peteashtondotcom

This is not a moan or a gripe but something that’s been puzzling me of late. I can understand why bandwidth restrictions exist on budget website hosting plans because this costs money (though I’m not sure exactly how). Disk space also costs money and in the past I’ve accepted that 100meg is enough, especially in the pre-digital camer, pre-broadband days.

But a standard budget PC has a 100+gigabyte hard drive. Storage is bloody cheap at the moment. The memory card in my camera has the same capacity as this site while you can buy a 700meg CD-R for 50p. Fotopic gives people 250meg for free. I thought there was a catch but then I realised how relatively small 250meg is.

So, and this is the question, why do bandwidth and storage capacities increase at the same rate for all the hosting packages I’ve seen? I currently use about a third of my monthly bandwidth allowance but am having to start deleting stuff to keep within the storage limits. I’d like to increase storage but keep the bandwidth the same, and I can’t imagine it’d cost that much more to do so.

Why do I want this? Well, I now have hundreds of photos I want to put online. I don’t expect a vast increase in visitors by having them there, but I’d like them to be there. So, anyone know of a package of around US$13 a month with about 500meg storage?

Here’s the deal. Go to blogjam and watch every one of the 32 Japanese flash animations he’s found. Then go back to blogjam to find out what it all means. Sorta.

People ask if I miss the internet. In this context, yes, I do. Madly.

The Farmblog has been updated for the second time. Lots of lovely words for you to read (and pictures to look at). Enjoy!

MakemyMegastore looks interesting - while it has a name that makes me cringe, it does seem to do the job in a Cafe Press kinda way with the major bonus of being based in the UK. Thus it’s more useful for those of us with mainly UK based readers, should we want to sell coffee mugs to them that is. And I rather think I do… (via Meg having one)

I’m back on the computer for the next few days. The farmblog is on its way - probably Saturday lunchtime I reckon - but I just wanted to shout out “I’m here!”

I’m off to the mainland tomorrow evening to upload this journal and the photos. These regular breaks do seem to affect how I perceive my time here. Admittedly this is only the second, but I’m so stationary most of the time that to leave the island is quite momentous. Also, because I’m chronicling this here, each chunk of time really is a chapter. Interesting that how I’ve laid out the farmblog site has such an effect on my mind. Not that I think it’s a serious effect, just notable.

And so this second chapter draws to a conclusion. I’ve just read through the three weeks of entries and it’s been quite momentous, and yet it seems to have flowed by quite smoothly. The depression attack is still quite worrying but as time goes by it seems to have been a blip, a flashback. Of course, it might not have been. I’ll be watching my mood to see if it might come on again. I did notice a similar thing coming on today as I got fed up with the weeding this afternoon, but rather than carry on I switched jobs and everything was okay. Variety, and all that.

One interesting thing about this journal is how it’s drifting away from being purely about the farm with other subjects coming in. This is not a problem - the journal is about me being on a farm and how I’m living with it - but it’s perhaps noteworthy that a lot of these non-farm entries would normally have gone on the main tradblog. I wonder, when I’m back with regular net access, whether I’ll keep the weblog and journal separate (at least as writing projects - obviously they can be merged on the site). When I get back next week I’ll be joining the library and making use of net access there. Obviously I won’t be blogging my life as that’s farmblog fodder. I’ve always mixed up the diary stuff with the blogging stuff so it’ll be an interesting move to separate them, even if it is forced by circumstances.

I’m getting worried about the lambs, although I’m trying not to get too concerned. They’ve been out in the field-paddock for a few days now and are still hanging around in the corner nearest the house during the day and by my caravan during the night. They’re not too relaxed, either. Their breathing is rapid and they’re always so close together. Tonight they got a bit restless as the darkness drew in started jumping around, butting each other quite aggressively. I suspect the close proximity they’ve been keeping had gotten too much (or there’s getting into John Peel’s taste in music emanating from my caravan). I wonder how long it will take to get them used to the great outdoors? Lambs normally have their mother sheep to hang around with for security but these ones don’t. Hopefully they’ll get through it without being too scarred by the experience.

The bonfire is still burning. This morning there were flames coming out of the top which we took advantage of, adding some dry stuff I’d recently cut down. In an ideal world the fire will be the same when I get back from the mainland while the lambs will not. We’ll see.

The summer weather broke through today most gloriously. I took my regular Wednesday morning walk into Godshill to buy some cigarette papers and set up a standing order for the Saturday Guardian and was sweating by 9.30am. Oh, glorious anticyclone, most beautiful of weather systems, how I respect and love you. Sun! Clear skies! A very slight and gentle breeze! This is what summer is all about. And it’s going to last, for a few days at least!

The few people I’ve mentioned this too, okay the two people, didn’t know what an anticyclone was. I think I came across it on a particularly informative weather forecast in my childhood and, while I’ve never heard about it since, the wonderful simplicity of it struck me so hard I committed it to memory. Here’s the basics.

You know how a cyclone works - a tight piece of intense weather spinning around a small point very quickly. An anticyclone is, as you’d expect, the opposite. But if you think of a cyclone as being similar to a bath plughole draining, an anticyclone is not like playing a film of this backward. It’s more the opposite in every way.

Rather than spinning in, the anticyclone spins out. Rather than being very fast, it’s very slow. Rather than concentrating rainclouds in one place it disperses them. The end result is a massive spiral covering a huge amount of land which spreads whatever weather was in it thinly while not letting any new weather in. End result: clear skies letting in the sun and no strong winds to disperse the heat. Lovely!

