The smallholding: aspirations and patience

I cannot remember when the conversation started to change. We had always talked about ultimately leaving London, in ten or twelve years maybe. We had listed some locations worth exploring, much like a list of possible holiday destinations. It was not a topic I pressed. Having always been a metropolitan girl all my life, I was in no rush to swap concert halls and theatres for hills and a weekly market day. But then, unexpectedly, something shifted…

Populating the smallholding

It started with chickens! Some time last year I looked into keeping hens. As an avid baker and consumer of organic eggs, it seemed like a no-brainer. I researched bylaws, breeds, coops and runs, feed… I pulled together information and put the idea to Mr M. He was not convinced. Our postage stamp garden may be highly productive but squeezing a chicken coop for Mathilde, Gertrude and Eleanor into our backyard without sacrificing half of our vegetables would involve rewriting the laws of physics. And then there were the urban foxes!

So I put my three girls on hold and carried on tending the garden, squeezing vegetables and herbs into every usable corner. I added fruit bushes and canes, strawberry plants and a couple of dwarf fruit trees. Hardly an orchard but with time we would be able to pick a little home-grown fruit.

The more ingredients I harvested myself, the more I longed to stock the pantry with our own produce. I maintained that eggs would be the perfect addition. By harvest time Mr M had agreed that they should be the first addition once we leave London. But why stop there? Why not plan in the option of a couple of goats to keep us in milk, yoghurt, cheese and curds? Oddly enough, Mr M seemed more keen on this idea than the hens.

A little later a small orchard was mooted. Mr M could see himself pruning apple and plum trees. Maybe a greengage too. I added a quince and morello cherry to the imaginary mix, as well as a front garden full of flowers and herbs, for homegrown posies and edible bouquets. Mr M maintained his objection to a bee hive so I settled for the prospect of swapping goat cheese, yoghurt or home-made preserves for neighbours’ honey.

Living in the here & now

The move is still a way off but there has definitely been a shift in my mindset. Semi-rural life is no longer a short paragraph about where I may end up one day; Mr M and I are actively discussing what we want that life to look like. The more I read about market gardens, cider making and Toggenburg goats, the more excited I am about living a slower life in a small cottage with an acre or so. But I am not letting myself get carried away.

There are still things I want to do and see in London. I need to finish my studies first and both Mr M and I must rethink our working lives to suit a home away from the capital. And then there are many practical skills to develop to make us as resilient as possible, like building our own cold frames, draft-proofing the house, curing meat and fish and, of course, solving the “wheels” dilemma. (An Ape Panel Van is still the most appealing, if not the most practical, proposition!)

So, rather than muse too intensely on the prospect of the future smallholding, I am concentrating on our micro-holding of today. Our collection of containers and raised beds have been filled with carefully selected seeds and are turning into a “splatter of polyculture” (to quote Alys Fowler of The Edible Garden) amongst a patchwork of concrete and decked urban gardens.

Today’s micro-holding – the scene of learning and relaxation

My foraging knowledge grows with every season as I explore the deserted corners of Greenwich and Blackheath. I am honing my bread and yoghurt making skills, Mr M is researching building a smokery and I have even started reading about fly-fishing. And our strict avoid-reuse-recycle policy is turning into a creative sport as we find ways to turn our limited waste into valuable resources around the house and garden!

In addition to skilling up, I am enjoying the company of the animals that currently entertain us. Zoë and Dante, our little tigers, may not provide eggs or milk but their contribution is more significant in preparing me for a life away from the Big Smoke. They dissolve frustration, lower blood pressure and are the most superb teachers of the ‘Art of Going Slow’.

Dante & Zoë – Zen Masters in the Art of Going Slow

Longing for raspberries: dilemmas, temptations and mind games

I have been up to my eyeballs with my masters programme these past few months. Each subject is proving more interesting than the previous one. Apart from stimulating places of my brain that seem to have lain dormant for a decade, my environmental course is also causing a ripple effect in my daily life… just as my tutors warned!

