A View From (A Fallen Tree) Close By The Greenhouse; Remembering The Sacrifice

Storm Whatchamacallit had its way with our little village, although I’m happy to say (for more than the one obvious reason) that thanks to its primary direction of travel (from the south west) the damage to the greenhouse was minimal (one side sheet of glass gone). The damage from the collapse of a huge ash tree in my neighbours garden, although more extensive, was mainly to walls and fences. Surprisingly, nobody actually heard it come down and thankfully no-one was hurt, but the evidence was there for all to see. I heard the buzzing of chainsaws, right enough, but didn’t equate the two things. By the time I realised what had actually happened the village had rallied around and the road was soon cleared without any damage to either cars or people. The clear up is a slow process, the tree itself was very old and stood much taller than the house it fell away from. Had the wind been from the north east it might well have been a different story, but all’s well that ends well. Did Klimate Khange bring down this long standing village resident? There are some who will say that it did, but that doesn’t mean that the wood harvested from it and now tucked away for “seasoning” won’t feed many a log burner over the coming years. It’s a funny old world.

One of the chaps who help with the initial clear up is a local tree surgeon. He spent the Monday (with his mate and my neighbour) clearing many of the branches from the roadside verge and chipping them. They ended up in the yard by the greenhouse shed and I spent the Tuesday and Wednesday mornings bucketing them into large dumpy bags. I don’t know what we’ll do with them yet (there are four bags full), I’d like to think I’ll live to see them become compost (it could take 5 or 6 years) but it seemed a shame to waste them and a bit of exercise wielding a spade never goes amiss. Maybe we’ll mulch or renew the paths around the raised beds. The possibilities are endless.

Poor old Burt didn’t fair as well as the greenhouse and by the time I got round to see how he’d coped he was in a bit of a sorry state, luckily, although it was a couple of yards away, he didn’t completely lose his head! He’d started the day face on into the strengthening wind and I had suggested he might be better served by repairing to the big shed for the duration, but he was adamant he had a post to man and man it he would. I doubt that, given the chance, he’d make the same decision again, but when Burt puts his fancy wellington clad foot down, it stays down. Ironically, both Burts welly boots had filled with rainwater, his trousers were soaked to the waist and his nice straw hat was nowhere to be seen, but his back had remained as straight as it has always been and I knew it wouldn’t be too long before he was (almost) his old self again.

I’m far from sure that a baseball cap is going to be the best thing to keep Burt warm and dry over this winter, a sou’wester might be a better pick, but I’ve asked him to at least consider taking the winter off, so long as he doesn’t end up back in eastern Europe at the mercy of the people trafficking gangs again. Somewhat chastened by last years experiences he assures me that, should he decided to take an extended break, a space in the big shed will be all he needs to see him through to spring. Until he makes his mind up fully he’s been given a fork to lean on, should the wind get up again in the meantime. What a palaver!

In other news, after spending countless minutes trying to make enough viable fleece to cover the third strawberry bed for the winter out of a few left over scraps (mice must have wintered in one of the bags) I relented and bought a couple of new thicker ones. I’m hoping that, having watered and “fed” the beds with nettle solution that I’ll have enough decent plants to fill at least two of the beds next season. The idea of growing them through membrane hasn’t really worked, as neither watering and feeding have been consistent, so unless we (B&M dept.) can come up with an efficient irrigation system it looks like I’ll have to spend a little time keeping them weed free. The compensation for having to undertake this onerous task will be in a more abundant and healthy crop. At least, that’s the theory.

There are only so many chilies that can be dried, pickled, made into relish or simply eaten, so there comes a time when the inner parsimonious Yorkshireman (if thy ever does owt for nowt, do it for thissen’) gives way to the more generous (waste not, want not) version and those neighbours who aren’t already in receipt of capsicum largesse get an opportunity to share in the end of season bounty. I was just titivating the display when an attractive blonde lady appeared from behind the hedge and asked me what I was up to. It seemed self explanatory to me, but I told explained it to her and suggested she might want to afford herself the opportunity to have a dip. It wasn’t long before she revealed herself to be a Jehovah’s Witness and, as it turned out, quite new to the game. She wasn’t ready for me. I’ve made it my business over the years, rather than nodding along with these folk (in the hope they’ll go away) or simply telling them to bugger off (which only encourages them) to challenge them on their position and offer counter-points to their many and various “arguments”. Have you read Steinbecks “To A God Unknown” generally throws them. I won’t go into the ins and outs of the conversation, but, suffice to say, she scuttled off after ten minutes or so, clutching a solitary Jalapeno and hoping, I’m sure, that she never gets allocated to visit this little rural backwater again any time in the near future.