And the ground is heating up nicely. Last night I threw off the two blankets I normally have over my sleeping bag and as I write this I’m not wearing the wooly hat, two jumpers and gloves I normally wear. It’s a revelation.

(Definition of “anticyclone”)

Done it - one field of about 7-8 acres has been methodically swept by me for ragwort. Yay! Now I just have to sweep it for thistles. Boo! But first I’m painting the carport (actually a corrugated iron shelter) green and planting some climbing plants in front of it. Yay!

In other news, the lambs are slowly getting used to their new home but still hang around as close to humans as possible. While they are currently still making their home for the night right by my caravan, at least they’re asleep. Got a really cute photo of the little one just now!

The bonfire is still smouldering three days after starting. Smoke pours out in fits and spurts like a sleeping volcano. Unfortunately the wind has changed direction and it now passes by my window, but it’s not so bad. There’s plenty of stuff still on it, which is not such a good thing, but it does mean it’ll probably keep going for a couple more days in this dry weather.

I went topless in the field today and wore shorts! Not only is this more comfortable in the heat (see next entry for more on the weather) but I’d like to merge my winter city-boy white torso with my countryside worker deep tanned arms. Currently it looks… well, it looks very odd.

The only downside to bearing skin is the danger of thistles and nettles, but it actually didn’t turn out so bad. My legs are amazingly unscathed and the occasional nettle sting was soon corrected with a doc leaf. You don’t see doc leaves around much any more and I suspect they’ve been the victim of over-zealous spraying. I remember them being everywhere when I was a nipper and a nettle sting was tantamount to being bitten by a dog. But there are loads here. Nuff said.

What happened today then. Well, I allowed myself a small jump of joy as the top three quarters of the field are now clear of ragwort. There remains one dense patch at the bottom and a general sweep and then it’s all done, ragwort-wise. Should have the whole thing cleared by the end of the week.

You might be wondering whether this is really worth it. I’ve been wondering this myself a few times as this seems such a waste of time. But then you have to remember that what has been about four weeks cumulative work by me has prepared the hay for the whole winter feeding the cows and sheep as well as being used for bedding for most of them over the year as needed. So it’s not that stoopid really.

I’ve been struck by the range of grasses up on the field because you don’t usually see such a variety. Most lawns and parks have a single variety while most farms are a uniform dark green. Here there are lush thick grasses that don’t grow too tall, very tall blades of grass, long stems with seed bunches at the top and many more varieties. Even within those descriptions there are numerous shades and densities making for a patchwork that shimmers as some grasses bend more in the wind.

I suspected that this was unique to an organic field and, yes, pesticides and weed killers do render a field of grass uniform. Interestingly, the mixed up organic field is not only better for the animals because of the lack of chemicals but also gives them a more varied diet. So for the herbivores these fields are like an infinite menu of every flavour under the sun (or at least the Isle of Wight sun). Add to this all the insects, and the animals that feed on them, that survive because of the lack of pesticides, and whatever else feeds on particular grasses, and, well, it’s all nature, innit.

And to think, all of that would be wiped away with a day’s spraying.

I didn’t think that lambs could yawn, but then dogs and cats do so there’s no reason why not. It would seem the lambs didn’t sleep last night as they’re sleeping on and off now, either in dozing sitting position, or more spread out. Then, when they’re awake they stagger around all dopey with heavy eyes.

This morning M brought my breakfast to the caravan (her son’s family are visiting for half term and I think the kitchen is getting a bit crowded) and as she carried it in the lambs got dead excited, having obviously waited alertly through the early hours for someone to come and see them. The two bigger lambs lost it slightly and jumped through the gate. I didn’t see this but I wish I had. The bars of the gate are pretty close together but obviously about one lamb wide.

They weren’t about to go back into the paddock so M led them to their old paddock and shut them in there. Problem was, the younger lamb was still in the new paddock. The only comparison I can think of it families or lovers seperated by Nazi German soldiers in a particularly emotive war movie. Little one cries, bigger ones cry back, little one cries, and so on with the volume and anxiety increasing. The gate had been left open and the littl’un found her way out and started towards the old paddock with me following to let her in. As she approached, the other two crammed up against the gate and I had to shove them all in with my knees as they did that lamb embrace before running off as a trio again, reunited after a fraught 10 minutes.

I keep forgetting about this, but Sandy the dog has been outside for the last couple of days. Considering a week ago she was in a critical condition at the vets after being run over, and that the vet had initially said she probably wouldn’t make it, this recovery is quite incredible. There she is, bouncing around like nothing had happened with just a shaved patch on her fur to remind you. Wow.

11.30pm and the lambs are still sitting in the same place as before. Thankfully it’s not too cold out with no wind so the poor dears won’t suffer too much, but I doubt they’ll get too much sleep. Me, I’m wise enough to know where my bed is…

A big day for the orphan lambs - today they graduated from the holding paddock in the farmyard to the other paddock in the fields. They’ve gradually had their powdered milk watered down and reduced and have mainly been eating a muslie-looking feed along with the grass in the paddock and now they’re ready for the next stage on the road to becoming grownup sheep.

First of all, we got them desperate, leaving them shut in their shelter while all the other animals and me were given breakfast. Then, bottles in hand, we let them out, led them through the gate and, with some difficulty, led them to the new paddock. As the grass in their old paddock was pretty sparse they immediately made a beeline for a particularly lush clump and had to have the bottles shoved in their faces to distract them away. I get the feeling they don’t really want the milk any more but the habit of getting excited about seeing a plastic container with a yellow teat is so ingrained they can’t help acting on it. There wasn’t any urgency in getting them in - they’re not about to run away and could probably be allowed to roam free around the farm if they weren’t likely to hurt themselves on something - but the job had to be done so after five minutes they were in there.

