Hicks and the city

Occasionally, just occasionally, I get a mad urge to drive on a straight dual carriageway, eat a Pret a Manger sandwich or just lose myself in a maelstrom of strangers on a pedestrian street.  On other occasions, more pressing issues like eye tests and shoes for the kids force my hand and we make the (albeit modest) trek to the nearest city, Chester.  As a teenager growing up in North Wales, Chester oozed sophistication and urban promise, a mecca of shops and restaurants and *gasp* multi-storey car parks, and all this just over the border in England. Trips were planned months in advance, train tickets purchased, parental permission sought (sometimes) to go alone on our pilgrimage to the CITY.  Years later, from my vantage point in London, I’m ashamed to say I came to see Chester as a somewhat provincial little town, charming in its own right, but I rarely visited, passing by its city walls at speed en route to the see the folks. It comes as a bit of a shock therefore to find myself now properly dazed and slightly confused by its hustle and bustle and relative chaos after months being holed up in the hills. I fear that my naturalisation (in every sense of the word) to hickdom may be passing the point of no return…

Freaked out by the sprawling metropolis of Chester

This week, eager to demonstrate my wealth of local knowledge to some dear friends visiting from France, we headed into town, full of energy and enthusiasm for our day of sight-seeing ahead. Now it’s been a few months (eek, how can this be?!) since I was I was in a city proper, but it made me realise just how much I have started to take some things for granted that I was not even aware of. Take parking for example. How hard can it be to find a parking spot? Answer: VERY it would seem. It appeared that every gas guzzling, completely spotless 4x4 had descended on Chester the very same day, occupying at least two spaces in the once-fabled multi-storey car parks. Having become accustomed to parking just where the hell I like at home and never, ever giving it a second thought this came as a rude awakening. Then you have the tariff. How can they justify ten quid, TEN QUID, for 3 hours parking? And as if that wasn’t bad enough some tool in his wisdom decided that 7 minutes, yes just SEVEN minutes is apparently ample time for one to pay for the parking ticket at one of the elusive pay stations situated anywhere but on the floor you are parked and get out of the car park. Have you ever tried to exit a car park in seven minutes when you have to:

a)    Push a pram whilst simultaneously carrying a toddler up two storeys because she is too tired to walk anymore having trekked 3 miles to find the sodding pay station

b)      Speed feed a screaming baby claiming to be borderline malnourished after said trek

c)   Deal with a poo-nami from baby including a full change of clothes, balancing nappies and wipes on the steering wheel/dashboard

d)   Strip the toddler and fashion some sort of outfit from items left in the car over previous months after a ‘little accident’

e)      Finally wrestle all items from the glove box off the toddler and rugby tackle her back into her car seat.

All of the above takes, apparently, 24 minutes. I know this for sure because the parking Nazis quoted this back to me as they refused to let me leave the car park, leaving me stranded at the barrier with a queue of 12 irate drivers behind me. It was then that I uttered the magic words “breastfeeding” at the *male* parking attendant at which point he turned a bewildering shade of scarlet and could not open the barriers fast enough. Sayonara, losers!

Then you have the whole issue of toileting, a topic dear to my heart as we move towards the end of our first month of potty training. It takes a trip to a city to make you realise that rather than potty training your child in manner of polite, well-mannered little girl, you might have instead inadvertently succeeded in house-training your child, in manner of fluffy, obedient puppy. Oh dear. Days spent happily pottering about in the fields and veg patch, finding somewhere to squat whenever nature calls, do not translate well to the city streets. Try explaining that to a two year old. In fact, the need to be near (ish) to a toilet pretty much dominated my thoughts throughout the trip. Having to plan ahead and pre-empt tinkling disasters is exhausting! However, I do now have an encyclopaedic knowledge of every public convenience in Chester etched on my brain. Handy.

