and emotional intensity, as Kamal says to us 'you have to feel it in your heart.' Here is one of the songs we performed called Günes topla benim için which means 'bring the sun to me'.

Seher yeli çik daglara
Günes topla benim için
Haber ilet dört diyara canim
Günes topla benim için

Umutlarin arasindan
Kirpiklerin karasindan
Döste biçak yarasindan canim
Günes topla benim için

Seher yeli yar gözünden
Havadaki kus izinden
Geceleyin gök yüzünden canim
Günes topla benim için

roughly translates as:

Twilight wind climb the mountains
Bring the sun to me
Let everyone know everywhere
Bring the sun to me

From the hopes
From the black eyebrows
From the knife bruises collect the sun
Bring the sun to me

From the eye of my lover
From the trace of the birds in the sky
From the sky at night
Darling, collect and bring the sun to me.

I'm happy to go along with that as spring is coming on although I suspect our lovestruck young Turk has it in mind to find light, love and prosperity in the dark eyebrows of beautiful young women. Well, looking at Nazli, who could blame him.... really?

Won't, Can't

I'm not going to make it this morning.

i'm a civil servant - get me out of here!

Tonights shift is just wall to wall loonys tosspots and con-men. I want out.

It feels like this.

tell it like it is clod.mp3 (4mgb)

tomorrow will be better.....won't it?

No Sferatus Here

We planted some elephant garlic as those flat-capped lancashire nosferatu just laugh at the ordinary stuff. Probably take an elephant to crush it too.
The reason crushing garlic is a good idea is because it breaks open the cell membranes allowing the enzyme allinase to start making those lovely anti-clotting compounds allicin and thiosulphinate. Ideally one should leave it to stand for a bit and then eat the crushed garlic raw. Oh come on! Yep, no kidding, cook it for longer than 6 minutes and the enzymes disappear quicker than a (insert preferred collective noun) of vampires in a sun parlour.

Meercat Manners

‘Well me lud, at the time the greenhouse was getting totalled I wuz busy looking for scorpions and consequently saw nufink and noone in that order guv, honest to God, would I lie to you?’
Ben must be desperate for some fresh eggs as he’s taken to hand feeding the chooks through the fence now.

All this paint stripping has aged me somewhat but yesterday we abandoned our scrapers and went up to the plot and built a nice big bonfire and cleared out the shed and sowed some leek seeds in trays in the greenhouse.

At home I sowed two trays of tomato seeds but isn’t it funny that always, when this time of year comes round and you’re looking for suitable window sill space, they’re every one of them chokkablok with rubbish. This is what I removed to find space for my trays of toms:-

1 pot full of chalk
1 basket of miscellaneous pens and pencils
7 cassette tapes
1 camera obscura
1 tin of Zigity cards
1 Dr Who sonic screwdriver
1 pod for Thunderbird 2 filled with snooker balls
4 paint brushes
2 pots of (mostly useless) felt tips
1 A4 pad
2 address books
3 jack plugs
3 pads of post-it notes (yellow)
1 pad post-it notes (white)
1 capo
…….and a variety of other bits and pieces. Is anyone else like this? I think it’s in the genes; we’re all as bad as each other. You don’t want to come round our house. I tell you.

Who's Got The Conch?

I keep saying to myself... 'must sow the tomato seeds and put em on the window sill'.... and nothing seems to happen. Well, not nothing exactly. We decided that before spring sprung properly we would set to and redecorate the hall stairs and landing and so I find myself every spare or not so spare hour stuck on the end of a paint scraper with an overblown hair dryer in the other hand trying to strip this horrible cream gloss off architraves and banisters and skirting boards. Once the scraper has clogged up with a molten glutinous mess of vile smelling paint it seems to set instantly to concrete with the adhesive powers of a limpet. Then there's the wallpaper. I thought I might get lucky but no, underneath the woodchip there's a layer of plasticised mock wood panelling and underneath that there's another layer of mock wood panelling and underneath that there is, or was, some plaster. I do not see this project ending anytime soon so at some point, possibly the next available sunny day, I will have to decamp to the allotment to restore some semblance of sanity.

Must spare a thought for the less fortunate amongst us though. Victoria's major problem seems to be how to find her way from Malibu to Santa Monica. Gosh, don't some people have it rough!

It's sad (but no great surprise) that the UK is way at the bottom of the list in the child well-being stakes. Somehow it seems that Brits have almost abdicated parental responsibility now. We gave up the conch years ago and now the kids won't give it back and they seem to despise us. We, in turn, look on them (youth) with a mix of fear and suspicion and dare hardly say boo to a goose for fear of getting bladed. I know it's more complicated than that but we'd better put some effort in where it counts or it really will be Lord of the Flies territory before we know it.

We're All Domed......again!

Looby is right. We're heading for another gigantic, farcical, incompetent and idiotic and yet somehow typically epic British fuck up aka the 2012 Olympics. How do we do it? Is it something in our psyche? Is it all horribly inevitable? If it does happen, the concreting over of the Manor Garden allotments will be the saddest part of the whole sorry tale. The initial estimate of £2.375 billion for the games has already risen to an estimated £8 billion with no budget ceiling in sight yet. £400 million in the revised budget is to pay for consultants to help keep the costs down!!!

Manor Garden Allotments

While answering a query from Lois about growing achocha I was alerted to the plight of the 100 year old Manor Garden allotments in London which are in danger of being buldozed to make way for a footpath leading into the 2012 olympic games area. Can I urge my readers to visit their site and sign the petition and do whatever else you feel is possible for you to do to help stop such monumental insanity. Thanks.