After getting excited about all the grass everywhere they suddenly got a bit confused. While they’ve had the run of the old paddock they’ve tended to hang about either in or by the shelter and now they have no base. All afternoon they’ve been hanging around the bottom edge of the paddock following us as we walked near it. While I was strimming and M was planting vegetables they sat in the corner right by the fence in a trio with the small lamb in the middle, watching us. There is a shelter in the paddock but it’s a curved corrugated iron arc, very different from the square shelter I built for them, and while M put some food in there for them just like she used to, they haven’t quite accepted it. Currently they’re sitting by the fence with a view of their old home and I can see them through my window. I wonder if the noise of the radio (which is audible through the caravan walls - don’t worry, I have no neighbours) is comforting them.

It’s interesting how close they stick together. Obviously they’ve been together pretty much since birth and constitute a “flock”, but they stick so close it’s uncanny. But then I saw the same kind of attitude when the other lambs died last month so it’s not a surprise. They are incredibly social, supporting creatures.

I think one of the disorientating factors is the sudden change of scale. Where they were before they were buildings on every side of them. Suddenly there’s a great expanse on two sides and they look so small in comparison. On top of this most of the animals have been moved back to the top field because of the calves (more later) so they really are alone. The other animals will come back soon and once they’ve got used to them, and are big enough to sleep without the shelter (the other lambs sleep with their mothers - one sleeps on top of her apparently) they’ll run with the rest of the flock. In the meanwhile it’s an awfully big adventure going on out there.

Yes, the other animals. Stuff tends to happen over the weekends when Fred-the-Farmer spends a bit of time with M and the beasts. While M does know what she’s doing, she’s been doing this for a few years while Fred has been doing this all his life. He is a Farmer, nothing more, nothing less, so he knows this work inside out. So here’s the logic of what happened (and bear in mind I might not have gotten this 100% right…):

There are five calves in the shed. Three of them are ready to go out with the rest of the herd since the weather is good and they’re nearly grownup. BUT! One of them is to be sold. Now, apparently, trying to separate a cow from some other cows is very difficult . Why, I don’t know, but it is and I’m content to accept that. So, until the calf is sold, the three of them are on their own.

Breeding animals is a bit of a filtering process as you gradually move them from location to location depending on the stage they’re at (even the adults - Millie is still “drying out” her udders in the shed on a hay diet and is getting very pissed off about it all). Actually, this only applies to the chickens, ducks and cows. The non-orphan lambs just stay with their parents all the time. Speaking of which, I just checked out of the window and the orphans are still there staring back at me. Part of me thinks I should do something, the other part knows they’ll be fine. Just let them get on with it. Sigh…

Oh yeah, summer is here. It’s lovely and hot and the sun is shining, and the weather forecast said those hallowed words “anticyclone” meaning no wind and no clouds for a good week or so. Which means the ground should warm up. Which means it won’t suddenly get cold as soon as the sun sets. Which means hopefully I won’t be sleeping in my jumper soon!

I just heard on the Shipping Forecast that a couple of bits of weather (I missed where or what) will be “moving north and losing their identities”. In all my years as a Shipping Forecast fan I’ve never heard that turn of phrase.

When I was a kid (there’s a lot of this in my journal at the moment for some reason) I knew the value of a bonfire. Living in Croydon in my early teenage years we had a long garden of about 130ft and, either by design or default, the last 20ft were mine to do as I pleased with. In other words it was a wasteland of junk, randomly dug holes and a fire. I would sit by this fire, often alone but sometimes with friends, into the evening. Why, I don’t know, but it cemented a love of fires for life.

Today we burned the hedge branches I cut down a week or so back and then the ragwort-to-date. I was not expected to work today but there was no way I was letting the construction and execution of a big, long fire go ahead without me, especially one right outside my caravan. So I joined in. (photos of the fire) Mike and I mainly managed the fire while M dealt with the animals, occasionally joining in. At one stage Fred-The-Farmer came by to help with the calves which have gone from the cow shed to the field for the first time. As we were talking, he joined in the loading of foilage onto the fire. There’s something satisfyingly social about a fire. People are drawn to it as some primal gene kicks in taking us back to our caveman sensibilities. And it’s also a good environment to talk.

I joked to Mike about my idea to get Fred in the same room as a tape recorder and let him talk, or to replicate those Radio 4 programmes where a presenter walks around the countryside with a couple of local experts, recording the conversation that ensues. As Fred came back from the field Mike asked him if he wanted to be on the radio and I explained my idea.

To my amazed pleasure he was well up for it. His eyes lit up at the idea of getting his stories down and dramatically recounted some of them as we worked. He’s obviously been thinking about this as he’s got 56 stories ready, three about pigs, and so on. So I need to get hold of some kind of recording equipment, preferably something digital so I can edit and upload it with ease. 56 stories. This is what the world is waiting for!

The fire is still burning. After the branches were all piled up and burning away, the ragwort was dumped over it like a damp green tea-cosy. This keeps the heat in and the core of the fire under control while drying out the weeds and slowly burning them. It’ll last all night and probably keep smouldering through tomorrow. I keep popping out every couple of hours, ostensibly to redistribute the weeds that have fallen off, but really to stand there watching the flames escape through the gaps and the smoke whistle through the weeds. Ooh, I do love a good fire!