Environmental dilemmas are nothing new to me. Even before I had the vocabulary and mathematics needed to analyse the impact of my coffee habits and orchestral treats, I was acutely aware of the resources involved in my everyday choices. In recent months, however, day-to-day actions have turned into involved socio-economic and environmental decisions. Analysis of resource inputs, outputs and waste streams as well as complex trade-offs seem to pop up each time I do the laundry, water the garden or stock the pantry. To say nothing of my fitness dilemma… but more on that another time.

Temptation in a punnet

Last week a dilemma presented itself in the form of a punnet of gorgeous crimson raspberries!

As air miles for fresh food are out, I have not tasted the juicy red berries since last September. Last week, however, I spotted a Union Jack on punnets of luscious Tulameens from West Sussex. I was tempted, very tempted. The first British raspberries of the season!

But how? April and early May were depressingly grey and wet. My own raspberry canes are putting on fresh growth but I have only recently spotted flower buds. How then could berries grown 60 miles south-west of London be ripe? The little temptresses must have been grown in a lit and heated greenhouse. Although they may account for less energy than the Mexican ones available all year round, they are hardly environmentally virtuous! With that realisation the tempting berries lost some of their appeal, but not all…

Having put the punnet back, my brain swung into the mind games that keep me on track and motivated when faced with a challenge or temptation. Break the problem down into manageable steps.

A green June, black July and scarlet August

Our own raspberries will not be ready till mid August. Nearly three months away! Fortunately the greengrocer’s will be stocking naturally grown ones from about late June; a month’s wait for my first taste of the ruby berries seems much less of a privation. In the meantime, there is the prospect of other soft fruits to displace my longing for raspberries.

In a fortnight we shall be enjoying our first gooseberries. The promise of an early picking of the tart green fruit for a gooseberry pie – one of Mr M’s favourites – or a summer crumble helps banish my craving for a raspberry pavlova or summer pudding.

And now the blossom on the morello cherry tree has faded, I coax on the blossom heads as they steadily bulge into dark sour cherries. With just one tree in the garden, our morellos will be extremely precious so I have already netted the branches to keep the scavenging birds at bay. This is one crop we shall most definitely not be sharing with the wildlife in the garden!

Further on the horizon there is the prospect of brambles from the deserted patch next door. The scrambling thorny branches are already displaying fluffy green buds, which I shall follow longingly on their progression from flower to fruit.

Dwelling on the super fresh seasonal berries that await us puts the punnet of greenhouse grown raspberries into context. Whilst I long for raspberries, I long more for the explosion of seasonal freshness. The first pavlova of the year will be an absolute delight! My senses shall feast on their soft skin, sweet juiciness and intense scarlet colour. But in the meantime, I shall satisfy my craving with a slice of Victoria sponge cake, complete with raspberry jam, and a cup of tea…

Notes from the garden: surreal rotations

I first heard about it at primary school. The teacher waxed lyrical about it, somewhere between the lesson about Charlemagne and the one about the Crusades. I remember drawing the scheme in my notebook, along with doodles of serfs and their feudal lords, and chanting the order like my times tables. Beans, cabbage, roots. Cabbage, roots, beans. Roots, beans, cabbage. Crop rotation was simple in those days. Thirty years on, with a small north-easterly facing patio garden, it is a surreal workout for body, mind and memory.

The case for crop rotation

Horticultural books gloss over crop rotation in their chapters on container growing. They merrily proclaim there is no need to swap crops around year on year to avoid the risk of soil borne diseases as the soil is changed annually.

In an ideal world this may be the case but with a mix of raised beds, ladder allotments, two dozen pots and no driving license, changing the compost each year would be a logistical nightmare. It would involve multiple journeys to our local DIY/garden centre,  which is – I imagine – twinned with the fourth circle of hell, followed by endless hanging around as I wait for a taxi driver willing to pick up a strange woman with a dozen ‘smelly‘ bags. That is, of course, assuming I can find enough peat-free compost at the garden centre in the first place.