Cyberid

Elsewhere in the blogosphere there is a discussion taking place about virtual as opposed to 'real' identity. I find this quite interesting from a number of angles. In some cases people worry around what they write and who they are becoming public knowledge and in some cases they are right to be worried as I imagine it is not that technically difficult to out a bloggers real idendity with unhappy consequences.

Probably for the majority of allotment bloggers there is no real problem here; we tend to write mostly about how our tomato seeds are doing and how crap was our garlic last year and about the clarty soil and the sun and the wind and the couch grass and the club 18-30 root. In most cases our blog does exactly what it sais on the tin and that's fine. Some of us (me included), follow our whimsical natures and from time to time go off on one. This amuses some, annoys others and probably most don't really care one way or the other. Sometimes there is a bit of political sniping here and there but nothing to get too excited about. By and large we stick to plants and seeds and spuds and weeds and we inhabit our own polite parochial backwater of the blogosphere quite happily thank you very much.

This does not make us in any sense 'better' than the Let It All Hang Out Blood Guts & Thunder Boardroom or Bedroom bloggers who publish every nuance of their inner lives for all to read. That's fine too. All bloggers just need to bear in mind that if it's an open blog then it's public domain full stop and really so is your identity, even if you delude yourself into believing that you are blogging annonymously behind a stuffed muppet in a tutu called desmond.

Actually, the best of these blogs are fabulous. Well, sometimes beautifully written, witty, insightful, gritty and startlingly honest accounts of personal lives or perceptive comments on culture or society that should (possibly do) leave the professional commentators and lifestyle columnists green. Your blog is what you want it to be. It's your tin, fill it however you like and if it doesn't do exactly what it sais on the tin then so what exactly? I think the whole blogosphere should be celebrated BIGTIME in all its gloriously insane messy entirety. The notion of blog 'awards' is a meaningless anathema. PEOPLE are writing again! YIPPEE! Expressing themselves as freely or as guardedly as they see fit, free of the agendas set by media moghuls, spin doctors, celebrity gossipers or whatever.

They can present themselves with as many cyber identities as they want. They can put out or shut out and I don't give a fiddlers fart who they really are and don't most of us have some sort of filter to sift the real from the contrived anyway? Oh well, clearly I'm running out of steam now, but can I just leave you with this little muse....If Anne Frank had had a laptop and a blog in her silent tiny attic hideaway instead of just a lonely diary with which to share her quiet desperation.....well, maybe the outcome would not have been different but I don't need to spell out what it might have meant to her.

Three Sheets

Three sheets to the wind again. No, not me... the greenhouse. Still, I suppose I got off relatively lightly losing only three sheets from a side panel. The winds on Thursday and Friday were tremendous and caused a fair amount of damage on the allotments including blowing a whole greenhouse over a few plots further down. I am so glad now that I invested a lot of time building good foundations for both the shed and the greenhouse last winter.

Monday on the other hand was glorious sunshine and we spent a couple of hours on the plot putting the new glass in and pottering about and then we went off to the Mammoth Onion where we bought:

Pink Fir Apple (salad potatoes)
Pentland Javelin (earlies)
Sante (main crop)
Elephant Garlic
Spaghetti Marrow
Hysam onion sets
Jolant leeks
Robinsons giant cabbage
Igor brussel sprouts
Show Perfection peas
Robinsons lettuce
Parella green/red lettuce mix
Mammoth Long beets
Exhibition Long parsnips
Marian swede
White Dream radish
Big Max pumpkin
Genovese courgette
Squash onions

The seeds we requested from the Heritage Seed Library have also arrived and I think we got everything we requested:

Arany Alma tomato
Szechuan aubergine
Devoy beetroot
King of the Ridge cucumber
Egmont Gold carrot
Soror Sarek pepper

Now all we need to do is find space to put everything. Ideally, we now need another plot as this one is pretty much in order and we will be full to overflowing when everything is planted out.

I thought I might keep a vague sort of record of how much the plot costs us this year and so far the tally is:

57.60 for seeds
10.50 for glass

It would also be good to value the crops we take off it but I know I won't get aroundtuit.

5 Things Then

Ok then.......
1. My real name (in the old Cornish language) means
head or top of a valley. (they were tin miners there
back in the 17th century).

2. I used to work for Marconi Marine and am a black
belt in morse code (honestly) dah de dah de dah.

3. My dad died when I was four as did his brother. I
have been a complete barmpot ever since.

4. When I was little, a wild bird 'adopted' me and
used to sit on my shoulder and follow me everywhere I
went. You can just see him in the picture sitting on
my left. I don't really remember it.

5. Likes: Dogs, Marmalade, Brinjal Pickle, People Who Call A Spade A Spade And Use One, Dr Who, Anything by Joanne Harris, Misfits & Eccentrics, Full Moons, Snow Patrol, The fact that the first word in my dictionary is 'a' and the last word is 'beer' (in a foregn language of course, can't remember which one), Jimi Hendrix, Tin Tin.....etc

Dislikes: Cats, Celebrities, Horseradish sauce Yechhk, The Tweenies, Passive Agressives, Chavs & Bling, Country Music, TV Soaps, Soap, Religion, Margarine, Horsetail, Anything Made Out Of Plastic, Capitalism, America, Spam....etc etc

A Question: Does this tagging meme thingy have to go to allotment bloggers or anyone?