I don’t normally give two hoots to the Eurovision Song Contest but that the UK, for the first time ever by all accounts, got NO votes from ANY country in Europe is quite interesting. It can’t be about the music - this is Eurovision - so it must be something else. It’s interesting to note that voting is done by the population of each country by phone vote and so gives a wildly inaccurate picture, but a picture all the same, of that country’s attitude to it’s European neighbours. According to this measure, everyone in Europe, both East and West, hates the UK enough to slam our entry so completely.

Could it be about Iraq? Is it significant that ephemera-loving, pap-pop fans of style-over-content dirge music have allowed politics into their hallowed world of empty meanings and pointless smiles? I texted an (abbreviated) version of this question to my Eurovision-junkie friend Sarah and she replied:

Yeah,the headlines will be a big pic of blair with caption nil points!

Question is, could this be the one piece of public opinion that he listens to? I have a horrible feeling it might be…

(Just heard on the radio that Terry Wogan reckons it’s an Iraq protest too. So that’s official then.)

—-

The Art On The Green exhibition at Rookley is on June 14th as was signified by a wonderfully stark sign on the green in Rookley telling the locals and anyone who passes (and this is a major road across the Island) that there will be Art here. No other explanation is given. Lovely!

Photos for this post

On the cycleway from Newport to Cowes (which comes highly recommended, both as an access and for the views) there’s a factory that makes what they call “blades”. These blades are up to 40 metres long. I’d call them rudders, but what do I know. As the cycleway cuts between the back entrance of the factory and the river where the blades are shipped off, they obviously get a lot of people stopping to look and probably asking questions. At least that would explain the noticeboard. When did you ever see a FAQ by the loading bay of a factory?

That said, the information doesn’t actually tell you what they’re for, leaving you to figure it out. Maybe it’s supposed to be obvious, but the bizarreness of seeing these massive tubular structures that look like a cross between a shark and a cruise missile, parked in rows behind an anonymous looking warehouse does make you question your own logic. Surely these can’t be the rudders of oil tankers and cruise ships? It’s a bit like seeing the Eifel Tower lying sideways on Mars. Okay, not much like that, but you get the idea.

The notice reads as follows (punctuation and grammar preserved):

N.E.G Micon

• Blades currently under production are 26m, 31m and 40m, these are all radius lengths.

• These are being shipped to locations all over the world including India, Spain, Australia, Germany and the USA.
• Some of the blades will have different colours these go where the blades need to be highly visible.
• The blades currently have tips, these act as air breaks to enable the turbines to be stopped.
• The height of the towers range from 50m for a 26m blade to 80m for a 31m blade. The 40m blades are due to be put on an 110m tower.
• The blades are shipped to Southampton 3 times a week where they are shipped around the world.
• One 1.5Mw turbine, which has 31m blades, will generate enough power for 500 homes.
• The process currently takes 6 days from the clean mould to the finished article.
• We currently produce 12 blades a week

Um, fascinating! See how by not quite answering the fundamental question (what the fuck are those things?) they pose dozens more.

What are they? Blades. What are blades? Between 26m and 40m long, radially. What are they for? India, Spain, Australia, Germany and the USA. No, what are they for? Towers. C’mon, give us a clue! Sometimes they’re in different colours.

I wonder if they’re really pleased with their public noticeboard and information sheet and I wonder if they realise that to anyone outside the Blades industry it’s gobbledegook
cunning disguised as information. Then again, if I tried to explain the workings of the book publishing and retailing trade in 9 bullet points I’d probably be reduced to saying “sometimes books are in different colours”.

[Update 31/5: Just been talking to friends Dave and Anita and they've also witnessed the Blades by a warehouse on the mainland and it's all become clear. They're for WIND TURBINES!! It all suddenly makes sense!]

The Search for a Saturday Paper escapade was a good motivator and took me off on the bike to Newport. Having secured my Guardian (Guide? check. Magazine? check. Review? check) I strolled around for a bit thinking about buying things and then deciding I didn’t need them. Having no money is quite liberating sometimes. I did however treat myself to the luxury of some powdered milk and it has revolutionised my evening cup of tea. Oh, and a top up card for the phone.

I’ve been thinking about getting a new mobile. Now that I’m here for the period the issue of contractibility is creeping up. In the past I’ve used my mobile for txts and the odd emergency phone call, using work or home lines for anything over 30 seconds, so a £10 top up card lasted a long time. I’d assumed the same would be true here but even though I’ve made two, maybe three calls, the £10 has gone in six weeks and I’ve been using the pay phone in the village. This is about to get tedious, so feel free to skip to the next entry…

The problem is, the tariff I’m on means that phone calls cost about 50p a minute for the first three minutes, resetting every day. Fine if you never use your phone, but I’m probably going to need to use it more and more if I’m going to look for a job. Now, a standard pay-monthly contract with ‘free’ minutes and all that jazz is £15 a month. This means I can make 30 minutes of calls a month for that sum. Now, am I likely to need that much? And can I budget for £15 a month?

