Off track

Thank you. Kindle here I come

You can’t make it up. People aren’t silly they soon suss it out

 

Of course my favourite all time writer of this genre is Peter Mayle, his ‘ year in Provence’ is par excellence. If only I could write like him!

 

Try Bonnie Rose Ward’s superbly written ‘winds of Skilak ‘ too. It’s a fabulous story of a couple selling up and buying some land on an island on a big Alaskan lake, where they built their home, and through the miracle of internet we have become friends.
Her husband Sam is not only a thoroughly nice bloke, he’s possibly one of the hardiest people I’ve ever read about.

She also won America lady writer of the year for it. I highly recommend this book. Get it, you won’t regret it.

 

Let me know how you get on with it. It’s difficult recommending stuff that you like and hoping others do too.

 

Back on the tools.

With my fitness levels back and my confidence found, work was calling.

There was a backlog of proper building jobs by now, Tom had taken on my more pressing jobs, but the full refurbs and rebuilding jobs were still there for me to crack on with.

One of the jobs had been on my mind for a while.

I thought I should tackle this first as the lady customer had been extremely patient and understanding through my illness. She had lost her husband the year Neil was born and had thoughts on moving from the lane, but had previously sounded me out about renewing her property at a cost she could afford and making it more usable in her later years. My plan was to demolish her old property and outbuildings build a block and concrete base then source a new or secondhand cabin to place on the new foundation, she preferred ramps to the old rickety steps that were there and a completely new self contained fibreglass septic tank. It would take me about 6 weeks ( a month - before I was ill ) and I’d ease myself back in gently.

Pamala moved out into rented accommodation a few doors away while the work went on, she cried openly as I bulldozed the home she had shared with her late husband and where they had raised their small family, an emotion I fully understood. I consoled her by telling her of a conversation I had had with John before he died.

John her husband had said to me, he knew he was dying, but if he had time he would have the place knocked down and rebuilt, he hoped she would have the Heart to do it when he had gone and stay on in the lane. Pam confirmed they had had the exact same conversation a few months before he went. We both smiled and there were no more tears.

The job went really well, the site was cleared in a week and in two weeks the footings were in for the big new retainer walls that formed the base to go in. The weather was blazing that June month, but when the sun was out down the lane it was a pleasure to work there. Three weeks saw the retainer built and an hole sunk for the new septic tank. With the piping for the waste plumbed in and electric services rerouted by the local electrician ‘Ted ‘all that was left was 34 ton of scalping stones to backfill the base and a top screed of concrete.

My plan was to reverse the tipper lorry up to the base and tip in. There were two loads of 17 ton to tip, but the day came and the heavens opened, it rained all morning and made the sloped site inaccessible for the lorry. Luckily he couldn’t get there until mid afternoon by which time it would have hopefully dried a bit, but no, no such luck. Steve the driver tried, but the wagon slipped sideways as he tried to get close enough to tip. There was no option but to drop it close and use the JCB bucket, however, the best laid plans of mice n men and all that.. the JCB had a pipe go. Damn!

Now it was shovel and wheelbarrow. I had the cabin coming in two days and concrete at 7 am the next morning. The stone had to be in. It was 4pm and Steve would be back with the second load at 5.30. Time to test my new fitness levels.

As I began to load the barrow and do a few loads Pam’s son saw my predicament. He offered to help. Between us we barrowed the stone into the base some 6 ft away by running it up three planks and tipping it into the base. After a few goes it was obvious he was a better shoveller than barrow pusher as the push up the planks was very hard. We got two barrows going, one he filled and one I pushed. We actually got the load into the base just as Steve turned up with the second load, luckily he’d been held up at the quarry for an hour and we had time to be ready for the next load. Once it was tipped and Steve paid, we looked at each other and thought, blimey here we go again.

By 10 o’clock that evening we had done, we were done in too. We had a beer and congratulated each other on a job well done. 34 ton of stone barrowed up a plank and into a base in less than five hours was good going. My fitness wasn’t in question, but I was more impressed with this lads than mine, he worked in Curry’s and I had seen more fat on a greasy chip than him. He was wiry, but god he worked well. I made a mental note to keep an eye on his work availability for the future reference. He was a good lad.