So after much research I decided that the age-old practice of crop rotation would be preferable. It would not do away with the need for new compost entirely but I calculated that with the organic matter from our compost bin and one trip to the garden centre I could probably refortify the soil for the beans and potatoes, give the brassica some additional organic matter and leave the roots to fend for themselves.

Theory into practice

During the grey days of winter, I therefore perched on the landing stairs staring out at the garden. With the help – or rather hindrance – of my feline assistant Zoë I sketched last season’s cropping scheme. The neat rectangular plots of my school days seemed a million miles away as a mosaic of raised beds, hanging bags, trugs, canvas planters, terracotta and azure glazed pots were transformed into green, white or red blobs on the page.

The logical next step should have been to copy the multi-coloured planting scheme and shift each pot up one colour.  This would not, however, take account of two other critical considerations. I had deployed the containers in function of their depth – potatoes and carrots in deep planters; salads, beans and tomatoes in shallow ones. And their location in the garden was determined by each crop’s need for full sun or tolerance of light shade.

Soil movements

With these constraining factors there was nothing for it. At the start of March, I rolled up my sleeves, dug out the soil and systematically moved it from one container to another – mixing in new compost for the lucky few. Soil from the kale crates went into canvas potato bags, and from the blue glazed bean planters to the kale planters. Hanging bags that had previously contained cabbages were emptied, the soil sieved and transferred to the raised bed for this year’s carrots and beetroot… The operation taxed my legs, back and thighs as well as my memory as each evening I updated my cropping scheme to document the day’s soil movements.

Last week, as an early summer descended across the South East, I finally started to make use of my surreal, back-breaking rotations. My first and second early potatoes were planted in half a dozen canvas planters; I sowed my first square foot of carrots and another of beetroot; and I planted out two dozen broad bean seedlings whose roots had outgrown their windowsill pots.

Over the coming months, I face numerous tasks and challenges, from regular successional growing and 101 trips around the garden with a watering can to organic pest and disease control and harvesting salads and herbs before they bolt. I shall need scheduling skills that rivals those of a conference organiser to get winter crops into the ground as spring and summer ones fade and to catch the small window between lifting potatoes and the deadline for sowing green manures. Today, however, I can sit back with a well-deserved cup of tea and admire a garden that, despite the unorthodox method and mosaic of containers, has much in common with those of the medieval serfs and lords I doodled as a child (except the potatoes of course).

Soil rotation in use for the early potatoes

Daily delights: a little emerald gem

Regular readers will know how much I enjoy my corner of London town, with its sprawling park, streets steeped with history – both national and social – and a minute but perfectly formed high street of grocery shops. I never cease to marvel at the little gems I stumble across as I go about my daily business. One day a converted chapel in the back streets of West Greenwich will catch my eyes, another day a magnolia tree in splendid bloom. Today, it was the ‘Greens of Greenwich’, a small but enchanting photography exhibition at Linear House.

I spotted the sign as I left The Creaky Shed, weighed down with fresh vegetables. My eyes picked out the photo and the title but could not read the smaller print from afar. I wondered, would these be related to the photos I had admired in Royal Teas, my favourite independent tea house?

I wandered into a single white room in the small hall-like building, dropping my shopping bag by the front door. Although I prefer black and white photography, I find myself absorbing and being absorbed by twenty or so photographs of local artist Tom Dingley. They are in colour but the unifying green in each calms the photos, the room and me.

The photographs capture a boarded-up shop front, an overgrown path, a statue in the park… Private observations of a local’s Greenwich, united in their greenness, whether pealing paint, verdant growth or the verdigris of age.

With the exception of several river views with green fireworks, most photographs exude the stillness of easy solitude. Although many are familiar to me as a keen observer of Greenwich, they stir memories of private moments in Prague, Paris, Amsterdam… The little gems I enjoyed as I explored back streets and canals of foreign cities early in the morning before commuters struggled to work and tourists thronged onto bridges and squares. Or the scenes I breathed in as mist and cold drove locals into the warmth of their apartments.