The other thing is the handset - my current one is on its last legs - the battery life is down to under a day, the signal is erratic and generally poor and the buttons temperamental. A new one, all swanky and only-slightly-dated looking, will cost £25-30. So, for a year, we’re talking an extra £210. Hmm…

I guess the real issue is, if I’m supposed to be living the minimalist life with no distractions, what do I need a mobile for? Currently I make do with the very occasional call or txt and use letters with stamps, just like we used to in the early 90s. Do I really want to be carrying a mobile around the farm taking calls from friends in London and holding the phone up to the lambs? Well, put like that…

In other news, since I visited them a fortnight ago the library has installed new computers and are offering free net access, as opposed to the old computers with dial-up connections costing £1.00 for 10 minutes. Only problem is I have to be a member of the library to use them, and to do that I need proof of address. All my official documents, well, my bank statements, are going to my mum’s in Winchester. I explained the “working on a farm for a few months” thing and was told a letter from my employer would do. I wonder how a hand-written note from M will go down…

Interesting that they only let people use the net whose details they have. I guess this is so they can check back on what sites people have visited should they prove to be international terrorists or something. Interestingly, the library on Camomile St in The City lets anyone use their computers, even if they look like me (and compared to a suited businessman of London’s financial district I do look like an international terrorist of sorts). The implication is that people on the Island are more likely to use the net for nefarious means than folks in EC2, and no, I’m not going to bring any Badlands style, redneck isolationist stereotypes out of that. No sir.

It’s not often the news brings a flood of reminiscences so I was slightly taken aback when the Radio 4 news reader announced, in that required solemn tone they use regardless of the optimism factor, that the schools funding crisis had reached such a level that a south London school had sent it’s pupils home early. “Edenham High School in Croydon…” Huh? That’s my old secondary school.

I’ve done the friends reunited thangdango twice now with good results so there shouldn’t be much more to float to the surface, but today the Guardian (yes, I managed to get a copy in Newport, thanks for asking) ran a photo of kids going home from Edenham - three boys with those sack-on-string backpacks runing away from the camera down a path. As I looked closer I realised I knew exactly where the photo was taken, on the school grounds looking towards the entrance, car park to the left, playing fields to the right. Suddenly my mind filled in the edges of the picture spiraling out back into the school grounds and building and forwards to my way home, a memory buried but imprinted through four years of walking it. (here’s a map)

I moved from Croydon to Winchester straight after my GCSEs in 1989 and while I went back to visit mates I never went back to the school or the local area. Edenham is in an area called Shirley in the north-east of Croydon bordering West Wickham, a similarly suburban area of Bromley. As you’d expect, there’s no reason to go there unless you live there. I suggested to my fellow friends reunitees that we could meet up in a pub near the school but no-one wanted to. While slightly disappointed I think they were right to veto - the novelty would have worn off rather quickly.

That said, I have this urge to revisit the place and cycle the route “home”. Maybe when I’m in London next month a homage to Edenham will be in order. The question is, will I be able to actually go into the school or will a scruffy, bearded lone 30’s male hanging around trigger the alarms? Maybe I’ll phone first.

I’m used to there being a big pile of Daily Mail’s and a small pile of Guardian’s in newsagents but it does concern me when they run out of the latter so quickly while there is still excess of the former at closing time. I’ve often thought there is some kind of conspiracy afoot, that Associated Press (Mail) or News International (Times and Sun) own or put pressure on the distributors and don’t give the shops a chance to change their orders. If I was running a shop and a regular stock item kept selling out quickly I’d increase the order - if I didn’t then I wouldn’t be doing my job.

That said, I often get to the newsagent quite late so I can only blame myself. This morning, however, I got to the shop in Godshill by 10.30. It was full of locals picking up their weekend papers but no copies of the Guardian. I asked and was told it must have sold out. I cycled to Rookley - same story. Now, it might be that it never actually arrived, quite literally missing the boat, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it was the worst selling paper on the Island, this not being a bastion of metropolitan liberalism. But still. Rather tedious. I’m going to have to set up a standing order at the shop methinks.

I’m going to Newport this afternoon so hopefully the WH Smiths will have some left. I hope so anyway - I need my Jacques Peretti fix…

Asked M if it would be okay to stay here until October, maybe longer, and she’s fine with that. And I can move into the cow shed caravan as soon as Millie goes out in the field in a couple of weeks. I was right to suspect she wouldn’t deal with my presence very well and I don’t think the sounds of John Peel of an evening is conducive to happy bovines. Then again…

Cracking on as ever with the weeding of the field. Some good news - it turns out that, after digging up all the ragwort, I won’t have to dig up all the thistles as I’d though. Only the really mean spiky ones need to come up as the others can be eaten by the animals with no ill effects. Normally the sheep and cows ignore the ragwort (poisonous) and evil-thistles (too spiky) but when they’re dried up in the hay they won’t be able to tell the difference. Hence my current seemingly never but soon to be ending job.

The ragwort has to be brought down the farmyard to be burnt as it will re-seed itself if left in the field, but the thistles will just die off so I can throw them to the edges. For this reason I’ve been concentrating on the ragwort first but today started doing the thistles as I went. Even with thick-ish, mud encrusted gloves I had to be careful as the spikes kept driving into my fingers and like harpoons staying there. No wonder the animals don’t try and eat them. Unlike the ragwort, which has a wide root-base which entangles with the grass, the thistles tend to just pull out in one movement, if you can get a decent grip on them. Swings and roundabouts.

The back of the job has definitely been broken now and there are satisfyingly large areas of grass that look more like the pesticide-treated fields of a ‘normal’ farm. I feel like I’ve really be using my back this week but there’s no pain there, just a tingle of muscles having been used and adjusting to the potential to being used again. Nice.

I’ve no doubt been doing this for years, but I just detected a pattern that I suspect is somewhat universal. What do you do if a good rocking tune comes out of the stereo and you’re in a low-key environment (ie, one where jumping around like a monkey just ain’t gonna happen), but you have to react somehow to express your allegiance to Planet Rock? What you do in this situation is the Shoegazer Air Bass Guitar. And here’s how:

1. Stand with your feet slightly apart, but not stretching.

2. Stretch your arms down to the sides of your body with the hands about six inches from the thighs.
3. Cup your left hand as if holding the neck of a guitar. Cup the right hand the other way as if to strum. If you’re left handed reverse this position.
4. Lower the head down and nod in time to the music. You can mutter “oh yeah” or “fuckin’ A” at this stage if you desire.
5. Wiggle the thumb of your right hand in time to the base line of the song.
6. Get on with whatever if was you were doing.

