It's a dog's life

What's happening in the garden at Pomona's cottage?

Quick, quick, put that camera down and come and help!

What's the Head Chef doing with Bramble in that big tub?

The indignity of it! I'd have had his hand off a few years ago.

I'd better join the queue.

I'm hiding - he'll never think of looking for me on my bed in the scullery.

How does he expect a lady of my advanced years to get out of here?

Are you all right in there, my dear?

He'd never have dared do this a few years ago.

Thank you for your concern, little ones - I think I will survive.

It's all right for the likes of you looking on and taking photographs of the suffering of others.

Oh no, it's my turn next!

What about me?

Jump for joy! It's not our turn for a bath today - we get to go for a walk!

All's well that ends well.

The kindness of strangers

Today,  a little girl who arrived home from school a little weary and battleworn (for today was the Kent Test, or the 11-plus, as it is also known) was cheered up no end by a beribboned and tissue-wrapped parcel which awaited her return. In that parcel was this T-shirt, which as you can see, sports a dolphin motif.

Princess Bunchy, as you might remember from this post, has a penchant for all things dolphin, although she has much to say, which is not entirely approving, on the subject of dolphins kept in captivity. However, this dolphin fixed in time and place is, in her informed opinion, the pink and pinnacle of perfection.

And for this we have to thank the kindness of dearest Florence, who also goes under the nom-de-plume of Flossie Teacakes. Florence does a rather nifty line of T-shirts, of which Princess Bunchy has a delightful, and growing, collection.

You can see from the photos that they are much admired by the discerning Border Collie.

Princess Bunchy and I have both been touched and cheered by this wonderful act of kindness, and one of the things that I have found so lovely about the blogging community is the generosity of spirit exhibited by bloggers, both in the comments on blogs, and in the sharing that goes on via giveaways and swaps and pay-it-forward arrangements.

There are two lovely swaps going on at the moment which don't require a huge investment of time or money - the Letter Writing Swap at A Bun Can Dance, and the Marmalade Kiss Seed Swap. But perhaps signing up to a swap or a pay-it-forward seems like too much of a commitment, with the allied fear of not being able to meet one's obligations or not living up to a perceived high standard.

So I have an idea for you, which involves no tit for tat, and is entirely unconditional. Wordsworth writes of the significance of 'little, nameless, unremembered acts/Of kindness and of love', and also George Eliot in Middlemarch tells us that 'the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts'.

So without thought of return, go and commit an act of kindness today, and make the world a better place. And I promise that you will feel better for it, too.

Someone I met once said to me that she believed that if you live your life with a giving attitude, then blessings will come to you - and funnily enough I have always found it to be true. So, Florence, may blessings come to you - and in turn I am off to commit some acts of kindness myself! Perhaps you might like to take cover.

An eye made quiet

This morning I was battling with washing up and lunchboxes and early starts and trying not to look at the chaos around me in the kitchen, when suddenly the dogs, almost as one, pricked up their ears, uttered a warning bark, and rushed outside, all in defensive mode. When Bramble, our aged and slightly rotund ball of black fluff,  joins in such jaunts, it is an indication that something important must be happening.

So I, too, rushed outside in a panic - we are coming to the time of year when hungry foxes are out on patrol until nine in the morning, and our electric fence for the hens is in a sad state: the rabbits have chewed so many holes, that it is decidedly not hen-proof at all. The fox might not get in one of those holes, but the hens will save him that trouble: the moment they are let out in the morning they ramble off to scratch about in the hedgerow, which is riddled with burrows so large that any one of them might be a den for a wily fox.

But as I approached the back gate, all of a fluster, I could see the little dears all agog and running to meet me. And the pigs ambled over, jaws working, but yet ever hopeful of another meal.

Panic over. And then I stopped and thought, why fret about the disorder indoors, about clocks, and work, and the day to come?

Just pause, and look at the fields and the trees, the sun and the lengthening shadows. Just breathe in the fresh air, and observe the world of green and growing all around me.

And as I looked about, I noticed that these days of Indian summer sun had ripened some raspberries to rosy redness - perfect to pick, and to eat for breakfast.

And I also saw that there will be still more to come, if I just remember to stop and look.

