Sunday, 7 February 2010

London town

Short blog this week, because i have to nip to London for a couple of days. The trip is unexpected and I'm pretty much leaving Debbie with a pile of hassle, but a phone call late yesterday with my brother means i have to drop everything and run back. He needs a bit of moral support. We all do from time to time. I leave in 20 minutes. Just enough time for a quick coffee as i pack. Back home in three days time.

Monday, 1 February 2010

That's a wrap!

The trick when being filmed for TV is not to look at the camera, because unless you’re the presenter, it makes you look shifty. However, that’s not as easy as it sounds. It’s a human nature thing, if you’re told not to look at something, the urge to look is almost unbearable. So the day before the cameras from Sky One arrived, I spent the entire time practising not looking at things.
The absurdity wasn’t lost on me as I walked along picking trees or rocks or walls or buildings, and then not looking at them. At first I found myself casting quick glances at the thing I was trying not to look at just to make sure it was there, because if you are trying purposely not to look at something, it feels for all the world like it’s looking at you.
But little by little I overcame that, until in the end I was ignoring things like a professional, and strolling past trees like they weren’t even there!
Then the film-crew arrived.
The program was all about me re-homing two cockerels from the North Devon Animal Ambulance. I’ve got about forty chickens and the two cockerels I did have both died last year, so the hens have been husbandless for a while and they’d begun to bicker and argue; nothing too serious, just kind of handbags at dawn sort of thing. What they needed was a man, that way they could give him hell and not feel the need to fight amongst themselves.
Filming was fast, and we were done in just under two hours. The only slip-up was just that, a slip-up. Walking away from the camera I had to follow the hens down a steep slope, and half way down skidded. What I should have done was turn and smile at the camera, or at the very least laugh, but oh no! All too aware that the camera was on me, I did that really stupid thing of pretending I meant it, as though the slip was perfectly normal and something I did most days. It must have looked like I did a sudden courtesy mid step.
Desperate not to look a fool, as soon as the camera was switched off I begged the producer not to show that bit and bribed him by collecting all that day’s fresh eggs and handing them over. Assuring me he hadn’t even seen it (yeah, right!), he said no, no, no, he absolutely couldn’t take the eggs – unless of course I was sure? By the time I looked down the eggs were already safely tucked away in his bag.
They were really nice people, and lots of fun to work with. I’ve done quite a lot of filming now, and the thing that always gets me is how empty and quiet it all seems when they have packed-up and gone. It’s almost eerie. I think part of it is when they’re there you’re so aware and focused on them, that when they leave part of you is still searching for the camera out of the corner of your eye so you can ignore it.
The program is new with a working title of The Nation’s Pets, but that could change, and due to air on Sky One in April.



Sunday, 24 January 2010

Trouble at the market

News that a Trading Standards inspector was wandering around swept though the farmers’ market stallholders like a bad smell. Customers were ignored or told to come back later, as everyone checked and rechecked the labelling on their produce.
For two pins I’d have packed up and gone home – not that I’d done anything wrong; not as far as I knew, anyway, but it’s the thought of it. It’s like driving past a police roadblock set up to check everyone’s car tax disk. I know my tax is up to date, and I know I’m legal, so why do I drive past staring dead ahead, refusing to glance at the officer as he looks down at the corner of my windscreen for the date on the little round disk, and feel so uncomfortable and guilty!
I looked at the packs of mutton on my stall, the joints and chops, diced and minced, the gorgeous deep red of the meat so much darker than normal lamb against the crisp, almost clinical white of the fat that topped it, all snug in their trays under tight cellophane.
At the other end of the table was the deli stuff; still warm scotch eggs piled high on a tray under a see-though cover, next to homemade faggots and black pudding and hogs pudding. There was bread and rolls and brightly coloured jars of different chutneys and jams, everything neatly packed and very obviously homemade.
I had a large table-top sign next to each group with a list of the ingredients, but hadn’t put any best before labels on anything. I can understand the need for best before dates in supermarkets and shops, but in a farmers’ market they always seem pointless, as all the deli produce is either made early that morning or late in the afternoon the day before.
Even the butchery is done on the day before the market.
Surely that’s why people come to farmers’ markets, because everything is fresh. Stamping produce with a best before date is akin to telling anyone who bakes at home that they have to do the same in case someone other than then picks it up out of the fridge. Madness.
But, legal is legal. I pulled out a sheet of blank sticky labels and began frantically scribbling a best before date of three day’s time, which sounded about right because we never add any artificial preservatives to anything we make. It would probably last longer than three days, but three days was comfortable.
The Trading Standards inspector wasn’t difficult to spot. Elderly, balding, light coloured trench coat, an open folder thick with paper and pamphlets held tight in front of him above a serious business face.
‘Do I know you?’ He said, looking at the stall rather than me.
‘Um, well…no, actually.’
‘Good. Right. So who are you?’
I told him. He wrote it down.
‘Homemade faggots, for real?’
‘Oh, yes,’ I assured him. ‘Everything on the stall is homemade, all grown or reared from my own free range animals that I breed myself.’
He started digging in his pocket. Oh, great. What was he going to do, arrest me? Ban me from trading? ‘There is only one other person in Devon I know of who makes their own faggots, and I’m not even sure they still do it,’ he said, pulling out a ten pound note. ‘I’ll have two. And some mutton. And a scotch egg.’
He handed the note across and smiled. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘if you’re producing and selling yourself, you don’t need a best before label. Because you’re selling direct to the consumer, if people want to know, they can just ask you.’
Oh what a wonderful breath of sanity!