Hope that’s of some use.

You’ll no doubt be relieved to hear that today consisted on no crushing doubts, morbid contemplations or sometimes-I-like-to-curl-up-in-a-ball moments. Instead, this morning I learned French.

About a year back I got hold of a 6 hour French language course, mp3′d it and completely failed to find the time to dedicate to it. Since I wanted to guard against my mind drifting off while out digging it kinda made sense. And it worked. On average I’m spending three hours in the morning and three in the afternoon digging so I was able to work through the first two hours twice. Since I can’t really pause and replay while I’m working I’ve decided to just do the course over and over and over until it sinks in.

Once I figured I’d done enough French I went back to the music, this time Spiritualized who have not just been growing on me but infesting me. I don’t like to say stuff like “that song really represents all that I’m about” but there’s a lot in the lyrics of Mr Spiritualised (and I can’t for the life of me remember his bloody name…) that, you know, really speak to me. Or at least raise a broad grin of recognition.

By five I should have been winding down, and normally would be getting ready for dinner at six, but on Thursdays M has a class in Niton, a town on the southern tip of the Island, so I get a big lunch and sandwiches for later. The weather was cold-ish, but not too cold. The wind was blowing quite hard, but there wasn’t any rain coming from the total cloud cover. And I was in a good mood so I kept on working harder and harder as the music drove me on. At one point I sat down for a fag looking at the view over Godshill as a particularly soaring Mogwai track rang through my ears, the quite parts merging with the early evening birdsong. I thought to myself, yup, I could spend a while here.

At lunch time I checked out the other caravan. Previously I’d never contemplated living it in. It’s very dusty and dirty and was more dumped than parked in the cow shed right next to the cows, at a slight angle with a pretty bashed up base. But it occurred to me that, being in the shed and thus protected from the never ending Atlantic winds that roar through the vents in my current abode, it might be a bit warmer. It is. Now the animals are all going out into the fields permanently for the summer I think I may well spend this weekend making it hospitable. Then I can seriously consider living here for a long period of time, maybe through to Christmas even.

Okay, I just went to the check it out to see what it’s like at night (9.00pm) and while it’s much warmer, Millie the cow got a bit freaked out by me being there so late and started jumping around. Since she’s living right outside the door I might wait until she’s back in the field before moving it. (She’s currently on a hay diet to dry her udders out before going back on grass.) I’d also not be too happy about waking up to the sound of her emptying her not insubstantial bowels outside my bedroom window of a morn.

So, much better today. Why? It’s risky to try and explain it but I think I tend to only confront a troublesome thing when it gets too big or heavy or painful to ignore. This one was relatively minor and being in a controlled environment I was able to get through it, or deal with it, quickly and effectively. Of course, it happened and I’m not brushing that under the carpet. Maybe a new credo would be to learn stuff rather than plan to learn stuff. Stop running away.

It’s at times like these the life of solitude comes rather unstuck. I would kill for a massage. My back has been working overtime and while it’s still not seriously painful there’s some serious unknotting in need of execution.

Today was one of those days where, if I was a fundamentalist Willing Worker On Organic Farms, I’d feel rather cheated as most of it was spent, um, mowing the lawn. But I’m not a fundamentalist and as far as I’m concerned the deal is I work and get fed and housed, no matter what the work is as long as it’s within the realms of fauna and flora. The lawn is part of the farm and thus needs doing. I wonder if there was WWOOFers out there that would object to cutting it. They’d technically be in their rights.

Anyway, I was still learning stuff as most of the lawn had to be done with a 2 stroke petrol driven strimmer, something I’d never used before. With the goggles on and a small motorbike buzzing behind my shoulder my world shrank into a tunnel vision as I guided the strimming end over the lawn. The hours passed by, with occasional breaks for water and to let my hands recover from the vibrations, and apart from the sore back, it was a very satisfactory job, so much so I’m rather annoyed there’s nothing else to strim.

A very distressing day which I’m reticent to write about but it’s either than or dwell on it. Today the black cloud came back with a vengeance.

It started after lunch. I had a headache but couldn’t think of a reason why. After suffering it for an hour I relented and took a paracetamol. Then at about 3.00pm I pulled on a weed in the field. Rather than coming up with the roots it snapped off. This happens often and while annoying is nothing ostensibly bad - it just means I have to get down and dig it out. As it snapped, I snapped and a surge of anger rushed through me taking me by surprise. I stopped working and sat down in the field for ten minutes. A familiar weight fell over me and my mind drifted to the suicidal thoughts I’d not had for over two months

As this passed, I got up and carried on digging, thinking this was the best way to deal with it. As I did so I thought through what had just happened, and stopped working again. This time I just stood there as I realised that the situation and environment is irrelevant. This is me. As this sunk in I got teary and my throat lumped up. I thought I was going to break down there and then.

I went back to the caravan for a cup of tea but wound up lying on the bed curled up foetal-like. Again, something I haven’t done since handing in my notice at work. I stayed there for an hour, occasionally drifting off into the comfort of sleep, before getting up and going back to the digging. The last hour I spent getting angry with the weeds like it was the only way I could do the work, slamming the spade into the ground and ripping the ragwort out, until it was time for dinner. Food over, back to the caravan, lying on the sofa listening to the radio until now.