A photograph of a fountain, deserted in winter, is one of my favourite. The light snow cover on the grainy stone and the cobbles glazed with a hint of algae make me shiver a little, reminding me of the damp, mesmerising power of the longest season. Another favourite is a forgotten alleyway with steps to a higher level, the wall overgrown with moss so vivid I can almost feel its pile.

Before long I re-emerge into the warmth of the spring equinox. I soak up the vibrancy of early flowers in front gardens and hanging baskets. A complete contrast to the cool greens and private observations of a documenter of local delights, but both part of the Greenwich I love.

***

If you are in Greenwich between now and 25 March 2012 and have twenty minutes to spare, pop into Linear House on Peyton Place, just off Greenwich High Road, to see Tom Dingley’s ‘Greens of Greenwich’. 

* Photographer/flyer from Tom Dingley’s Facebook page. 

Circles and tangents – breaking recurring patterns

I have been an ex-lawyer and full-time part-time student for almost two months now. My body and mind are slowly settling into a new routine. The stress and anxiety of the past decade are unfurling gradually as my muscles, tendons and brain relax into a different state of normality.

Of course, it was not in my nature to go completely cold turkey. Rather than heading off on far-flung travels, I launched myself into an intense few weeks of university: tutorials, essay deadlines and frantic research. It was only partially my choice: the dates were dictated by the compulsory modules of my MSc programme. But there was no denying it, I was swapping one form of stress for another, at least in the short-term.

Patterns of perfectionism

A familiar factor aggravated my stress levels: my own enjoyment of the course. I felt as if my professional interests, views on food production and community, and values were finding a home in the course module. So, just as in my professional past, to do justice to a subject I loved, I threw myself into the research paper with zeal and I went into my ‘Duracell rabbit’ mode. With intense concentration, I collated data from articles and industry reports and started to craft the material into a coherent analysis. Once the ideas were down on-screen, the editing skills honed during my PR and legal careers kicked in and I spent hours polishing and ‘perfecting’.

I was aware I was repeating the patterns of the past but could not change gear. They were still second nature. But something was different.

Although the tutors would mark the paper, they were not my client. I was. I wanted the paper to be a true reflection of my abilities but I had also chosen a topic to expand my understanding and was enjoying reading around the subject. And with every essay and research paper I’ve submitted for my MSc, I was learning that the perfectionism advocated in many law firms does not exist, especially not in academic or strategic work. A piece of research and writing may be very good, excellent even, but never perfect as there will always be more factors to consider, different weightings to apply, different boundaries to set…

It may take me a lifetime to break the long-learnt instinct for perfectionism but my masters programme is certainly showing me the pointlessness of perfectionism compared with the enjoyment of learning. And this lesson is being reinforced by another, more practical course.

Embracing tangents

As I was walking along the inner circle of London’s Regent’s Park to horticultural college one morning, I was chanting the Latin and common names for the plant identification quiz in an attempt to remember them all. (How I wish my memory absorbed lists and paradigms as it did a quarter of a century ago!) I could retain seven of the ten but the last three stubbornly refused to stick. Not only could I not recall their names, I could not for the life of me remember what they looked like.

An invitation to wander off

My annoyance however passed as my eyes caught sight of a stunning pink Camellia and beautiful lime green hellebores in the glorious morning sun. Gardens and gardening have this effect on me. They cause my mind to wander off on tangents as I glance upon unexpected delights.

Since starting my part-time RHS course, I have spent more time consulting my Encyclopaedia of Gardening and the Dr Hessayon Expert books than revisiting my college notes. This is hardly surprising, I chose this course to grow my horticultural knowledge and confidence rather than gain a qualification. I wanted to learn about flowers and shrubs, borders and bedding plants and all the things that our little patio garden cannot hold. It is therefore no surprise that the plant names I remember are those of the plants I like, of those I can imagine in a future cottage garden of mine.