And do people wear a hell of a lot more make up and go to more effort than they used to? Or have I lost all sense of what it takes to be ‘presentable’ in public? Is it usual to look like you are heading out for a night on the town when you are just popping to the shops? These people look like they belong on the catwalk rather than the sidewalk… Or maybe it is just the sharp contrast to my own carefully perfected rustic chic look (you know the one where your hair is nonchalantly swept up behind you and your jeans are fashionably distressed that Vogue editors take hours to perfect but, in my case, is a genuine case of zero time and one pair of jeans that actually still fit me and hence are worn almost threadbare). It was only as I was strolling down Eastgate Street feeling slightly bewildered by all the people and the noise that I realised that I had twigs and leaves in my hair (I kid you not) from battling through the hedge on a short cut on my morning run. I then slowly became conscious that my kids’ coats were about fifty shades of grime from mucking about outside and my pram was about ten years out of date (a faithful hand-me-down now on it’s fourth child). But you know what, there is something quite nice about embracing your position as country bumpkin and actually not giving a toss what these strangers make of you. So much so in fact next time, if I actually have any time, I might start perfecting a look incorporating baling twine and a dandyish straw hat. See if I can really start turning some heads…

So it may not surprise you to learn that I lasted just three hours by which point all of my vague urban itches had been scratched and thoroughly dispelled (Pret sandwiches are really not all that). There is nothing nicer than seeing the concrete jungle disappearing in your rear view mirror as you drive back into our valley, the gentle, caressing bends of the road and the rolling hills acting like a balm to soothe city-weary eyes and ears. Not that our place has been a bower of bliss this week. Far from it in fact. We've had BT (in their van enticingly emblazoned with 'Superfast Fibre Optic Broadband' which we are told ends just 2 miles from the house and will never go any further - boo sucks) finally erecting a new telegraph pole in the field thus solving months of connectivity misery - hurrah!  We have also had Ifor chugging away happily on the digger and dumper truck all week and I am delighted to report that we now (apparently) have fully functioning drains. Bring on the rains and let’s see if they now actually work!

Digger and dumper action

The rules of the game

We are fast discovering that the path to self-sufficiency is mired with contradictions. As we embark upon our new way of living it feels like we are very much making up our own rules as we go along.

For instance, we have just invested in a power washer to clean the tractor, Landrover and various other bits of equipment which get clogged up with mud and shit and the like. Said washer uses approximately 1000 litres of water a second (feels like) and would strip the flesh from your legs should you stand within a 10 metre radius of its jet force. However, up at the veg patch, we are literally scrimping and saving every last drop of rain water to half fill a watering can to barely quench the thirst of our parched pea plants. Go figure….

Yet another bright yellow power tool - are they worried we are going to misplace them somewhere?!

Similarly, take our chilli plants. Three failed attempts to grow seeds that we harvested from our own plants last year and on the fourth attempt we get two seedlings from the hundreds that we have sown. Great. But then we think nothing of nipping into town of a Thursday night for a takeaway curry liberally spiced with any number of chillies derived from who knows where.

Then we go and plant a load of spuds because that’s what you do when you’re trying to be self-sufficient right? But then at the same time I am *supposed* to be on some vague semblance of a low carb diet in a half-hearted attempt to lose the baby weight. Are home-grown potatoes actually carbs? And do they count if you bust your gut weeding the trifid like thistles from the trenches for months before you actually eat them?

White, starchy carbs anyone?

And while we’re on the subject of grow-your-own, what are the rules around *whispers full of shame* buying partially grown vegetable plants from somewhere like, say, Homebase (The horror! The horror!) as we were driven to do with our leeks this year (multiple attempts to grow our own from seed having failed, although not really surprising given that I was using seeds given to me as gifts for my hen do over five years ago – girls if you’re reading, thank you but there are only so many leeks a girl can eat before the seeds apparently go out of date!). Does that mean we have cheated? Or is it no different from buying a packet of seeds? Where does one draw the line between ‘your own’ and ‘not your own’?