And there on the table were apples, green and inviting, sunshine trapped and stored inside, all for me to take out in the world beyond the gate.

Lucky am I to have such delights to retreat to, away from the fret and the fever of the world.

Sufficient for the day ...

Pomona's cottage is a hive of industry at the moment: as I recorded a couple of days ago, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is definitely upon us, but for my part I don't think that Autumn would have had time to sit careless on the granary floor, or slumber amongst the half-reaped furrows.

We have been overtaken with piles of produce, quite ready to rot if we don't take it in hand with all speed: produce to pick, and to process, and think of ways of storing.

And this is the nub of self-sufficiency - so often nowadays we play at it, congratulating ourselves hugely at the sight of half a dozen jars of jam, patting ourselves on the back for a batch of plum chutney ... all in the sure and certain knowledge that when it runs out, we can trip down to Tesco and buy some more.

This was a luxury our ancestors did not have: if they did not store enough food, or sow enough at the right time to get through the winter, then they would go hungry.

This was happening not so long ago - you only have to read Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie books to see that even in the late nineteenth century the hard work of summer and autumn would mark the difference between plenty and want for the next six months of the year.

For us in our little cottage, the situation is more complicated: yes, we do have a supermarket only a couple of miles away, but not only have we committed ourselves to living a more sustainable life, which involves producing as much of our own food as possible, but also (and this focuses the mind somewhat) the Head Chef will no longer be in paid work quite shortly and I, for the first time in my life, will be the family breadwinner, having only been the sidekick before. So every little thing we can stash away will save us money in the long run.

Although at the moment the thrifty aspect does sometimes seem questionable. All that food to be stored needs to go somewhere: we have been lucky enough to be given a no longer wanted, but working, freezer, which makes two and a half freezers. But they are already full - and we have nothing like enough fruit, or even vegetables to last until next summer. And we will need space to store the Christmas pork. Vegetarians look away now (and I am a vegetarian, too, so I will say no more).

I have been to buy some preserving jars, so that we can start bottling apples, pears and blackberries - but actually when I look at the price, I do think that I could have bought a lot of fruit for that money!

 But fruit is definitely worth preserving in our climate - or there will be nothing in the way of fresh fruit until early summer.

 For vegetables, I think the real answer is to manage the growing so that we can harvest vegetables all the year round. There are carrots, parsnips, leeks and cabbage already in the ground, and today the Ploughboy has sown some more greens.

 We are hoping to use the polytunnel to help maintain a year-round supply of green vegetables, and the greenhouse for salads, and will be replanting these as the tomatoes come to an end. This year we have sown everything in modules, which has made a huge difference: the germination rates have been more or less 100%, the seeds don't get taken by mice, and the seedlings that are planted out are stronger and better able to survive.

It all requires a lot of thinking ahead and planning, which we have never got quite right before now - partly because it did not seem such a necessity. But we have not had to buy vegetables or fruit since the spring, which means that it has been our best year ever, but selling meaningful amounts of produce is another question.

In the past smallholders could sell their surplus more easily, I think. We live on a very quiet lane, so farm gate sales are never going to amount to much, but to take a stall in a market would entail a cost which we would probably not recoup, because of the small quantities we deal with. And once you go to market, the level of regulation makes it very difficult for the smallholder: for example, the cost of super-accurate scales, having to buy new boxes for eggs and registering with the relevant authorities.

 Farmer's wives used to put up a sign by the wayside offering teas to passing cyclists and walkers, or selling cakes - I'd love to do this, but again, the cost and feasibility of implementing the regulations really puts it out of the question. And yet it tends to be the industrially-produced food which is harmful to the health - often in a long-term manner.

But I am being far too negative: and because presents make the world go round, I have a present for you of the recipe for hedgerow jam. You don't need to live in the country to make this - brambles and elderberries can be found in towns if you look around (try neglected gardens, wasteland, the wilder bits of parks), and by the side of all sorts of roads. But perhaps don't pick them by a very busy road, and rinse them off if they look dusty. And if you can go the other, non-road side of the hedge they will be cleaner.

