raised beds

peeling bark

raised bed detail

equipment

construction finished, awaiting soil

These beds are a bit different to the ones that I have made in the past.  To start with there was no wood, neatly cut into planks, waiting to be used, just the surrounding forest with trees aplenty.  Secondly, the beds mustn’t look anything, not anything, like coffins.  Sue had ripped out the last raised beds that had been constructed as they reminded her too much of death, the way they were laid out like graves in a cemetery, so not a regular rectangular shape then.  On top of that, the ground sloped at a strange angle, so with the design I chose, to produce a horizontal planting surface, construction had to adjust to the slope on two planes.  There is nothing like a good challenge.

Thankfully, almost by magic, Jordi (I think that’s how it’s spelled) came out of the woods to work to earn some money clearing the forest.  He embraced the task of finding suitable timber for construction, rather than the usual firewood demands and before the day was out, had cut and prepared good straight trunks of a couple of dozen pine trees.  He expressed concern that they were not going to be left to dry and harden for a year, but assured us that they would last a good eight years, if not ten or twelve, even if used immediately.  

I hauled the timbers back to the garden area, sometimes with the help of Geoff, and set too peeling off the bark.  This allows the wood to dry and harden faster and reduces the possibility of rot setting in, especially where the wood remains in contact with damp earth for any length of time.  Improvisation is often required and the best tool I could find for the job was a scythe blade.  I knew it was available as I had stolen its handle to repair a fork whose handle had disintegrated in my hands, absolutely riddled with woodworm.  It’s no big deal, as Jordi will no doubt cut a nice length of chestnut and craft a new one sometime.  The scythe blade worked a treat, just like a giant potato peeler, sliding under the bark, peeling it free from the wood in long strands.  A bit tricky round the knots and sticky from resin, I peeled for a couple of days whilst working up courage to tackle the next stage of the operation.

Cutting and notching the poles so that they fitted together easily was going to require using a chain saw.  I know that they look simple to use but I have  avoided them till now, graphic descriptions of injuries and visualising the speed that flesh disappears under a fast moving blade has always been enough.  Leave such tasks to the professionals and stick to hand tools when possible has been my motto.  Here I was offered the full protective kit, so I thought I would give it a go.  I consulted several safety videos on line then donned my kevlar trousers, heavy duty boots and gloves, face, head and ear defenders, checked over the machine and was ready.

(Kevlar is an amazing material, it consists of millions of threads, compacted into a thick cloth.  Once it is cut, the threads expand to produce a mass of strong fibers that break loose and jam up the moving blade of a saw in moments, stopping it before it has time to do excessive damage.  I wasn’t about to test it, but allowed it a small amount of my trust.)

Equipped with a tiny chainsaw I started with straight cuts and tidying up errant branch stubs that had been left during the felling.  I soon progressed to forming the angled notches needed to stack the timbers and form the beds.  Construction started with the lowest angled corner, building up level by level, adding longer lengths and additional corners determined by the lie of the land and the thickness of the branches. The aim was to build high enough to get one complete layer of wood, defining the outline of the planting area and then to fill the structure with soil.  It was great.  I enjoyed using the chain saw, progressing with more speed and efficiency each time I used it.  (never forgetting how close I was to those flesh eating teeth) 

I finished one bed then continued with another two simultaneously, using the offcuts from one to fill in gaps in the other, finishing the construction with a couple of days so spare.  The notches were not always perfectly aligned and there were a few gaps here and there, but for garden beds I was more than happy with my efforts, as were Sue and Geoff.  Jordi reappeared from time to time and took responsibility for completing the task.  We discussed filling gaps in the structures with smaller branches, choosing juniper as there was plenty around and its durability was consistent with the life of the project.

The bark peelings were raked up and spread between the beds, acting as a weed suppressant mulch and a mud free surface to walk on.  A trailer load of soil was gathered from the forest, a mixture of rain washed sand from the gutters and rich leaf mould from under the trees to fill a couple of the beds and my time on the project was over.

