Ah autumn. Season of mists and mellow
fruitfulness. Crisp afternoons crunching through falling leaves and the homely smell of gently smouldering bonfires. Or, in our case, the acrid stench of
burning plastic and plumes of black smoke filling the air like downtown
Mogadishu. Yes we’ve finally got around to clearing out the first of many barns
and having a good ‘burn up’, the term we have fondly adopted round here to
refer to ‘the act of getting rid of any old shit through the medium of fire’.
It probably then comes as no surprise to learn that my husband’s business used
to be called ‘Twisted Firestarter Bushcraft’. Trouble is he’s much more Disco Inferno
these days than Prodigy if I’m truly honest, hence we’ve recently rebranded to
the hopefully less alarmingly titled ‘Wild Bushcraft Company’, (depending of
course on your interpretation of ‘wild’).
Ok, dictionary masterclass and shameless
plug over (sorry), let’s get back to that fire. The conversation one morning
last week went something like this:
Him: I’m going to have a big burn
up today.
Me: Are we allowed to do that?
Him: What do you mean?
Me: I mean don’t you like need a
licence or permission or something before you burn the entire contents of a
barn to kingdom come? Are we even remotely qualified to do this?
Him: It may have escaped your
notice that I pretty much do this for a living. Plus it’s our land and we can
do whatever the hell we like.
Me: Whatevs. I’m staying well out
of your way. And I’m putting the local fire brigade on standby just in case.
Him: Shut up *or words to that effect*
And off he trots down the drive,
firelighters and matches in hand (sorry to shatter the illusion for anyone that
knows him as a bushcraft instructor and imagines him painfully labouring away
over his fire-by-friction bow drill set each day). To start with it was all
looking rather tame – burning up the piles of scrub and dead wood left around
the place. Then he got his tractor and trailer out and parked up outside the
barns and started heaping old bits of furniture, rabbit hutches, plastic feed
bags, tyres, old buckets, you name it, on it went and straight onto the fire. Now
there is something incredibly therapeutic not to mention trance-like (original
sense not the techno-house meaning – Paul Simon’s Gracelands was blaring out of
the back of the Landrover while all this was going on… rather than Paul van Dyk)
about watching something go up in smoke. We were drawn, mesmerised by the dancing
flames on the piles of random stuff that vanished before our very eyes in no
time at all. Another step towards making the place a bit tidier and feeling
more like our own. And to give him his dues, it was all very controlled and
passed without incident.
Hot dog |
Except, that is, for the point in
proceedings where he very nearly razed the entire place, outbuildings, farmhouse,
the whole kit and caboodle completely to the ground. Rooting around in a small antechamber of the elderly Dutch barn, he flicks on
the light switch in the hope of finding any final old clobber lurking away in
the corners. Satisfied that he’s found everything he wanders off thinking, “that
fire smells pretty close now, wind must have changed direction, huh.” It was
only when he realised that he had forgotten his chainsaw gloves that he went
back to the barn to find a swallow’s nest happily smoking away on the
lightbulb, literally but seconds away from igniting and sending the whole place
up like a tinder box. It doesn’t bear thinking about what might have happened
had he not been such a forgetful klutz on this occasion. Mind you, in some ways
it might have solved a few demolition and redesign problems for us, albeit in a
very dramatic and extreme manner!
Panic over, we retired to the house
to light our log burner which has recently creaked back into action (burning
the arses off any poor unsuspecting birds nesting in the chimney over the
summer) now that the nights are drawing in and we are getting frosts at night
(already!). Word on the lane has it that Siberian swans have been sighted in
the area which is apparently a sure fire sign that we are in for the mother of
all cold winters. Bring it on. We are already moving into full-on ‘prepper’
mode, planning trips to the Cash ‘n’ Carry for apocalyptic type quantities of
tins (sod being self sufficient when it's -10c and you're up to your arm pits in snow quite frankly) and dead-of-night forays to the council salt mountain down the road to
stock up on grit for the drive. There have even been semi-serious conversations
about investing in a snow plough attachment for the tractor. You watch, it will
turn out to be the mildest winter on record. Probably no bad thing given that we
have now burnt up every last flammable object around the place in the event of things getting desperate. And on that note, I'm off to chuck another log on the fire.
No comments:
Post a Comment