Tag Wrestling

Now Paula's, (from Petunias Garden), gone and done it. She's tagged me and it hurts. Now I am supposed to reveal 5 things about myself that nobody knows. So why is that hard when there are millions of things about me that nobody knows? Actually, not quite true coz Jane over at Horticultural knows who I really am because she asked me! It's that easy. She wanted to use a quote from my blog in her book which should be on my bookshelf by now but isn't coz I want a signed copy and Amazon don't do that sort of thing. Allotment Lady is kindly enticing me back away from my holiday over at the Chasms of the Earth where we are having and engaging discussion on the merits or otherwise of Dan Brown's novel 'The Da Vinci Code', a ghastly, terrible book (so why is it so successful)?. But this, of course is just me being a black belt procrastinator and avoiding the ghastly truth that I have just not written a mote worth reading for a long time. This usually changes when the long shadows of winter begin to depart and the black dog takes himself off for a walk somewhere - who cares where? And the sun starts to creep into the bottom of the garden once more and slowly work it's way up towards the house as spring draws near. Anyway I have been spreading muck for England this winter and it's got to stop I tell you.

See how good I am at avoiding the five things.....I can go on for hours like this honestly.

Well anyway, we've got a bit of a busy weekend ahead as we're playing for a Swedish dance thingy over in Derbyshire and have to leave tonight so I will think about the five things and reveal all when I'm back next week. Now what do you want? Sauce.....Raunch......Cultural Embarrassment (you've never died till you've died onstage).....Hottest Fantasies (Phew!).......An IQ rating (don't go there)......Professional Disasters.......(no, my boss might read this blog, I don't know).......Relationship ***k ups...(Plenty to choose from).........Most Embarrassing Moment(s) in a Co-Education Playground Setting......What Did I Eat For Dinner Last Night?......Have You REALLY Lost Your Camera Again?

What. what, what.....you choose and don't be nosey you Allotment Devils You!

Vacation

Happy New Year Everyone. Clodhopper is currently on vacation mostly over at Cultural Snow and The Chasms of the Earth where the weather is fine, the going good to moderate and the language fruity. Anyway, I'm still waiting for my seeds from the seed library and otherwise I'm just spreading muck.....you know me. Tchhh! Roll on Spring......but is this REALLY a winter?

Yule Blog

Yuletide greetings one and all.

PG's last comment set me thinking about my wish list. The twenty billion sterling we have spent on Xmas this year would make a good start. I daresay Santa would welcome a year off; the poor chap has his work cut out. 378 million children in 91.8 million homes (leaving out all the hindu, muslim, buddhist and atheist children etc). Parcel tonnage reckoned at 321,300 tons and delivery logistics requiring Rudolph and Co to travel at 650mph and allows Santa approx one thousandth of a second for each delivery (source: The Independant).

He seems to have managed the feat once again magnificently - even taking into account the re-direction notices we left in our fireplace and involving him in a 157 mile detour (sorry Santa). To be sure, we did track his progress using state of the art Pentagon military technology at www.noradsanta.org. Would that that was all it was used for!

The three wise men started it all off though they didn't have the luxury of online shopping nor of choosing the super saver delivery or gift wrap options. Do you suppose they would have wrapped the gold, frankincense and myrrh anyway? Were they in any sense 'wise' to set this consumer madness rolling into the future? Surely this is not what they intended it to become and maybe it is time for us to come up with an alternative strategy for next year. If that 20 billion could make some inroads into my wishlist, then that is a Christmas I'd be happy to sign up to.

Holiday suggestions for Santa on a postcard please.

Wishlist

I was bathing Ben tonight and he said 'Dad, what do you want for Christmas?' I told him I'd like all the people in the world to have what we take for granted; clean water to drink; a warm roof overhead; knowing where our next meal is coming from; adequate health care; not to be afraid that we'll be shot up or bombed tomorrow etc etc. He thought for a bit and then said 'Dad, it's not an option. It has to be something you can wrap up." Which about sums it up really doesn't it?

Oh ye of Liddle Faith

The Trouble with Atheism C4 Monday 18 Dec

Oh well, they really shot themselves in the foot with that one didn't they? For some reason I expect better from C4 than an hour long piece of drivel that probably infuriated the believers just as much as it did the other believers. And as to his final and naive question as to why the believers and the non believers can't just 'get along' does the man really need to be told that beliefs have consequences?

Gary Wolf did a better job here, C4 should do better. Rod Liddle should take his dog for a walk and think things through a bit.

Seasonal Nose Picking

Little voice from the back of the car on the way out to the School Xmas Fair on Saturday......
"If anyone wants to do some seasonal nose picking, do it now!"

Sunday....force 10 gusts smash two sheets of glass from the greenhouse roof and turns compost bin lid into a frisbee. Probably somewhere in Blackpool by now.

Seed Bunk

While not in the same class as Jane's willow trugs, we have found this Asda basket (reclaimed from a skip somewhere or other) very handy on the allotment and it more often than not comes home with us filled with good produce decidedly not from Asda. In the check-out this week are lots of Kestrel potatoes, leeks, parsnips (some of which grew entwined around each other in a most kama sutra like fashion) and lettuce and i forget what else.

Monday was bright and breezy but not cold and a good four hour session from both of us saw quite a lot get done. I started to build a bunk bed for next years seed trays in the greenhouse. It looks ridiculously posh for an allotment being made of reclaimed bits of beautifuly varnished pine.
There is another layer to go on the top yet but ran out of nails and time to finish it - oh well, next time.