It’ll be great to return one day to see the rest of the garden beds full of soil and produce.  By which time I’ll have taken a chain saw course, when I get back to England, and be ready to tackle some of the bigger tasks.

the most southerly house in france

It probably isn’t the most southerly house in France, but it is the most southerly inhabited house in the country.  Nestled low in a wooded valley looking out across what used to be productive farm of orchards, terrasses and fields to Spain on the other side.   Over 7km from the nearest village and accessed down a challenging dirt track, the property is off grid, off water and is only  connected to the phone due to a wealthy, earlier owner.

The farm has lain dormant and unused for several decades, probably abandoned before or during the last great war.  Trees have grown up and now swamp the whole area, they loom above the fruit trees and a forest disguises the toil and sweat of yesteryear.  Terraces crumble and water courses, constructed to distribute irrigation water, lie filled with debris and completely unusable.  It is now the product of man and nature, once cleared and tamed, capable of supporting a community of over sixty people, the farm is now all but completely reclaimed by nature.  The occasional apple tree evident amongst the pines and chestnuts, yellowing leaves of a vine left to climb and ramble amongst the treetops, escaped from its once controlled environment and free to explore its environment.  

Reclamation by nature is fast, it has an energy that does not cease and a determination of untold energy,  it does not rest or tire, it rises early and continues each day through rain and shine,  at night it harnesses other energies and continues its work through the darkness, endeavouring to erase the mark of man and claim back the land for its self.

The current owners, my hosts, find themselves in this new world by accident.  They were searching for a compact house with a small garden on the outskirts of a village, with easy road access to local towns, fully equipped with all utilities on tap and neighbours to pass the day with and invite for drinks.  Instead, they fall in love with almost completely the opposite.  A large rambling house set in this neglected 54 hectares of woodland, down an unmade track that takes a good twenty minutes to negotiate by 4x4 and a further ten minutes to reach the first small village.  No electricity or treated drinking water on site and a sewerage system that consists of a neverendingly deep crack in the rocks where everything has flowed for the last sixty or so years. It gets cut off by snow frequently in the winter and there are no other houses in sight or earshot.   For the most part, they love it and I certainly loved visiting.

Saint Laurent de Cerdans, the local village

One foot in France, the other in Spain

Somewhere in this valley is a house

there it is, fully off grid

and right in the middle of nowhere

england in the summer time

I am back in France again after a great holiday in Portugal, a couple of months visiting family and friends and helping my parents move house in England.  I had expected it to be a bit of a break after my springtime adventures, but as usual my life seems even more full on when I return home for a bit of peace and quiet.  This time was more challenging with the moving of my family home, parents are now happily installed in their new house just down the road from my sister and everyone had calmed after the intensity and stresses of the move.  It has been great to see them move and readjust to a completely new surroundings so quickly after so many years.  

There was other long awaited news too, whilst I was in the UK, on a subject that I have written about on several occasions during the last couple of years.  News of my visa.  The application for a visa started as a quick few months after filling out the application forms that I had to wait till I returned to California and Love Apple Farm.  Difficulties with the original application forced an appeal and, unbeknownst to us at the time, a more prolonged period of waiting for processing to occur.  The news finally came through from Homeland Security, two years and three months after the original application was filed, the news that the visa has been denied and that I will not be heading back to Love Apple Farm to work, not now or any time in the future.  You can imagine my initial reaction, although on reflection, we gave it our best shot and it was not to be.  

I was fortunate that my life was so hectic at the time, what with sorting out and packing my parents house, planning visits to countless friends around London and catching up with folk in Salisbury, I hardly had time to focus on the news for a couple of weeks, and by the time I did, the big disappointment had faded a bit.  My vague Plan B had adjusted to become a specific Plan A and the last two years of my waiting and learning and traveling around south western France all made perfect sense.  Not one moment of those years had been wasted, the knowledge that I had gleaned, both consciously and subconsciously, has sorted itself into an order, my outlook on life has slowly and steadily reformed itself, (I do believe this started from the time I first began to travel) and I find myself ready to begin a new and exciting chapter.

 the old house

the giant truck full of belongings

the new house

Mum, Dad and me

The plan, it has been quite a revelation to me, as well as most of my friends and family, but I think that they probably saw it coming too, is another project.  This time though it is different.  It isn’t about making lots of money and gathering possessions to find happiness, although I do recognise that I will need some of both.  It is about sharing the joy and the bounty of life and encouraging others to do the same.  I have realised along my journey that I have been more content with a rucksack on my back and a minimum of possessions to contend with than I possibly was before, a simple life with less frills and expectations, less demands for physical things and a more simplistic  outlook on what gives pleasure and contentment.

