A View From (Brougham Hall) Quite Near The Greenhouse; Was It All Worth It?

I don’t doubt that my long suffering reader will have had a similar conversation to the one I had some days ago with Mrs. C. It went something like this; “Er, Colin, are there any bricks round at the farm”? She may have forgotten (although I doubt it, for she has a wonderful memory when it suits her) that, over a decade ago, her brother-in-law (who worked at the local brick plant at the time) delivered a large trailer load of “second” bricks, of various types and colours, which, it was grandiosely stated at the time, could “one day” come in handy. Quite a number of them did, in fact, get used, but as the farming wound down, so the remaining bricks, piled haphazardly in the field behind the tin shed up on the crags, became nothing more than a jagged pile of weeds. “Why”? was my rather perfunctory answer, delivered with a scintilla of foreboding. “Well, I’ve seen something in a magazine that I like the look of and I wondered if we could recreate something like it in that space in the garden, where we were going to put the bench that we never got around to buying”. Buildings and maintenance was recruited (sourcing bricks from overgrown piles isn’t my department) and the said bricks were duly delivered to the yard, where I took over the preparation. At this point nobody had mentioned timber, but I suppose I should have known.

Duly cleaned of moss and other less salubrious detritus, sheep having claimed the “brick hill” as a vantage point over the years, I allowed them to dry for a day and duly delivered forty of them (about 30 had been the request) eager, in my own laconic way, to see what the outcome would be. “Are there any bits of wood around there”? Mrs. C enquired. At this point the idea she had in mind had started to take shape in my head, but I knew that, although we have all manner of wood, there was nothing that was in decent enough shape, or of a size that would support the display. “I think we might have to buy a piece of 8×2, or thereabouts and cut it to the size best suited to the area”.  I don’t think I’ve bought a substantial piece of timber since we built the house, so the price of something so humble came as a bit of a shock, but the structure itself has met with spousal approval. The fact that everything costs too much money these days seems small beer, when set against a happy (at least for a short period of time) wife. I’ve no doubt there’ll be a bit of a change around or two before the final “look” is decided, but that isn’t my department.

I took a bit of time our of my busy schedule to replenish the main “nettle soup” water butt recently. This is a little more complicated process than it needs to be, but I need to keep concentration levels down and I couldn’t do this without a “system”. The outside half butt is the fermentation tank (for want of a better expression) consisting of water, nettles, a little ginger and banana skins. It’s pretty strong stuff and the aroma is what you might call a pungent acquired scent (I don’t mind it, TBH). The half butt, just inside the door, is roughly 50% brew and 50% water and this is the concentration I top up the main butt with, on a gallon used, gallon replaced (or thereabouts) basis. The recent spell of decent weather has seen a spurt in nettle growth, so I’m now adding fresh, on top of the used makings from my daily nettle and ginger tea. Free fertiliser, suits me just fine.

The pace of growth isn’t restricted to nettles and other “weeds” either, both vines (this is the “new” one) are bursting with fruit at a much earlier stage in the year than I can remember, although, (given my memory) that isn’t saying much. Both plants need to be kept well watered and they’re both getting a decent splash of nettle soup, as nitrogen (or so research tells me) is essential for fruit production in vines. I’m still toying with the idea of attempting to make a bottle or two of wine. I have a nephew who’s quite into brewing, so he may be able to help with this, if I do go there. I’ll let you know.

The single cornichon that I managed to germinate (another one came through just today) has finally decided to put on a bit of growth. If my chilli and pepper plants ever deign to germinate (three aubergines have just decided to do so, after being in compost for over a month, so there’s hope yet), I intend to plant the cornichons, aubergines cucumbers (Building and maintenance responsibility) and the capsicums together, rather than in separate designated areas of the house. I’m hoping that they’ll bring something different to the layout as well as affording me a little bit more space between the plants than I currently allow myself, especially where the toms are concerned. I keep asking myself “what could possibly go wrong” but I suppose I’ll know by September or October, either way.

The first “new” potatoes have started showing their tops, a mix of Charlotte and a new one (on me) called Caledonian Pearl, so I’ve put the rest of the Caledonians and another row of Charlottes in. I’ve got enough Charlottes for another two rows and, when the first news are lifted( another four or five weeks) I’ll put some main crop in. I’ve never double planted before, but I’m hoping, so long as the frosts hold off, to still be picking spuds in October. I don’t know if I’ll get away with it, but I might just cut the tops off the last couple of rows, once they’ve flowered and fleece them, with a view to harvesting up until (maybe) Christmas. Much will depend on the weather, but it’s worth a try.