Then we preach piously about having our children on a low-sugar diet, living on only natural, organic foods like hand-picked lettuce, fresh eggs and wild berries but then spend a whole day making elderflower champagne with them which contains more than a kilo of Tate & Lyle’s finest white refined caster sugar. I mean, what’s that all about?! Never mind your two teaspoon daily limit or whatever it is these days – we are talking about shovelfuls of sugar to make this stuff! (which, incidentally, they absolutely love - I now have a toddler who goes around saying "more champagne please mummy" at every given opportunity earning horrified looks from any other mothers within earshot). The same goes for the vats of chutney and jam that we are churning out these days. Would you like some fruit or veg to go with your sugar madam?

Moving on to hot beverages. Determined to make use of our glut of nettles and lemon balm, we have been experimenting (read: sipping with a grimace determined to enjoy but actually would kill for a nice cup of PG Tips) with different infusions. Yet literally nothing will stand in the way of my husband and his addiction to the Columbian coffee beans stocked in the local farm shop (we’ve moved on from Sumatran for the regular readers among you).

Mmmmm lemon balm

And finally to the all-important vino. We’ve spent years trying to perfect our blackberry wine, enduring not a few sore heads and tummies along the way. But hang on a minute… is that a £50 off voucher for the Sunday Times Wine Club?  Yes please. Don’t mind if I do. After all, you can’t spend the day working your butt off outside and come back in to a shite glass of wine to go with the wild venison steak you shot and butchered yourself can you? Oh no, that would never do…

So, is this the inevitable clash of middle class living with self-sufficient dreaming? Or perhaps this is us defining our own brand of self-sufficient realism for the twenty first century. Or are we just lazy arse bonne viveurs who fancy a taste of the good life now and again? Dear readers, I shall let you be the judge of that.

State of the nation

I can hardly believe that it has been six months since we turned our backs on our old lives and embarked on this Great Adventure into the Welsh unknown. Opportune moment it would seem to pause and reflect upon our achievements (or otherwise) to date. The big oil companies used to have what they called the 1H Status Report; in other words, a mind-numbingly boring summary of the first half of the year usually peppered liberally with some eye-poppingly large $$$ figures.  Here, in a somewhat modified format, is my summary report of the dream so far…

PROGRESS AGAINST MILESTONES

↑ Renewables

In a fit of early organisation and action that surprised even ourselves we are now generating about 50% of our own electricity from solar panels and have enough scalding hot water to bathe most of the Welsh rugby team, I WISH (but only if the sun is shining of course). We still have absolutely no clue how the funky plumbing works in our house and have given up trying to pin down a plumber to help us work it out. They are an elusive breed in North Wales it would seem…

↑ Eggs

We spent the first three months of the year bemoaning the fact that our freeloading chickens bore us no eggs. We spent the next three months struggling to ‘go’ if you get my drift… A classic case of be careful what you wish for if ever there was one. With 5 eggs a day (that’s 35 a week – who in their right mind would buy 3 x dozen boxes in the supermarket for your average family of 4?) each mealtime is now met with the groan of, “really? More sodding eggs?” as we are rapidly exhaust our repertoire of eggy cuisine. Also not massively helpful in our quest to potty train our toddler. The many hours spent in the loo gently encouraging “a movement” have to be multiplied again given her love of “eggybogles”. Will we ever learn?!

Be careful what you wish for...

↑ Wood

We’ve felled 8 trees since we arrived and managed to chop, chip and stack all the wood without severing any vital body parts. Bonus. Investment in logs for this winter £0! (disregarding the cost of the hideously expensive chainsaw and chipper of course - but hey this is my status report and I'll massage the stats as I see fit!).  But the burning question (fnar, fnar) is will we have enough to see us through to next year. At the rate I get through logs of a winter’s evening, probably not.