I have absolutely loved sharing my knowledge of gardening and horticulture  with others and empowering people to progress on their own, spending time with folk, hearing their stories and getting an insight into differing ways of life.  Learning new skills, discovering how the world is changing and allowing myself time to focus on what to do next.

Imagine a small house, surrounded by gardens of vegetables and flowers, with an orchard and probably a stream.  Perhaps cats and dogs, chickens, rabbits, a goat, some sheep and possibly a cow or two, although that is getting a bit excessive on the animal front.  Outbuildings for storage and shelter, a small classroom, clearings under the shade of trees where people can gather for workshops, a communal kitchen, camping facilities for several tents.

A place where everyone is welcome to come and get involved, to learn and teach and share their knowledge of gardening, the outdoors and of simple living.  Somewhere to relax and soak up the atmosphere whilst contributing to the project as a whole.  I think that I want to create an environment like that.

At present it is just a dream.  I am starting my search for land with an open mind.  If it is there I shall find it, if other opportunities present themselves along the way I shall consider them as well.  Who knows what joys life shall bring and what adventures will be waiting along the way.  To that end I am back in south western France, close to the Pyrenees, continuing my helpX hosted life with my eyes and ears wide open in search of that perfect piece of paradise.

helpx article in the guardian newspaper

During the last few months I have been interviewed on line by a freelance journalist, Claudia Cahalane, for an article in the Guardian newspaper. She wrote to me on numerous occasions and asked all sorts of questions, I dug deep into my memories and gave the best answers that I could. The resulting article can be found by clickinge here or, hopefully, on the headline of this post. I think that it's great. Thanks Nicolas for the introduction.

The topic was helpx and how it has changed my career, my attitude to work and about any new skills that I may have learned along the way. I flicked back through my blog entries, diaries and photos to trigger memories and supplied Claudia with pages of information, she probably has enough for several further articles, should she feel the need.

We have since talked on the telephone and discussed the possibility of me writing a book, which I am excited yet nervous about. What sort of book? Travel? self discovery? a journal? in what sort of format? what tense? from what angle? aimed at who? or is that whom? It's all rather exciting and I am starting to formulate ideas. If you have any thoughts as a follower of my blog or a first time reader I would love for you to comment. What sort of book would you like to see?

This could be an exciting sideline, or perhaps more of a career change than I had thought until now. It's going to take some time, or it may never happen, but who knows, one day we may be able to read about my adventures in a real live book. I am just waiting to get back on the road so that i can dedicate some decent time to it.

I am not sure how long the article in the paper will be archived for on the Guardian website, it may disappear at some stage and if it does, my links will no longer work.

fresh market produce portugal

I just love the vibrancy and freshness of produce here in portugal.

You can almost feel the effort and love that goes into all these products

images of portugal

Two weeks with friends in the sunshine.

What better way to relax, unwind and do a little less than usual.

So much so that there isn't really any text on this posting, or the next probably.

coming down to the beach? the water is lovely.

the pirate ship went that way

when I grow up I'm going to be this big

preparing for a grilled sardine supper

sunset from the apartment

Carvoiero beach and town

Chris and Philippa admiring my next vehicle

modern sculpture in Silves

une vacance a holiday

(scroll down for english version)

Je suis parti de la maison en paille pour une vacance en Portugal avec quelle ques amies.

De Bagnere de Bigorre j’ai fait du stop a Barcelone. Une voyage sans plan, seulement que la depart avec Julien etait le vendredi matin a quatre heures du matin. Apres ca, une melange des voitures et voyages quelle ques longues, et quelle ques courts.