Golden Cloud Sans Silver Lining

Taking Ben to school this morning there were two black horses by the roadside being groomed and brushed for the job ahead. Their job will be to carry the coffin containing the mum of one of Ben's classmates who collapsed and died of a heart attack. Bravely, the children (their are two), are already back at school but this morning they will be walking slowly with their dad behind those two black horses carrying their mum to her resting place in the Quernmore valley. I always think how beautiful this valley looks every time I drive out and this morning there is a golden light on the hills and in the clouds and I am absurdly pleased that the valley will look good for her. I would not be able to watch that scene without turning into a dribbling mess as it has too many resonances with my own childhood but I am glad that they are being involved in the process rather than (as I was), being sheltered and protected from it all because, without that involvement, you can't properly say goodbye, which makes things worse in the long run.

A Farwell to Nick

We say farewell then to Nick Clarke who died this morning at the age of 58. It's a bit like losing a family friend. For the benefit of readers across the ponds, Nick was arguably the greatest radio journalist of all time, respected alike by his colleagues, by all the politicians of whatever persuasion and beloved of millions of the radio listening public. His voice alone could melt the polar ice caps and yet he was so incisive and intelligent that even the 'big' politicians feared being interviewed by him. I have no doubt, that if there were a God, he would declare himself unavailable for comment at this time.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

GEORGE W. BUSH
We don't really care why the chicken crossed the
road. We just want to know if the chicken is on our
side of the road or not. The chicken is either with
us or it is against us. There is no middle ground
here.
AL GORE
I invented the chicken. I invented the road.
Therefore, the chicken crossing the road
represented the application of these two different
functions of government in a new, reinvented way
designed to bring greater services to the American
people.
COLIN POWELL
Now at the left of the screen, you clearly see the
satellite image of the chicken crossing the road.
HANZ BLIX
We have reason to believe there is a chicken, but we
have not yet been allowed access to the other side
of the road.
MOHAMMED ALDOURI (Iraq ambassador)
The chicken did not cross the road. This is a
complete fabrication. We don't even have a chicken.
SADDAM HUSSEIN
This was an unprovoked act of rebellion and we were
quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on
it
RALPH NADER
The chicken's habitat on the original side of the
road had been polluted by unchecked industrialist
greed. The chicken did not reach the unspoiled
habitat on the other side of the road because it was
crushed by the wheels of a gas-guzzling SUV.
PAT BUCHANAN
To steal a job from a decent, hard-working American.
RUSH LIMBAUGH
I don't know why the chicken crossed the road, but
I'll bet it was getting a government grant to cross
the road, and I'll bet someone out there is already
forming a support group to help chickens with
crossing-the-road syndrome. Can you believe this?
How much more of this can real Americans take?
Chickens crossing the road paid for by their tax
dollars, and when I say tax dollars, I'm talking
about your money, money the government took from you
to build roads for chickens to cross.
MARTHA STEWART
No one called to warn me which way that chicken was
going. I had a standing order at the farmer's
market to sell my eggs when the price dropped to a
certain level. No little bird gave me any insider
information.
JERRY FALWELL
Because the chicken was gay! Isn't it obvious? Can't
you people see the plain truth in front of your
face? The chicken was going to the "other side."
That's what they call it -- the other side. Yes, my
friends, that chicken is gay. And, if you eat that
chicken, you will become gay too. I say we boycott
all chickens until we sort out this abomination that
the liberal media whitewashes with seemingly
harmless phrases like "the other side."
DR. SEUSS
Did the chicken cross the road?
Did he cross it with a toad?
Yes, The chicken crossed the road,
But why itcrossed,
I've not been told!
ERNEST HEMINGWAY
To die. In the rain. Alone.
MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.
I envision a world where all chickens will be free
to cross roads without having their motives called
into question.
GRANDPA
In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken crossed the
road. Someone told us that the chicken crossed the
road, and that was good enough for us.
BARBARA WALTERS
Isn't that interesting? In a few moments we will be
listening to the chicken tell, for the first time,
the heart-warming story of how it experienced a
serious case of molting and went on to accomplish
its life-long dream of crossing the road.
JOHN LENNON
Imagine all the chickens crossing roads in peace.
ARISTOTLE
It is the nature of chickens to cross the road.
KARL MARX
It was an historical inevitability.
VOLTAIRE
I may not agree with what the chicken did, but I
will defend to the death its right to do it.
RONALD REAGAN
What chicken?
CAPTAIN KIRK
To boldly go where no chicken has gone before.
FOX MULDER
You saw it cross the road with your own eyes! How
many more chickens have to cross before you believe
it?
SIGMUND FREUD
The fact that you are at all concerned that the
chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying
sexual insecurity.
BILL GATES
I have just released eChicken 2003, which will not
only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file your
important documents, and balance your checkbook -
and Internet Explorer is an inextricable part of
eChicken.
ALBERT EINSTEIN
Did the chicken really cross the road or did the
road move beneath the chicken?
BILL CLINTON
I did not cross the road with THAT chicken. What do
you mean by chicken?
Could you define chicken, please?
COLONEL SANDERS
I missed one?

Hunter Gathererer Clods

The Brave and fearless hunter returns from the fields after eating a pack of sherbet lemons facing perilous danger to bring home the bacon sprouts to his hungry tribe of clods.

Beta Blockers

The transfer to the new beta blogger causes all sorts of problems requiring large doses of mogablog in order to retain sanity.