I stopped taking my medication soon after coming to the Island. I don’t have a GP at the moment and just ran out carefully, lowering my dose over a period of weeks. Rationally, I wanted to approach this experiment in living with a clear head, but there was also a lot of irrationality going on. I didn’t want to explain my situation again to a new doctor and go through the whole process of diagnosis, trying to put into words the inexplicable. I also knew that I was in a catch 22 situation. If I admit that I have a depression problem, then I allow myself to play up to that and become a victim of it. And many more things I can’t explain here because I can’t put them into words that make sense.

Whatever, I now think I’ve made a mistake. Or if not a mistake, then I’ve put back my treatment quite a bit. Before leaving London I was about to start Cognitive Behavioural Therapy at the local hospital, finally, after 13 years, doing something about this. I was also a year into my medication, a course which I knew had to last 2-3 years in order to work in the long term. I’d been on these pills (paroxitine/seroxat) before and had come off after 6 months, so you’d've thought I’d know better.

But my circumstances at the time were not conducive. The job was getting harder to deal with with each anxiety episode as I felt myself being categorised into a problem to be dealt with by employment procedures which then increased the anxiety. Meanwhile I was without a home. It was commented that what I needed was some stability in my life, and I agreed. So what did I do? Went off to work on a farm giving up nearly all the support networks around me. Nice one.

Of course, I’m being very negative here, but you’ll forgive me I hope. Yes, this is a very stable environment. I commented to a friend in a letter than it’s almost as if I’ve admitted myself to a mental health retreat.

Maybe what’s bothering me, what’s triggering this off, is that I’m not allowing myself any stability. As soon as I’m settled I’m making plans to move on to another farm. Maybe I should come back here in July and see the first six months out in one place. I should also register with the doctor in the village and get back on the pills. Maybe I could get a job in Newport over Christmas and see if M will let me pay some rent to stay here. Maybe I need to spend the year in one place.

When I started all this it was something of an adventure that would hopefully lead to interesting things, taking me out of the rut and putting me on a road to goodness. I’m starting to think that maybe I need to just stay put for a bit and sort out my inner self before taking on more stuff. I’ve been dashing about, mentally and physically, with no plan or idea for most of my life and this was supposed to be a chance to stop all that. It worked for the first four weeks and I should hold onto that.

Lots of ‘maybe’s and ’should’s. Funnily enough I feel much better now having worked through this in writing. And a lot better for having considered not moving on in July.

The last couple of days have been spent exclusively in the hayfield digging up the dreaded ragwort. It might seem like the job has been dragging on for ages but it hasn’t been a constant effort until now. The job started off a little dispiriting - so much ragwort in such a big field and all of it to be methodically removed - but I now reckon I’m at least 50% done. I brought my CD/mp3 walkman over last week which seemed like a bit of a luxury but which has proved invaluable. 1980’s American punk tends to be the best soundtrack to digging up weeds. Big Black and the Dead Kennedy’s in particular, although I hope I’m not singing along too loudly. “Chemical warfare, warfare, warfare!” is not what one would expect to hear coming from an organic farm after all.

Whatever the weather, the job is growing on me, at least once I get into my stride. There’s a nice structure to mentally sectioning off bits of the field to clear and a nice feeling of isolation. And when the sky clears and the sun comes out the view over Godshill is total picture postcard.

There’s also a lot in the detail. When you’re looking down at the ground all day you notice the intricacies of grass and mud. And you’re going to have to take my word for that. Okay, I find myself dreaming about looking for ragwort. Happy now?

Recent news from the farm…

• Sandy’s getting better by the hour. Today she’s been out walking around the farm on a lead and spends most of her time inside looking out of the window. M has to keep leading her back to the bed to relax, which she still needs to, but the will to get on out there is strong. Saffy, the hunter tomcat mentioned before, is spending more time inside at the moment checking up on her. Also, Saffy climbed on my lap today at lunch for the first time, so she’s accepted me finally as something not to run away from. This meant quite a lot!

• The ducklings are getting bigger rather rapidly, though they’re still endearing. If they’re out without their hen-mother (quite often if it’s raining) they tend to run inside when someone approaches their run. I put a couple of steps up from the ground to their “home” after seeing the chicks have a problem with a two inch step. The ducklings move a lot slower than chicks do and waddle up these steps one by one. Soddit, I can’t describe this properly. I’ll have to try and get a short movie with the digital camera sometime.[Later: Oops - forgot to do this. Maybe next time.]
• I noticed that some of the ducks have a bald patch at the back of their heads and that other ducks often attack them here with their beaks. I mentioned this to M and she said for me to use my imagination as to what was going on. Randy buggers.
• Since the cows and sheep have been moved from the field behind my caravan to the field to my left I get a good view of them while sitting here. On Sunday it was raining and I wasn’t feeling up to going out, so I spent quite a bit of time listening to music and watching them.
  • Cows can run. Bloody fast. Never suspected this before.