Le deuxieme voyage etait le plus difficile a trouvée, a cinque heures moins le quart il restait la nuit. Il n’y a pas beaucoup de voitures et, peut etre trop dangerous pour les gens d’arreter.

Un homme qui travaille a la usine d’ Airbus a Toulouse. Un professeur de l’ecole de St Giron, if fait le meme voyage de toulouse a St Girons chaque jour de la semaine!!! Plus de trois heures dans sa voiture chaque jour, il n’etait pas content. Le troisieme voiture conduit d’un homme avec son fils qui va au medecin a Foix. Toutes les voyages avant neuf heures du matin. J’etais content d’avance aussi vite que ca.

L’autre côte de Foix, une groupe qui allez randonnez dans les montagnes, une petite voyage juste d’entrée de l’autoroute. Un etudiant avec une vieille Renault 5, j’aime bien les voitures comme ca. Apres lui, un deuxieme proffesseur, plus content de la premiere, il travaille seulement quatre jours par semaine et il va cherchée les champignons avec deux de ses chiens.

Pendant le huitieme voyage nous avons arrivée a la douaine d’Andorre, la passée sans problem et arrivée dans la ville avant la pas de la Casa. J’ai achetée du tabac pour une amie et une bouteille de vodka pour la vacance et a continuée direction espagne. Une voyage tres court avec un homme qui travaille dans le station de ski, une autre avec quelle ques touristes polonais et apres eux, un père et son fils d’Andorre le deux avec l’accents impossibles!!

La route après la ville d’Andorre la Vella etait presque impossible pour faire du stop. Les voitures passez a grande vitesses et il n’y a pas beaucoup des possibilities pour les arreter, donc, j’ai continuée a pied vers une heure et demi.

En fin, une madamoiselle as arettée, une infermiere qui habite a l’espagne. Elle a decidée de me prendre a la prochaine ville ou j’ai trouvée la route de Barcelone. Encore une attente, beaucoup de voitures mais personne qui veut arreter. Un heure en plus au soleil, personne a arretée et j’ai commencée a penser que c’est impossible de faire du stop a l’espagne.

Une grande pause, sans voitures et ensuite une voiture de Mercedez Benz, en argent avec les sieges en cuivre blanche........ j’ai pensée <>

<> mais j’ai se levée mon pouse, comme toujours, et la voiture as ralentée, et á arretée. L’homme a fait beaucoup du stop quand il etait jeune et maintenant il arret pour toutes les gens qui voyage comme ca. Il va a Barcelone, la ville que j’ai besoin de visiter la soir pour un rendez vous avec une amie.

Apres 16 heures en route, j’arrive chez Donna. Elle est en train de sortir pour faire un soirée avec deux amies que je connais de l’année derniere. Je prend un douche, trouve les nouvelles vestements et sort pour un soirée a Barcelone.

Le Samedi, je me leve a midi, je passe le jour comme une touriste avec Donna, une fête romain, un musée, une marché, beaucoup à pied et le soir à côté de la fontaine magique ou nous avons mangées une picque-nique. A minuit j’ai parti pour la gare d’autobus. A une heure le matin mon voyage a recommencée direction Madrid.

J’ai dormi en route et nous sommes arrivée a Madrid le matin. Immediatement resorti la ville dans un autre bus vers Sevilla ou j’ai arrivée 16.30. aprecervoir Quatre heures comme une touriste, un bon repas, un lit moins cher dans une auberge de jeunesse, ca c’est le dimanche fini.

Le lundi, j’ai pris deux autobusses, un petit ferry d’arrivée en Portugal. Apres ca, deux voitures ‘du stop’ - un viel homme avec les mains qui s’egare... et apres un medicen espagnol qui travaille portugal, deux trains et finalement les dernieres deux voitures ’du stop’ - un jeune homme avec son chien malade, ils ont en train de visiter le vétérenaire et les deux dames, une a parlée anglais, l’autre francais, donc une conversation bizarre entre nous trois. J’ai arrivée a l’apartement ou je vacance avec mes amies deux heures avant les autres. Quelle voyage incroyable.

J’apprend la langue francais, donc si tu trouve les fautes graves, les m’explique SVP.