Just a couple of other points I need to update. First, I might have been a little unkind to the marketing lady at the publishers in my last blog. True, but maybe unkind. I gave it one last shot and sent a brisk, business-like email to her with clear bullet points outlining all the information I needed, and got an apologetic response the same day. Since then we have swapped a couple of emails and she has really gone all out to be as helpful as possible.
The other thing is, I have got Sky One coming down tomorrow to film a piece with me about looking after and re-homing chickens. I’ll try and blog again in a couple of days with photos and an update on how it went and when it will be shown on TV.
One last thing of note, I have secured a monthly column double page spread in a nice glossy magazine on top of my weekly newspaper column. Happy days! First article to appear in April – will blog more on this later.

Sunday, 17 January 2010

A problem shared, and all that

I’ve stared at this blank screen for well over twenty minutes now, not because I don’t have anything to say – quite the reverse. I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, and I’m kind of worried that this blog might end up looking like a page out of Bridget Jones Diary, without the cigarette tally. Or the scary knickers (any reference to Bridge Jones always has to include the scary knickers). But what the heck. A problem shared and all that. So…

Worries, in order:
Money – to include mounting bills and the niggling prospect of an MOT on the land rover.
Animals.
Horses – I had to take them out of their lovely 8 acre field and put them in a much, much smaller one with a field shelter whilst the bad weather continues, and now both of them are depressed.
Mother – family in general, including ill aunt.
The veg garden needs to be dug-over and manured this month (started this yesterday).
Need to begin some home brew so people who come on courses have something self sufficient to drink.
Cut down trees and lay them to season for next winter’s logs.
Burn brushings and fallen branches that have blown/knocked/rotted down and litter the front of the woods making it look scruffy.
The book – is going to print next Thursday and the marketing manager at the publishers has ignored my last three emails to her begging for advice on when to begin approaching magazines, etc, (despite her assurance that she would help me), and now I realise that I really, really, really am alone, and face the prospect of marketing this huge book using best guesses and best intensions.
I need to loose weight in case I do get any TV appearances to promote the book. I could also do with growing some hair, developing a razor sharp wit like Clive James and sexy eyes like Robby Williams.

Maybe making a list was a bad idea. It just bunches together all your insecurities so they can be easily viewed with a tiny sweep of the eye. At least when they’re still in you’re head you can only think of one at a time, so although it might seem like a mountain, at least it’s not a range.
Funny thing is, I just started writing a balance to this list; a list of nice thoughts, and it turned out to be the same as the worries: family, animals, land and book. See that’s my point, why does everything have to be so complicated? It’s like each part of my life has a good and bad side to it. I’m happy with it, but at the same time as being unhappy. Love it, hate it. Like it, loathe it. Worry sick about it, glow happily inside when I think of it.
No wonder I’m confused.
However there are a couple of issues I need to tackle sooner than later. I need to get my arse in gear and work on the land tidying and repairing where necessary, paying special attention to the front field where the chickens, ducks and geese are, and strim and generally clean-up everywhere else. I also need to send out a press release to all the long-lead magazines alerting them to the book, with an added paragraph saying I’ll get them a copy as soon as one is available from the publishers.
As for the rest, I’ll talk to Debbie. She’ll know what to do.
Yes, good plan.

Monday, 11 January 2010

Snow and Ice

This, surely, is the only way to travel in the snow - but please note the complete absence of my dog. Dex, my little collie usually travels everywhere with me riding on the back of the quad, but he hates my snow driving, and seconds before this picture was taken jumped off to run beside me, and landed in a drift deeper than himself!






So far four trees have come down under the weight of the snow (mostly in the pig enclosures), but when the snow is full in the branches, the place looks so different and so magical.

Just a cool photograph.


Okay, so he won't ride with me, but he's quite prepared to fall asleep on the back of the quad when it's stationary.