Over pints a couple of weeks ago the conversation (again) came round to the price and availability of logs. Geologist Dave has (I’ve probably mentioned this before) a ready supply of felled timber, a couple of miles away from his home. He hasn’t bought a log, so far as I’m aware, for many a long year, he has a barn stacked (in his meticulous way) with firewood, all marked with the month and year of it’s metamorphosis from a chopped down tree to a (potential) piece of seasoned firewood. Any road up, he’d recently made what he said was going to be one of his last gathering trips, although, in his words, there was “still plenty to go at”. Any road up, and to cut a long story short, I took a trip with Dave and his trailer to gather up a trailer load for myself. No money changed hands, nor was any mention made of any future reciprocation, but I’m sure there’ll be a couple of pounds of tomatoes, the odd pepper (should they ever germinate) and an aubergine or two making the trip to Daves house, come harvest time.

It was the “war weekend” at Brougham Castle last weekend. I’ve attended this small but excellently put together event a couple of times (with the camera club), but I hadn’t been for a couple of years, there being only so many jeeps and Bren gun photos one can take, but, as the event this year fell (almost) on the 80th anniversary of VE Day, I thought I’d make the effort. I’m glad I did, too.  Friday’s the “set up” day and the event itself isn’t officially open, although the rest of the castle (a cafe, some craft shops, a couple of galleries, a pottery or two and a small distillery) is.  I took some photographs, obviously, but what I did was mostly talk to the people who were there both to exhibit and indulge in a little nostalgic 1940’s role play. A very fine job they made of it, too. Most of those I spoke to have served or are descendants of those who fought in WW2, but not all. I won’t bore you with every conversation, but three stood out for me.

I had a longish chat with a, ex Royal Highlander Captain, whose father had been in the regiment during the war and had served (he said) with distinction. He had with him a lovingly restored jeep, complete with a Bren gun mount and, alongside it, a mannequin kitted out in the uniform of a WW2 serving soldier of the said regiment. We touched on current goings on, and he was scathing about politics in general and the lack of (what he called) the moral fibre of younger British people. He didn’t think we could muster a fighting army today, much less win a land war of any kind. A lovely lady, dressed elegantly in the style of the day and who was clearly a beauty in her time, was holding court beside a lovingly restored and immaculate 1937 Morris 8 Traveller, we didn’t really talk politics, but she was very knowledgeable about all things “home front” related and had a collection of artefacts from the time on display, which she was happy to show me. As we parted, she  said she missed what she called “the better days gone by”. There was a hint of sadness about her and I told her that I knew exactly what she meant.

Two fellows had set up a couple of tents and created a display of weaponry, helmets and other ephemera on a table behind a fake barbed wire fence, which I thought very inventive. They had excellent replicas of a Bren, a German machine pistol, a Lee Enfield rifle, an Mk one sten-gun and a couple of Webley revolvers (air pistols, but heavy and realistic). The older of the two was the son of a man who’d been a corporal in REME during the war, who’d seen action but had never really spoken about it. He was there to keep his dads memory alive and to talk to people (generally younger than me) about the debt of gratitude we owed to those who served, especially those who made the ultimate sacrifice. He didn’t really touch on the politics of it all, but the same tinge of sadness that I’d already heard was in his voice.

The younger fellow was in his late twenties and he was very forthcoming about his peers, both those he currently worked amongst and those he’d gone to school with. He told me that not one of his friends (I got the feeling he was using the word loosely) understood his fascination with his collection of militaria, or his belief that the greatest generation this nation has ever produced was being forgotten by the very people those same people had sacrificed themselves to save. He called them spineless and echoed the sentiments of the Royal Highlander Captain regarding our ability to field a fully functioning “fighting force”. I came away with mixed feelings, but I know where these people are coming from and I’m concerned, as they all are, at how ordinary folk like us (whose children and grandchildren would be the ones to fight and die, in the event of a land war), with memories of both worse and better times, are seen by many on “the left” as freaks and relics.
 

© Colin Cross 2025