A holiday.

It’s not a direct translation but an expansion on the french version above.

I left Dominiques straw house at four in the morning with Julien and Théo, they were heading to Paris and I wanted to take advantage of an early lift. Slightly too early in fact but in the right direction. I was heading to southern Portugal to holiday with some english friends by the cheapest means possible within the time available.

An hour into the journey and I find myself at the entrance to an autoroute (motorway/freeway) in the middle of nowhere. Who in their right mind would pick up a hitch hiker there. A great guy did, he was returning from work as a security guard for Airbus and thankful for a chat though not for long. I found myself on the side of the raod again as he headed off in the wrong direction. A school teacher followed, he spent over three hours a day in his tiny car driving from Toulouse to St Girons, he wasn’t a happy bunny and had recently quit the job to get some of his life back and less time in his car.

A brisk walk through St Girons, a town I love, a pastry for breakfast and onwards with a circus worker who was taking his son to the doctors in Foix. He explained that there was a cheap train to Andorra from Foix, so I waited half an hour for the tourist office to open at 9.00am only to discover that it was in fact a bus and not that cheap at all. I profited from it being market day and stocked up on bread, cheese and fruit for my journey before heading off with some elderly french hikers in their minibus. Again a short journey but got me to a good spot to continue. A young french lad whose brother was hitching round Ireland took me a stretch further to Tarascon sur Ariege, more memories of my summer two years ago, he was fascinated by my explanation of helpX and was going to tell everyone about it.

Teacher number two was in a much better frame of mind, he worked four days a week and was heading to the mountains to gather mushrooms with two of his eight huskies, sled rides for the tourists in the winter and they always need exercise.....

Then a lucky break, a longer ride all the way into Andorra. My chauffeur, a motor cycle nut had driven the road all his life and we flew up that mountain pass as fast as the other traffic would allow, exhilarating as a passenger so I can only imagine what the drive was like. A great contact for work in the ski resort if ever I should need. Thanks Vincent.

Had to buy cheap booze in Andorra, a bottle of vodka for the holidays and some tobacco for Joy. A quick stop to enjoy the view whilst eating lunch and hoping all the time that there would be more traffic, the road had gone rather quiet. I walked a while before getting a ride with a resort worker, they spend the summer cleaning the mountains and doing maintenance, his winter job sounded much more thrilling, part of the team that dynamites the snow before avalanches occur, a dangerous and very important job that undoubtedly keeps many thousands of people safe whilst skiing in the mountains. I thanked him on behalf of skiers in general. He turned off soon after the col and left me on the long descent into Andorra town. A polish family took me a bit further but they were heading up a valley to hike for the afternoon. Father and son, andorran, took me through the old town and left me on the road to spain.

Absolute nightmare, traffic belted down the two lane highway towards the border at such a rate there was no way that anyone would be able to stop. There were safety barriers between the road and the pavement and for much of the way, minimal foreign cars that might be traveling afar and the sun was blazing in the sky.

I walked and I walked for what seemed an eternity but in fact probably an hour and a half. The traffic raced past and the road descended through the tiny principality on towards spain. At least I was definitely going in the right direction as there was only one road and it was down hill all the way. Finally another little town with a wide sweeping bend and plenty of chance for cars to pull in. I dumped my large bag and recommenced hitching with my sign. ESPAGNE. The cars continued to fly by, but eventually one stopped, driven by a nurse on her way home. She explained that she lived in Spain and would take me as far as the first town where the road to Barcelona was fast and more direct.

Late afternoon, probably the end of siesta time in ‘la Seu d’Urgell’ so very few people about. I plodded to the edge of town hoping that there would be a suitable hitching place. There were many so I chose one with a bit of shade to shelter in when there were no cars. It’s pointless standing in the shade when there is bright sunshine as the drivers find it too hard to see you, they don’t seem to like people wearing hats or sun glasses either, I have experimented with these possibilities in the past.