Wednesday, 6 January 2010

Self Sufficient Christmas

So what do you think, not bad? I made it for Debbie as her Christmas present. The bowl and the stand are made from oak which I turned on a lathe, and the middle bit, the stem, I hand carved from lime using a Stanley knife. It’s meant to represent the fact that we work so hard for the pigs, looking after them, feeding, watering, worrying about them, that this is one pig that is working for Debbie by holding up her drink.
I’ve only ever carved spoons and bowls and eggcups and things before, nothing as intricate as this. I’m really pleased with the result, even if it does look a little like a fat mouse!
So Christmas is done. Survived. Actually I like Christmas, it’s just that for a smallholder, it can, if you’re not careful, drift into being just like any other day. You do the morning rounds of letting out the dogs, chickens, and geese (very lucky geese, considering!), and ducks. Do a quick feed around of the pigs, check water, cast an eye over the horses and sheep and bomb back for breakfast.
I’d love to say that we all had fresh farm eggs for breakfast on Christmas morning, but out of well over fifty assorted poultry, not one of the buggers bothered to lay. I think it’s too cold for them, that or they wanted Christmas off.
Instead I munched toast while finishing off decorating the tree. We had sworn to ourselves that we would not be decorating the tree on Christmas morning again, that we would be better organised, and in truth we were, but we were still out delivering the last of the local orders for turkey, gammons, sausages and smoked ham (made the most amazing smoked ham this year. Hot smoked it over a low heat in oak wood smoke for nine hours, and it was dark and rich with a gorgeous smoky flavour).
Then we drew the turkey – doesn’t everyone spend their Christmas morning with their hand up a turkey’s bottom?
I tried to be even faster doing the evening rounds, but the horses decided to escape – something they have never done before – and pushed a hurdle to one side and walked out into the next field with all the sheep close behind.
The sheep just ate, but the horses were really funny because they knew they were being naughty and weren’t quite sure what to do after their great escape, so they found some humans and went and hung out next to them. I’m not sure the humans were as delighted as the horses in this arrangement, but luckily they did called us and I went over with a bucket of feed and walked the animals back, narrowly avoiding getting caught in the middle of a war between both horses and the stupid sheep who all thought it would be a good idea if they tried to trip me up so they could get at the feed before we made it to the correct field. With a little yelling, some swearing and use of a very stern pointy finger, I managed to get them back.
Then, charge home on the quad bike at light speed, finish off dinner, eat, and yes, I confess, fall asleep on the sofa by nine thirty. Another Christmas done.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

Excuses, excuses, excuses!


I know, I know – don’t you just hate it when someone starts a blog and then doesn’t bother to carry it on! However, it’s not so bad as I don’t seem to have any followers yet, so I guess this apology is going out only to me. Sorry Simon.

There is a good reason for not blogging though, and can be summed up in one word; editors. Yep, the book I wrote and submitted to the publishers was accepted and handed onto the editors. Now, okay so this was my first book, and as such wasn’t so much a learning curve as a learning vertical line. I had no idea editors had so much power. We hear of writers telling stories about the time they went ballistic at an editor for changing an important aspect of their text (if you haven’t already seen it, read Giles Coren’s rant to his sub-editor at the Times, written late at night when he was drunk http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2460188/Giles-Corens-email-rant-in-full.html If you’re a writer, you’re unlikely not to have seen it, but if you haven’t, I envy you – it’s a classic). But for those of us on the bottom rung of the writing ladder, those of us who spend every waking hour and quite a few of the sleeping ones dreaming about a life at the keyboard, then a rant is totally out of the question until you’re successfully published (or should that be published and successful?). Isn’t it?

Well no, actually. If you think Giles Coren chucked everything out of his pram and then turned the buggy upside down, I just luzzed a few rattles over the side. It was all very stupid and concerned the fact that the editor was taking every single idea and thought I had about food out of the text and making it into a standalone recipe. I moaned that she was turning me into Delia, which, considering how rich and successful Delia is, only a dimwit would complain at. But I’m a man so I can do dimwittedness – I can do it quite well. And in this instance, I excelled.

There is a reason for recounting this story, a point to it, and that is to show how passionate you get when you begin to live your dream. All those early-day thoughts of getting to the stage where you have a manuscript accepted by a publisher (and only then once you have it accepted by an agent – an even harder task) that will be enough, goes straight out of the window. It’s not. It doesn’t matter what your dream is, whether you want to become a writer, as I did, or a fireman, once you start to live the life everything changes. You become besotted by getting it right, probably because it’s so easy to get it wrong, and if you get it wrong, puff, dream over. It’s scary.

At its height, I would receive five or six email pages of queries through from the editors a day, mainly asking me to justify facts and figures I put down, and clarifying important points. Every email had to be returned the same day. It was a full time job keeping up.

But now it’s done. Editing finished. I can go to pubs, restaurants and converse with friends again. I can, in short, become human. And I can blog. So, after a bit of a hiatus, here we go again. My name is Simon Dawson, this is my life, and this is my blog…