I expect the next 15 months will be busy ones as I juggle two part-time courses. I imagine I shall still experience stressful moments to finish essays on time or cram for exams. I am, however, hopeful that my horticultural course will help keep me on track, or rather on a path where life and learning mesh in a web of meandering tangents. And that I can break the destructive circle of perfectionism and instead, as Mr M wisely advises, “concentrate on enjoying the learning rather than worrying about the results”.

Of flour, water and enzymes: a visceral pleasure

After two years of shuttling between London and Paris, I have been enjoying the delights of standing still. Although I took the Eurostar journeys in my stride – using the two and a quarter hours wisely – life without this regular intercity commute means more spare time… a lot more! And as somebody who enjoys food, and slow food in particular, I have been devoting some of this time to bread-making.

Baking my own bread is nothing new but in the past I limited myself to a quick hearty soda bread and the occasional spelt loaf with honey and dried yeast. With more time at my disposal, however, I have turned my hand to making sourdough bread… from scratch.

Natural chemistry in action

Armed with the recipe from Dan Lepard’s The Handmade Loaf - as recommended by the lovely L. of Wine, Food and Other Pleasures – I set about making the starter. I diligently followed the recipe, adding the prescribed amount of water and flour each day. By day four the young leaven smelt a little like beer and the occasional air bubble broke the surface but it was not as lively as the pictures in Lepard’s book.

A lively leaven

After checking and rechecking the recipe, I concluded that the temperature must have been wrong. Making a starter dough in a cool kitchen in the coldest week of the year was probably overly optimistic on my part but I was not prepared to give up on my fledgling leaven. So, to give the natural process a helping hand, I popped the kilner jar in a modern version of a haybox – a tin lined with shredded newspaper. During the next few of days the enzymes did their work and before long a lively dough was bubbling contentedly in the jar. By the time I spooned out the required amount for my first loaf, I had a light, elastic leaven that smelt warm and yeasty.

All in good time…

It is not only the leaven that cannot be rushed. As sourdough needs to be kneaded little and often, it takes about a day to make a loaf. Lepard recommends starting at 8 am, alternating kneading with progressively longer proving times, and baking the loaf in late afternoon. As baking is my form of relaxation, I prefer to start my loaves later in the day, after I have retreated from the bustle of daily life. I carry out the final knead around midnight and leave the dough to prove at a leisurely pace overnight.

A "Westfold Loaf"

By morning the silky dough has doubled to twice its original size, ready to be transferred – very gently – to a baking sheet. After slashing the top of the loaf and sprinkling it with some cold water, it goes into a hot oven for about 45 minutes. And when it emerges, its smell and crunchy crust are so appealing that I barely wait for the loaf to cool down before cutting a slice for breakfast!

Although the sourdough bread is superb as a base for scrambled eggs and produces a superior toasted sandwich, it excels in that most simple of dishes: buttered toast. The substantial dough absorbs the creamy butter, turning one side golden and moist whilst retaining its crispiness on the other.

Distant memories

I had worried that Mr M would not like the hearty sourdough bread, which is as far removed from the airy concoctions the baker sells as Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is from 75% cocoa solids Peruvian chocolate, but my fears proved unfounded. He waxes lyrical about our loaves! In fact, the flavour, texture and smell of our sourdough bread taps into a distant collective memory we share. It conjures up images of early Indo-Europeans crossing the Central Plains on their march westwards and of hardy Germanic tribes in the rugged northern wildernesses of Scandinavia and the British Isles during the Dark Ages. So strong is the bread’s power to evoke the senses and kindle memories from beyond the mists of time that Mr M has dubbed it “Westfold Loaf”, in a nod to Tolkien’s kingdom of Rohan.

Since making my first sourdough loaf I have been “tending” the leaven with great care. I have also varied the basic bread recipe, alternating white flour and wholemeal flour as well as mixing wheat flour with old grains like spelt, kamut and rye. And, to my great delight, this weekend at his own request, my husband learnt to knead. So visceral is the experience of watching flour, water, salt and enzymes transform themselves into a staple that Mr M wanted to participate in the timeless act of putting bread on the table.