  • The bull, which I’d experienced before close up when it walked past me in the hay shed, really is huge. When he runs… Well, I’m amazed the ground doesn’t shudder.
  • Sheep are a bit like fish. One moves and the others around it move to. They can run pretty fast too.
  • Sometimes the flock of sheep moves off slowly and a lamb might not notice. When it does notice it runs after the flock crying out for its mum. Because all the sheep look the same from the back it tries them all but the not-mums bash it away.
  • They are very therapeutic to watch. I recommend it.
• The other chicks are really getting large. Most of them had just hatched when I got here and in the last 5 weeks they’re becoming small hens/cocks. They don’t sleep under their mothers any more but tend to line up in the box facing one direction.
• The two chicks that survived the fox attack have bonded strongly and often perch on their box together. One is probably male (it’s got the start of a cockerels floppy red crown thing on it’s head) and M reckons they’ll stick together for life now. Isn’t that incest?
• The smallest orphan lamb still looks very different from the others with a more stubby nose and black markings on her face.. Apparently she’s a different breed so will keep some of her characteristics into adulthood. This pleases me.
• Finally, a proper explanation of what was going on with the hen and the duck eggs. The hen had decided to sit on her eggs. Problem was she only had two eggs and wasn’t laying any more. This wasn’t worth it (most of the hens have 5-8 chicks and some of their eggs didn’t hatch to begin with) and M reckoned she had enough chicks for this year, but the hen was insistent that she wanted to hatch something. Someone from another farm had some fertilised duck eggs so these were given to the hen. The same goes for the peacock eggs under the other hen.

This morning, over breakfast, I mentioned to M that it was a good job the weekend had happened as my work shoes were finally dry after Friday’s downpour. Don’t you have wellies, she asked. She dug out a pair in my size (probably belonging to Mike, her partner who comes down at weekends) for me to borrow. They fitted snugly, with thick socks, and I set to work digging up ragwort as the rain started pouring. And it was a revelation! Why hadn’t I even considered Wellington boots before? Was I mad?

When I was a kid, aged 8-12, I live in the small village of Weston In Gordano near Portishead (yes, as in the band) near Bristol and this was the last time I owned a pair of wellies. They were black, or blue, with a red, or maybe tartan, lining. Then we moved to Croydon and I became a teenager and nothing was going to get me into such things. After that I discovered the joys of army surplus boots and thus never needed to consider them again.

So when I was kitting myself out for the farm I went for the traditional working boot option. They’re good boots. Brand new, under twenty quid with steel toecaps and they’ve served me well this last month but they do take a while to dry.

Now, consider the Wellington. It’s made of rubber and completely waterproof. Not only this, but it dries quickly even if water gets inside. You can tuck your trousers inside stopping them getting muddy and pull you waterproof trousers over the top so the rain runs cleanly to the ground. The sole is hardy so good for digging, although you have to be careful about ramming the middle of the foot onto a spade - this leads to some pain. They also slip on and off with ease, having no laces. This is important if you’re constantly going outside the caravan to use the loo, as I am. And, as long as your socks are thick, they’re actually quite warm. And if they fit they don’t fall off (if memory serves the wellies of my youth always fell off).

That said, after a day of being impressed with them I did stumble over the style into the paddock to fill my water bottles and landed in the sheep poo, so they’re not quite as agile as a good pair of boots, but otherwise I’m sold on them. Who’d've thought I’d become a signed up member of the green welly brigade?

Before I came out here I obviously explained the whole WWOOFing thing to friends and family. A recurring, but by no means universal, comment was that accommodation and food for 30 hours hard work a week was a pretty poor deal and was I worried about being exploited. At the time this wasn’t an issue - I’d have been happy to shovel shit from one side of a field to another, and back again, from dawn til dusk in return for a bowl of soup and a Farley’s Rusk. Okay, maybe not, but exploitation wasn’t a concern.

I have to report that if anyone’s being exploited here it’s the host. They take people with little or no experience and let them “help” on the farm. Sure, stuff like digging is not a problem and anyone can do that, but it took me a day and a half to make the chicken run for the ducklings, and even then the door was too small. I started the lunchtime they were hatched. After four hours the basic frame was constructed, slightly narrower than I’d intended, but probably big enough. The next morning I “finished” it, but then M pointed out there wasn’t a door at the back to put the birds in, as there were on the others I was copying. So I made a door. The birds went in okay, but when it came to let them out the front into the caged area, the sliding door I’d constructed was too small. The hen could stick her head out but nothing more. With the birds already in the construction I couldn’t start hammering a new thing onto it, nor could they really be moved for fear of traumatising the newborn ducklings. And they had to be let out soon to eat. This was my mistake and I had to sort it out.

Fortunately I figured out a bodge - a large lump of wood on a stick to be placed over the doorway. This worked okay, but I noticed today that the stick had fallen off the lump.

Now, if I was being paid for this I’d be sacked by now. It took me, ooh, 8-10 hours to make the thing and even then it doesn’t really work properly. Fred-the-farmer commented on how good it looked but when I told him how long it took me he was rather taken aback.

When I’m doing the simple stuff, such as digging up ragwort or cutting the hedges or moving compost (which, it turns out, came mainly from the cow shed last year so really is shovelling shit, albeit shit that doesn’t smell too bad) M’s getting her money’s worth. However, I’m not learning much. While I’m getting the exercise and fresh air, in the long term that’s not really why a lot of people do this kind of thing. They want to learn stuff.

So, while the WWOOF host gets cheap labour, the people they get, while enthusiastic, know nothing and need supervision when doing jobs that aren’t mindless. In return, people like me get the chance to work on a farm and get away with being useless, at least some of the time. The duckling episode was one of the most humilifying (in the sense that I felt serious humility) episodes in my life for a long time, and yet I “got away with it”. It’s interesting that it took me a few days to write about it in this journal, so keen was the embarrassment. But the fact is I learned something, not only about building chicken runs but also about my approach to doing things. I suspect the lesson will come in handy with this computer programming lark. I keep finding more and more parallels between the two activities - probably because I’m discovering them both at the same time, but it’s an interesting thing. For me anyway.