 Although I have given the quantities in pounds, remember that these are proportions only, so you can use whatever you want for a base unit. In terms of fruit, I use brambles, elderberries and Bramley apples because they are easily available - I use bush plums for jelly only, because I can't be bothered to stone such small plums.

 You could strain this and make hedgerow jelly if you have plums, but jam is quicker and simpler, and the berries and small pieces of apple give a wonderful texture. These fruits are also high in vitamin C, so this jam must be very health-giving, I am sure.

I make 6lbs at a time - this is about right for a standard 9 litre preserving pan, but there is nothing to stop you halving or doubling the quantities as you wish.

 Strig the elderberries and pick over the blackberries - you need a total of 4lbs of these fruits combined, but the proportions are not crucial. I usually end up with more brambles than elders. Simmer the elder and blackberries together with about quarter of a pint of water until softened (about 15 mins).

Take 2lbs of Bramley apples, peel, core and chop small - simmer with around a quarter pint of water for about 10 mins, until softened but not too pulpy. Mix the fruit together and stir in 6lbs of sugar (jam or granulated) - it will dissolve quicker if you have warmed it first. Bring to a rolling boil and test for a set by putting a teaspoon of jam onto a cold saucer. If it develops a wrinkled skin as it cools then it has reached setting point, and you can pot into sterilized jars. Keeps for a couple of years at least if you use screw top lids.

And after that slightly Eeyorish post, I remember that this year has been full of positives, and I have so many blessings to count instead of dwelling on the potential difficulties of the self-sufficient life. We have grown more food than we have ever done before, we have made jars and jars of jam and chutney, the freezers are full, we have more food on the way, and we are lucky enough to live in a most beautiful place. Take therefore no thought for the morrow!

Field of autumn

Yesterday we had our first proper rain in months.The wind was blowing hard last night and I surfaced from sleep more than once, hoping that the hops were not being too battered and blown about - or even blown over. And then I awoke in the early morning to this view from my bedroom window. When I leaned out to look the wind was cold, so cold - the cold of autumn, not summer. And if you look closely at the trees on the left you can see them blowing frenziedly in that wind.

And the light had changed - today it seems that the sun has suddenly become perceptibly lower, and when I ventured out into the garden the early morning sunshine was soft, and cast long shadows.

Everywhere the signs of autumn were visible. I was almost blown along the gravel path towards the gate, and the last of the raspberries gleamed rosily in the cold and the sunlight.

The crab apples trees in the orchard are festooned with fruit that is ripening with a promise of jewel-like jellies to come.

Clouds were scudding across the sky as the tassels of sweetcorn were blown hither and thither. This is the most successful sweetcorn crop that we have grown for several years, and we have already started eating the sweet and succulent cobs - don't put the pan on to boil until you leave the house to harvest the cobs, eat them immediately they are cooked, and then the taste will be like nothing you can buy. The sugars start turning to starch as soon as they are picked, so we have been sending the Ploughboy out into the dusk to cut the cobs for supper, whilst we sit at the table in the warm kitchen, watching the water boil.

Now the pumpkins are ripening gold and orange, and their foliage is dying back - these are the largest we have ever grown: I think they have enjoyed the land prepared for them by the pigs, and topped up with mushroom compost.

Jack Be Little are the tiniest little gems, which have crept over the rabbit fencing.

Kep looked mournfully at our willow windbreak, planted in the spring. The rabbits devour the plants as soon as they venture above the tree guards, and all our new planting has suffered from the lack of water. The yellowed marsh grass behind is tangible evidence of the dry summer.

But there are other blessings: there are rosehips in quantities, food for overwintering birds, and I leave the browning skeletons of thistles standing until the birds have eaten their fill of the seed.

Most of the Bramley apples have been picked but there are small ones left for us to scavenge in the weeks to come, when they have sized up in the absence of competition.

And the Head Chef has a log pile as long as this winter, and the one beyond, and maybe even the winter beyond that. So we can light the fires and be warm, and I won't think about the thick grey-white dust which coats every horizontal surface all winter long, however much I try to dust it away.

The shadows are lengthening, the light is becoming soft and grey, and my mind turns to the knitting of socks and handwarmers, the wearing of wellies, and the glow of firelight. The summer is over and gone, but the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness brings its own special joys.