Ecky Thump

oh dear oh dear oh dear it will no doubt be clear that I have been assiduoulsy studying html coding farting about with my blog and making a mess of things. Bothered? look at my face......etc.

Raked lots and lots of fallen leaves from the windy streets around the park today to make into mulch/compost and decided to change career and become a street cleaner. People actually stop and talk to you!

Winter Work

Well, that's enough creativity for one year! Now back to gardening. The autumn sown broad beans think it's spring and i hope we get a bit of cold soon or they'll get too leggy and winter will pounce on them one day and give them a nasty surprise. We harvested the very last crop of tomatoes on Monday....in the first week of November! I ask you, what is the world coming too?

We've sent off our seed guardian seeds down to the HSL and some pictures of our heritage crops for use in their catalogue. There was mangold, achocha, asparagus kale, blue queen dwarf beans, caseknife, grass pea cicerchia. We got a nice e mail back to say they were very happy with both the seeds and the photographs. Now looking forward to receiving the HSL catalogue after Christmas to plan next years gardening adventures.

If you missed out on GG's very good recipe for using the mangolds then here it is again. I hope a few readers can be persuaded to give mangolds a try out...they are yummy.

Parboil mangold, small turnip, parsnip, carrot; fry small onion with crushed garlic and place with bare covering of vegetable stock & majoram in roasting dish, (at this point the colours are exquisite - marbled butter-cup yellow in the mangold, orange of carrot, white of turnip,cream of parsnip and dark red of onion), top with mixture of wholemeal breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese and parsley and dot with butter. Bake for 40 minutes. Delicious.

Work goes on clearing and manuring and this year I'd like to collect masses of leafmould to cover the bare plots as we haven't got round to sowing any green manures.

Should do a bit of shed maintenance too really. Maybe I could just ring Alizon for that :-)....she owes us.

On Pendle Hill - Part 2

Dear reader: This is the second part of a shortie called ‘On Pendle Hill’. Part one is a post or so ago so read that first or skip the whole thing if you don’t like shorties!

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to schools of witchraft & wizardry or to broomsticks or to persons who could remotely be described as having a life is entirely intentional and actionable…..if you dare.

Part 2:

Hey-how for Hallow-e'en!

When all the witches are to be seen,

Some in black and some in green,

Hey-how for Hallow-e'en!

Thout! tout! a tout, tout!

Throughout and about.

(tibbs and alizon trick or treating)

Turning north and west, Tibbs flew low over Cat-Gallows Wood and Scriddles Farm. Ahead lay the dark heart of Bowland Forest where, in olden times, the Om Ren stalked the unwary hunter or shepherd. On a bad day, he would tear them to pieces or perhaps hurl them over a precipice. On a good day and in a fine mood he might be satisfied with uprooting a tree to bash them with.

They had all, even Tibbs, saved many a shepherd from the unwelcome attentions of the Om Ren. He was, after all, at least as thick as a mountain troll and possibly twice as gullible and so presented no threat to a Witch. A simple fuddling spell was usually enough to set him wandering, confused and disorientated with a sour and puzzled expression, back into the depths of the forest. They looked for him more out of habit than anything else for he has not been seen by any of the forest spirits (according to Tibbs), for at least two hundred years now.

Demdike sped up and edged, as close as she dared, alongside Alizon.
‘Tha’ve bought nuther new un then?’ she said, nodding at Alizon’s broom, ‘wastin tha monee agin’.

‘Aye, ‘tis the new Cirrus 2006,’ said Alizon, ‘from the Hogwash school of witchcraft and wizardry down the valley. `Tis very fast and light with built in nav control.’ She pressed a knot in the witch-wood and an illuminated display panel appeared at the top of the broom. Demdike cackled and almost fell off her broom calling over to the others to come and see Alizon’s latest folly. Alizon explained that the broom had the latest satellite Witch Positioning System (WPS) technology and she showed them the displays for course, wind speed, altitude and proximity sensors. She showed them how to programme in their destination and watched as the system worked out the fastest route to Lancaster through the various cloud formations avoiding areas of potential rain or wind sheer but including suggestions for sightseeing variations or coven visiting en route. By now, they were all cackling so loudly Tibbs wondered if there were heads turning in the farmhouses below. ‘Tis Wi-Fi enabled,’ said Alizon, not about to give in. The howls of derision rose to deafening levels and a fox looked up and gave an answering howl on the moors below.

Alizon pursed her lips and pressed another knot on the Cirrus 2006. Up on the display came the Witch Shopping Channel with a special offer on “Thermal Tights for Late Night Flights – Double Stitched, Padded Gussets for Strength and Durability’ - Offer must end 5th November”

‘How much?’ gawped old Chattox, squinting at the tiny screen.

Demdike was laughing so much her eyes were streaming and she could no longer see where she was going, let alone the WPS display…. now announcing “Camel Motions Make Better Potions – See our new range of energy saving cauldrons – Super Low Carbon Emissions Guaranteed”.

Demdike stopped to wipe the tears from her eyes. Whin Fell lay far below outlined in moonlight and shadows; the familiar pattern of limestone rocks unchanged for countless centuries, centuries which had seen the world change beyond all recognition. You were counted lucky, in 1620, if you had sufficient food, clothing and shelter just to keep body and broomstick in one piece. There were precious few opportunities for retail therapy in 1620: there were precious few shops! Perhaps one could forgive a little indulgence now and then. She felt uneasy, nevertheless. Somehow the balance felt all wrong now: the earth was being consumed and yet still they wanted more and more and more and more and the spirits of many animals had given up and left with many more preparing to do so. It could be a cold and lonely planet in not too many years if people did not soon come to their senses. ‘Perhaps,’ she thought, ‘witches should intervene a little more.’ Tricky business that though, as Demdike knew to her cost.