Cars passed, vans passed, busses passed lorries passed with very little acknowledgement, let alone a lift. My spirits flagged after a while so I reached for the comedy hitching method that I have seen used by others. It amused me and cheered me no end. The method involves giving a running commentary of all the vehicles that pass with suggestions and greetings for their occupants and reasons that they might want to give me a lift, be nice, smile, wave, tell cars traveling in the other direction how futile your efforts are and how busy every one taking my route and that someone will be along real soon. It probably looks a bit crazy, but it was great fun and got several waves and a cheer from a car packed with locals.

A big fat silver Mercedez Benz came round the corner. “Cars like that never stop” I told myself “ Posh folk don’t want grubby hikers spoiling their upholstery” and it’s usually true. Not this time, a smart business man welcomed me into his air conditioned motor with white leather seats and was rather pleased of the company. He did the journey to Barcelona twice a week and was happy to drop me at a metro station in the city. From Portugal, he had originally visited Andorra to work as a hotel receptionist six years ago and was now area manager for a smart hotel chain.

I arrived early evening and caught up with Donna, she knew that I was on my way but had no idea when I was to arrive. She invited me to stay and I caught the metro over. Quick change and right back out for an evening with friends. We drank at a rooftop bar and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the amazing city, it was almost as if I had never left. Just after midnight tiredness overwhelmed me and I headed back to the apartment to sleep.

I surfaced at noon, we had coffee and headed out like tourists, a roman theme street market, newly furbished museum, old cobbled streets with interesting shops and characters. A brief siesta, wonderful picnic dinner by the magic fountain and off to the bus station again.

Overnight to Madrid, arriving at nine something in the morning. A quick metro ride to the other bus station for a morning coach to Sevilla. I slept for most of the time on both legs of the journey, arrived just after four and found a hostel for the night. Not wanting to miss out I hit the streets until the light faded before grabbing a couple of beers and a bite to eat. What I saw was beautiful, intriguing and well worth a longer visit, I will return.

Had I not arrived on Sunday afternoon during siesta, I would have known to be at the bus station for the next stage of my journey at 7.30 am, I arrived after a leisurely, inclusive, breakfast in the hostel much later than that only to discover that the next direct bus to Faro with space was at midnight. I eventually headed to Huelva on a local bus, closer to Portugal but still a while away. Another two busses took me to the spanish border where a tiny ferry, just big enough for four cars crossed the estuary to Portugal on the other side.

A helpful kiosk attendant informed me that there was over a two hour wait for the next bus to Faro. I could get a train in an hour and a half, but I figured that it would be expensive so I decided to give hitching another go. I had just gained an hour and had till about nine thirty that evening to reach my destination before my friends. It was two in the afternoon.

An elderly gentleman with wandering hands picked me up. He suggested that it would be much better if I had a shower and some dinner and stayed with him overnight, it would be much easier to get a lift with the commuters the following morning. I knew his game even though he was only speaking Portuguese and he begrudgingly left me at a good place to continue. Not long afterwards I was whizzing down the motorway in a doctors’ car discussing european politics in french until he discovered that I was english then we switched languages. An hour or so later he dropped me at a convenient station and I caught up with an earlier train. It took me to Faro, I continued on another train to Estombar, a short distance from Lagoa, where I got a ride in the fastest time imaginable. I left the station put out my thumb, a young guy pulled up, en route to the vets with his giant dog in the back and deposited me, ten minutes later at the junction of the final leg of my journey.

The heat of the evening sun, the smell of the sea, a familiar road and the knowledge that I could walk all the way now and still reach my destination in good time. The pressure was off I had as good as made it. My steps were light even though my packs were heavy, I had thoroughly enjoyed my journey and was content to savour the remaining minutes however they turned out to be.

Two elderly ladies stopped before I had walked as far as the dilapidated windmill on the corner. One spoke french and the other one english, so for the last ride of my journey we had a strange and amusing conversation in three languages. I spoke to each of them in the tongue they understood and they in turn shared my phrases with each other in portuguese. Five minutes later they dropped me at the sea front in Carvoeiro and wished me a pleasant stay. I strode up the steep hill to the apartment, happy to have to have arrived back in a town with so many wonderful memories and excited at the thought of a holiday for the next couple of weeks.