Frustrated at not being able to find a decent loaf of bread without folic acid that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg and approaching what I felt was a “big birthday” at the same time I asked my family for a bread-maker as a gift. I’d visited the Eden Yards farm shop and seen its flour for sale in other places, so I thought I’d have a go at making bread myself. Although time consuming (on the machines part) the process itself is quite simple; follow the recipe and instructions, press a button and, some hours later, extract a freshly baked loaf from the removable bread pan. So far, so good.

I’ve been buying a seeded loaf from Sainsburys’ “Taste The Difference” range, at £1.75. There are cheaper breads to be had, but it comes thickly sliced, has a decent shelf life and freezes well so instead of making my first bake a simple white loaf I tried to recreate something similar using strong wholemeal bread flour (sans folic acid) with poppy, sunflower and flax seeds. It turned out a bit more dense than I would have liked, so I’m probably going to go half and half next time, and it wasn’t an easy thing to slice, but, all in all, it wasn’t a bad effort. I’ve since made a focaccia (tasty) using the dough only setting and baked a small white loaf for my youngest, although she hasn’t reported back yet. Sadly, I doubt the field at the back of the greenhouse would support a crop of wheat, but in these uncertain times it might be worth considering. Windy Miller, eat your heart out!

Having failed at getting a set with the grape jelly and having 20 pints or so of grape juice left we finally, after several discussions spanning almost half a decade, decided to give wine making a try. I’m not going to bore you with the whole drawn out process, but it has worked. First fermentation was started in a 30 litre bucket with a lid and an airlock by adding sugar and yeast to the juice in proportions recommended by t’interweb. Three weeks in and after no little expense we transferred the pinkish, still fermenting liquid (now down to around 15 pints once the sediment had been left behind) to demijohns, added a little more sugar and waited patiently for another two weeks to see what would happen, before transferring the liquid back into the lidded bucket, adding finings (more expense) and leaving for a further expectant 36 hours. At this point we wanted to test the specific gravity to get an idea of alcohol content, but the hydrometer which we’d had safely tucked away since we’d made some cider years ago had mysteriously broken itself.

Any road up, alcohol content discovered or not, we decided to bottle rather than push the fermentation process any further. On initial tasting the finished product, which is crystal clear and has the look of one of those very lightly coloured Provencal roses, reveals itself to be “floral” with a very light sparkle and a hint of sharpness which should (hopefully) mellow in the bottle. We have another half bottle to test with the new hydrometer which’s on its way, but I doubt we’ll be making much grape jelly or freezing much juice going forward. We will, however, be collecting clear glass, screw topped wine bottles. Exciting times.

It was November a couple of years ago that I wrote a little piece about my great-uncle Ernest Firth, who passed away on the 11th of November 1918 from wounds received in an action, for which he was awarded the Military Medal for gallantry under fire. He was serving in the KOYLI’s and had joined up at the start of the war. He was the first born in the family, my grandads eldest brother and, apparently, the very apple of his mothers eye. His loss was very keenly felt. Further investigation has revealed that two of my great great-uncles, Alfred and Leonard Henstock were also killed in action in the same conflict, Alfred in September 1916 and Leonard also in November 1918. Although they were my grandads uncles they were both young men about the same age as my grandad, being the children of a second marriage. I don’t want to get maudlin about this, these families were just two of a great many to suffer in this way, but I do find myself questioning (more as I get older) what it was all for and whether, in the final reckoning, their sacrifice was worth the legacy that’s since been created. I don’t suppose any of us that are left will ever really know. “For Our Today They Gave Their Tomorrow” carries increasing poignancy the older I get.
 

© Colin Cross 2026