The others had crossed Whin Fell already and were turning now towards Clougha Pike and the lights of Lancaster beyond. Demdike roused herself, flicking her fingers to send her negative thoughts and feelings back into the darkness where they were always available. After all, if a witch cannot have a little fun on All Hallows, then when can she?

By the time she caught up, Alizon was demonstrating the Cirrus 2006’s turbo boost and stealth modes and enjoying the looks of disbelief and incredulity from old Chattox; even Tibbs was impressed which was a rare thing indeed.

They glided silently across Hala Beck and angled down onto the allotments looking for the familiar outline of Tom’s shed. It was quickly apparent to them that something was not quite right and they fell silent, allowing their senses to probe the air, the soil, and the echoes of recent activity (which remain present far longer than mortals ever suspect). Tibbs sensed a hedgehog in a dense part of the hedge behind the shed, drowsy and almost asleep, but aware, as animals always are, of the presence of immortals. Tibbs changed shape and nudged through the undergrowth stopping to make the formal greetings and ask the necessary permissions before proceeding into the hogs lair to ask for news.

Alizon felt no need to wait for Tibbs news. She felt sure she knew the story already from the feel of the soil and the stillness of the air above it, and she was sad. She dismounted and parked her broom against the greenhouse. Noticing a cracked pane, she placed her palm against it and spoke a few words and felt the glass meld and become whole again. A further incantation banished a years worth of grime and mould and the glass sparkled in the moonlight.

Demdike walked round the plot, noting here and there the tell-tale signs of neglect and sensing the lethagy of the plants that remained. She spoke the spells of release at each corner of the plot; north and south and east, from where new life begins, and west, to where it departs. She felt the ground stir and the air lift the instant the spell cycle was complete.

Tibbs emerged from the hedge boy-formed, pulling a large thorn from the black sleeve of his jerkin. He sensed at once that old Demdike and Alizon had done what was required to heal the plot and to make it vibrant once more. He felt sure the new owner would notice the change the next time he or she came to visit. There was, however, further business to attend to that would require powers beyond his but which, (if the hog had told him correctly), old Demdike and old Chattox could perform easily if they so chose. Tibbs called them together behind old Tom’s shed, and this is what he said.

‘All things have their place and their rightness; the rat, the crow, the fox and the magpie. Even the unseemly things of this earth that are untouched and feared; the hairy spider, the snake that slithers and the maggots that eat of dead flesh.’ He paused while they nodded agreement. ‘Except for the slug,’ Tibbs coughed, ‘which is a right royal pain in the butt!’ The witches nodded harder. ‘Be that as it may,’ he continued, ‘there is great fear hereabouts. In the low reaches of the plot and the dead of night there be mortals who do sit with guns shooting all comers for sport and for fun. Rats crawl, mortally wounded, to die in the Beck. Crows fall dead from the sky and rot where they fall. The birds have ceased to sing in the day now and offtimes, the plot holders look skyward and wonder why.’ As Tibbs finished speaking there came the clear sound of a gun; distinct it was, from the intermittent sound of pre Guy Fawkes night fire-crackers being let off.

Old Chattox spat a curse and rose swiftly into the air. She circled above the sound of gunfire and from her broom there descended a thick mist which shrouded the area. To mortal eyes, it would appear strange enough, and from above, stranger indeed: a pure circle of cloud-formed opaqueness glittering with eerie moonlight, beautiful yet sinister.

Demdike toured the nearby greenhouses tapping each one with her wand. From each, the glass seemed to flow like a silven waterfall and to mould itself; now into a fox, now a rat, here and there a crow or a magpie, all with eyes blacker than death itself, and with teeth, claws or talons gleaming with a lethal sharpness.

The thick circle of cloud grew tighter and tighter around the hapless shooters as they re-loaded their weapons. ‘Tha’s a bit rum,’ said one, looking around uneasily at the encircling mist. They all stood now, dropping their weapons and staring around the circle looking in vain for a gap or a way out. The air within the circle became icy cold and the men, in panic now, started to make a run for it. As they did so, there emerged from the mist, thirteen forms of pure malevolence: dripping blood from talon or claw and staring with cold, dead eyes as the three, now petrified mortals, shrank back to the centre of the circle whimpering with fear. Then emerged from the mist a little boy, of angelic countenance, followed by three dark figures shrouded in black hooded cloaks who seemed to glide across the earth behind him. The men slumped back down onto the crates they had been sitting on and searched the boys face for some glimmer of hope. Tibbs approached to within a few feet of the men and stopped. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his glittering red eyes to them.

‘Trick, or treat,’ he said.

It is said that the men were discovered three days later, dishevelled, speechless and utterly exhausted and completely unable to find their way out of the allotments. When someone rang old Tom about it, he burst out laughing and said ‘Tha’s easy enough. Tell each one to take off an item of clothing, turn it inside out, and put it back on and then they’ll find the way out.’ His laughter brought on another bout of coughing and when it had subsided he said as an afterthought ‘Oh, by the way, tell them tomorrow….no rush.’

‘Eejits,’ said Alizon, picking up one of Tom’s choicest pumpkins.