↔ Health

Having spent most of the past six months outside we are well on our way to resembling one of those gnarly Tibetan locals, only with an Anglo-Saxon twist – ruddy cheeks and freckles atop a growing number of wrinkles. I reckon we’re also a wee bit fitter than we were before we arrived. Lugging wood and fence posts and massive bags of animal feed and compost about the place beats David Lloyd’s Body Pump class any day of the week. I’d even go so far as to say you can see a little bit of muscle definition beneath all the mud and scratches and bruises.  But whatever steps we may have made towards the Californian beach body (ahem) we’ve certainly offset through the number of grey hairs on our head (and beard in some cases – not mine before you all start jeering at the back about my descent into becoming completely feral) and rouched bags under our eyes from late nights working outside and even later nights dealing with a newborn baby.  

↔ Food & Drink

We are still a long, long way from living off our land but we have consumed our own rabbits, half a chicken (in tragic post-crow attack circumstances) and enough rhubarb and nettles to shame even the greatest wild foodie stalwarts. We’re also cracking on through our radishes and various fancy forms of lettuce as the warm up acts to the main events, which, inevitably, will all be ready and overwhelm us in exactly the same week sometime in late summer. I reckon the current ratio of hours invested to actual produce consumed is roughly 267:1.  At this rate we will be 104 (not to mention emaciated) before we actually produce all of what we eat. Thank god for Asda home delivery that’s what I say! We’ve also been dabbling in elderflower champagne and lemon balm tea. I’d choose these over a cold, crisp glass of 1996 vintage pink Laurent Perrier or a nice, comforting cup of PG Tips every time. Honest.

Laurent Perrier rosé or homemade?

↓ Water

We either seem to be drowning or in drought. No half way house. We’ve gone from off piste rivers and bog to dustbowl in a matter of weeks. How is that even possible?! This is North Wales not the bloody Mojave Desert… But we’re wising up to this slowly with tanks and rain butts now all smugly set up to capture every last drop. It’s just a shame we forgot to turn the taps off before the latest monsoon…D’oh. Schoolboy error. Precious water pissing away all over the ground. Not to worry, Wales being Wales I’m sure our next downpour is but moments away… And as for the drains. Well, we await with baited breath our promised contractor to work miracles in our fields à la Moses. Watch this space...

You remembered to turn the taps off right?

↓Land

It still very much feels like we are fighting a losing battle with the relentless invasion of grass and weeds. No sooner do you feel like you have got on top of it then you have to start all over again. The Forth Rail Bridge painters had nothing to grumble about compared to this! We are gradually getting used to the nagging feeling that there is always something pressingly urgent to be done that never leaves you as a new landowner (eek, that title still totally freaks me out!). On the up side our television hours have reduced to < 1 hour a week.

KEY LEARNINGS

·      Farmers think  you are batshit crazy for going for a run - you can see it in their eyes are they watch you trotting past their tractor: ‘if you have got so much bloody energy come and wrestle one of my bullocks or clean out the slurry pit, you mad townie’.

·    There isn’t a non X-rated way to clean a stem of rhubarb with your hands – try it and see

·       Eggs don’t bounce – so don’t entrust them to a hyperactive toddler (unless of course you are trying to surreptitiously get out of eating them…)

·    Sheep produce an extraordinary amount of shit – it is also magnetically attracted to children’s wellies, clothes and hats (how?!)

·       Holidays are now but a fond and distant memory – the effort it would take to organise someone to cover the care of all the animals, plants and land would outweigh any benefit gained from a holiday. Besides which we have too much to do to be cavorting about on a beach somewhere. And anyway, what is a holiday? Isn’t it just spending time doing the things you enjoy? Ergo this?

·     Its bloody hard work – harder than I think either of us had ever imagined but looking back on what we have actually achieved in the past 6 months (rather than focusing on the mountain of work still to be tackled as we are wont to do) I don’t think we’ve put in a poor show. My husband said to me the other day as I was grumbling about the never-ending task of weeding the veg plot, “would you prefer that it was ending?” A good point well made (she conceded reluctantly). What would be the point of embarking on a project like this if you could reach the finish line straight away? And on that note, I’m back off out…