‘Aye,’ said Demdike, ‘eejits right enough.’

‘Them leeks look good,’ said old Chattox pointing, ‘there, next to that shed with the bit of stained glass in the door. Oooh look! They’ve got some mangel wurzels too….haven’t had one of those in a good many year.’

‘Go on then,’ said Demdike, ‘but mind your manners…..not too many now.’

On the flight back to Malkin Tower, old Demdike pulled close to Alizon again and whispered. ‘How much were them tights again….the purple ones?’

Days later, when Tom felt strong enough, he was taken down to the plot for a last look. The birds were singing like crazy and his plants seemed to be dancing on their beds. He noticed there was a pumpkin missing and smiled.

T' end


Clods Caution: As Alizon mentions in the first part of this tale, prior to their executions, the Pendle Witches placed a curse on the City of Lancaster. It states that whoever shall come to live in the City shall never be able to leave it. Uncannily, the curse seems to work very well. Many have tried, but very few have succeeded.

For Fawkes Sake!

Sunday pm. Went up to Miss Whalley's field at noon with Ben to help build the bonfire. carried dozens of pallets up the hill and stacked them till we had a bonfire 30 foot high! Others built a viking ship replete with portholes and sail and all outlined in fire rope or whatever the stuff is. neither the council nor the vampire developers can do anything with this piece of land because Miss Whalley donated it to the children of lancaster in her will for ever and ever and ever amen so the vampires can just fuck off. There are some developers who want to ruin the canal corridor (which is council ownded land) and stick up a fucking multistorey car park and a shopping development with a bunch of shops that we neither want nor need and ruining what could be a magical open space with all sorts of goodness done to make it even better council willing which they're not. I hate them and all their ilk.
Sunday 7.30. The fire is lit and flames shoot into the sky and you can feel the heat and we are standing a good 50 yards away.

Kamal (from Turkey) is wearing a silly hat...we all are and we have eaten the parkin which was parkin good. I ponder as I gaze the mountainous flame the source of writers block which in my case turns out to be a catholic eejit of an English teacher and i can't even remember his name or how old I was but not very. anyway, the assignment was a composition and I wrote one about the aberfan disaster in wales when a school was buried by a mountain of mine tailings. many children and teachers were killed and the news affected me badly not because I had any particular connection with those children, teachers or that area but for some reason it just did and I decided to write about it. hands it in and said eejit calls me out in front of the whole class...
Teach: Who wrote this?
Clod: I wrote it.
Teach: Don't believe you. Where did you copy it from?
Clod: Nowhere, I wrote it.
Teach: Did you get it from a newspaper report?
Clod: No.
Teach: Who helped you then?
Clod: No one, I wrote it myself
Teach: You must've had help
Clod: No.
Teach: You must've. Who was it?
Clod: I didn't, no one, I......
....and so on for ten minutes or so till it got so upsetting and humiliating that I could've hit the twat or shouted out....oh all right then fucking aldous fucking huxley wrote the damn thing and are you happy now? but i didn't of course and it may be possible to discern that i am still somewhat angry about it. i wish the eejit would read this and then explode. anyway i was gazing at the huge flame and wondered why I still found it difficult to sit down and write the end of my story and i decided that was the reason and let's face it it's always easier to blame someone else isn't it? Jesus, why am I so angry today? Is it coz I got told off for leaving the marmite and the marmalade jars out on the kitchen table? could be....who knows?

On Pendle Hill

What use is winter other than for firesides, mulled wine and stories?

On August 20 1612, ten people were hanged at Lancaster Castle for the murder by witchcraft of seventeen people. They are known the world over as the Pendle Witches.
What is not so well known is that Old Chattox (Anne Whittle), Old Demdike (Elizabeth Southerns) and her grandaughter Alizon were jolly keen gardeners……….and still are!

All Hallows Eve 2006 – Part One

Old Demdike smoothed out her black smock. Her ‘familiar’ Tibbs, (at sundry times a fox or a hare or a little boy with black and brown jerkin), lay, now in the form of a black labrador, curled up cozily in front of the big log fire in the drawing room of Malkin Tower.

Old Chattox stood by the west window gazing through the smokey leaded panes out onto the side of Pendle Hill where a procession of men, women and children carrying ridiculous looking brooms and lanterns snaked their way up the winding path to the summit. Alizon came over to stand and watch. The children, pinkfaced in the wind, jumped out at each other from the rocky outcrops hooting and wailing and letting out piercing screams of delicious fright.

‘All Hallows’, muttered old Demdike, dipping into the fireside cauldron for another glass of warm spiced wine, ‘tis the same every year now’. Alizon turned from the window to face her grandma. ‘Do they celebrate our deaths then….up there?’

‘Them?’ Old Chattox snorted derisively, ‘they celebrate nothing!’ ‘Look what they do at Yuletide; they see nothing; feel nothing. They care even less.’

‘True enough’, old Demdike sipped her wine and scratched behind Tibbs ear. ‘Whither tonight then – this All Hallows?’




A shower of sparks drifted up as burning logs shifted and resettled. Alizon came over to squat beside Tibbs and pull his silky black ears, which he loved. She watched the sparks rise and settle on the sides of the chimney creating patterns of glowing, dancing red spots on the sooty face of the bricks. She threw on another log to make more sparks rise. Tibbs transformed into his boy form, sitting up and squatting companionably at Alizon’s side to watch with her, his blond hair glowing red-gold in the firelight. ‘I want to go back to Lancaster’, he said, his hand creeping into Alizons lap to hold hers. ‘It’s been long enough’.

‘Tosh’, grumbled Chattox, turning from the window and forking her fingers, ‘long enough is not long enough. I can still feel the rope round me neck!’ She walked to the fireplace joining the others and fingered a not-forgotten tightness at her throat.

‘394 years’, said Tibbs, ‘you miss mortality so much, still?’

Demdike watched Chattox approach over her gently steaming wine glass.
‘The mortals were stupid then and they are stupid now…..the centuries do not change that’. She gestured to the lantern lit procession on the hill outside. ‘Perhaps no more stupid there than they are here’.

‘Aye’, Alizon agreed, squeezing Tibbs hand, ‘we cursed that city well enough ‘er we left and some are there now that have learned and not a few that can SEE.’ Tibbs smiled now, encouraged by Alizons support. ‘And’, added Tibbs, ‘owd Tom grows a fine big pumpkin’. He looked up at old Demdike with the question in his eyes for it was she who would decide.

Demdikes eyes were now fixed on the fireplace and she was silent. The flames glazed her eyes till she saw far beyond them. Presently she sighed, drained the last of her warm red wine, and putting the glass down said simply, ‘We’ll go then.’

Old Chattox said nothing. It was pointless to complain, and besides, she was curious to see the old place after all these years. She too had a soft spot for ‘owd Tom’ who was kind and generous and whose pumpkins did make the finest soup in Lancashire, east, west, north or south, and that was saying something.

Alizon stroked the witchwood of her broom and there came the sound as of a strong wind in a living tree and the ash and hazel twigs scratched together and quivvered in anticipation. ‘Do you follow?’ she said, turning to the still boy-formed Tibbs. ‘I will,’ said Tibbs. ‘With me then?’ Alizon asked. ‘No, I will fly,’ said Tibbs, reluctant to break his fireside reverie. Tibbs stirred, and as he rose, he transformed into a large raven who’s feathers seemed to absorb every last drop of the now dwindling firelight. His raven eye flicked from Alizon to Demdike to Chattox, now all mounted and ready. ‘Away then,’ he said, rising swiftly and soundlessly into the moonlight above Pendle hill, where below, the revellers now circled a blazing summit fire.

They saw nothing, as usual.

……........to be continued

'Ol Tom

I’d grown used to seeing him sat there between the shed and the greenhouse always gazing east across Hala beck and east again across the motorway that rumbles endlessly on, and east again across the Quernmore valley and then east again to who knows where? Not that gazing east is compulsory on our allotments, it’s just that if you’re prone to gazing, then that’s the direction to do it in. West would be boring….just a row of houses. North ditto. South…....a hedge. East has interest; a big sky; birds wheeling about above the beck; the felltops of Clougha and out over the Bowland forest to Amsterdam and beyond.

He sat on one of those old school chairs familiar thirty or more years ago; the ones with a tubular metal frame and a bit of moulded and varnished plywood to sit on and another bit to rest your back against. I remember dragging them stacked ten high, (to impress Susan Laker – who I fancied), across the school hall after assemblies or whatever. Remarkably, after all these years, his chair looks in good nick; not too much rust in the metal and the seat worn to a smooth, comfortable looking sheen after years of…....well, sitting.

No one seems to know for how many years he’s been sitting there soaking up the sun and the wind and the rain - though he’d drag the chair into the greenhouse if it came on too strong. Long enough anyway for the allotment to have cloaked itself round his being so he became the very soul of it and now he’s not there the soul seems to have gone out of it and the plot seems to be in mourning and is that possible?

His clothes wore him like the clay does its topsoil and so he blended into the plot and became indistinguishable from it so that some days you wouldn’t even register his presence at all till some small movement or other caught your attention: like scenery so familiar your brain filters the information and puts it into the ‘Take for Granted – Ignore Until Told Otherwise’ compartment of the brain wherever that is. I’m sure She Who Must Be Obeyed thinks I have a big one of those.

Whatever it is then, it must be serious to stop your easterly vigil so I will take it up for you then and wish you well. I hope you don’t miss the plot as much as the plot misses you. How bad can a dressing gown and slippers be? No, OK don't answer that.

Reasons to be Cheerful # 1

Scientists discover incontrovertible evidence of chaos theory and loop quantum gravity in the interior of a red cabbage on an allotment in Lancaster.

Er.............

Despite the forkast wind and rain over the weekend we spent hours and hours in bright sunshine pulling spent crops, digging over and manuring beds, emptying the compost bins and mulching the strawberry beds and picking seed pods so the mice in the shed could have a jolly good feed. Don't know why the met is getting the forcast so consistantly wrong at the moment but I'm not complaining.

The tomatoes just kept on coming this year and have been wonderful. For those who may be partial to a bit of tomato sauce, this is a great way to use up a glut.

12lb Ripe Toms sliced
1.5oz salt
pinch of cayenne
ditto of paprika
1lb granulated sugare
1pt spiced vinegar
4tbsp tarragon vinegar

Put the tomatoes in a pan and cook gently until the skins detach. Rub the pulp through a seive and return to the cleaned pan. Add the salt, cayenne and paprika and cook until the mix begins to thicken. Add the sugar and flavoured vinegars and cook gently until creamy. Pour the souce into warm, clean sauce bottles and cover. Makes about 3 pints.

It is quite unlike any of the crap off the shelf varieties and the spices give it a subtle but delicious kick rather than putting the boot in so it still goes well with any number of dishes.