The next two days saw the concrete top go on and the two halves of the new cabin come to site and be sited by the crew that brought it. On the evening of the cabin installation I had taken four weeks from demolition to top out, not bad for a bloke who’d thought he’d never work again 12 months previously. Yay me.

The rest of the job was done in the next fortnight. The septic tank came and was craned into the hole, the sides were gravelled after connection, the ground around concreted and the fence replaced around the property. I then ordered twenty ton of soil from the sugar beet factory to level the garden and turfed it.

She was a very very happy lady when I finished the turfing. She now had a beautiful new home to live the rest of her life in securely. I don’t know what was in the sugarbeet soil, but she had the best field mushrooms ever in her garden for years after, and always shared them with us.

That job and my new work ethic was the catalyst for me to grow my building business. Soon I had built or refurbed a dozen properties on the lane, I had also taken on a few jobs in town on Georgian houses that required special consideration as they were mostly listed. The rewards were good, I was now getting what is locally considered good work and a good satisfied customer base.

I had to tax the van!

 

La dolce vita.

Food in our house was and is paramount to happiness. My wife Luisa is Italian food IS life in her world. The family are from Naples where food isn’t something to to snack on, food is to a Neapolitan what the sunlight is to a solar panel, food is more important than politics, religion, Vesuvius or god. Only the Neapolitans can start a family feud over the amount of salt in a pasta sauce, or the freshness of a tomato. This is ingrained into their psyche, it doesn’t matter where they live in the world or what the local growing conditions or chefs are like, nowhere has food cooked and grown like Naples, to them their food is sacrosanct, and Lou’s family are no different, neither is Lou, so every effort is made to reproduce that proper Mediterranean flavour into our home.

Thank god. My mum’s cooking skills consisted of knowing how much bicarbonate to use to turn her sprouts the right shade of pale yellow. Thank the lord for Naples and Neapolitans I say.

For us there was an abundance of natural food down the lane. There were fish in the river, fruit in the hedgerows, plants in the field and even wild garlic along the lane. People never seemed to notice how much food grew around them, perhaps they had lost touch and their wealth allowed them to buy everything they needed, perhaps they didn’t know what was growing under their noses or care, but they were missing out on some free and very wholesome wild food. More for us!

I’m not saying we cooked and ate everything freshly caught from the river or picked fresh from an hedge row, or even wanted to, it was just a very nice treat when we did, and who better to put the dish together than Lou and her fabulously talented mum.

A pike from the river would be descaled by me using a knife ran edgeways along the back over a bucket of water to expose the flesh. Then with a freshly sharpened knife I would fillet the pike, the head and tail would be discarded in favour of the fleshier parts of the body, they in turn would be sliced away from the myriad of bones that form the shape of a pike. Overnight the fillets would be soaked in salt water to remove the earthy taste that often spoils the taste of river fish.

The next day the water would be drained and fresh water added to soak in until the frying pan beckoned.

To accompany pike would be a side salad of freshly picked and sliced tomatoes soaked in the finest olive oil and sprinkled with oregano, a potato salad made with potatoes boiled in the skin, peeled after and diced, salt would be added along with olive oil balsamic vinegar more oregano and salt. A fresh tasting accompaniment to the pike fillets; that were dipped in flour and gently fried.

The meal had a taste of the Italian countryside. The fish tasted fresh and juicy as if it had simply leapt from the river into the frying pan that minute, the tomato salad was so sweet soaked in the best olive oil it tasted like eating the sunshine itself, the potato salad filled the stomach as it washed down by a glass of Barolo or chianti. Our meals took over the day, we would eat antipasto as a first course, the fish as a main and bread and cheeses the third course. The cheeses were always sourced and sampled locally before finding their way to our larder. We had some fabulous local cheese makers and sought them out eagerly sampling before we bought.

The whole day would be taken up on days like this, Lou and her mum would be cooking happily most of the mornings, chatting contentedly about the way a dish would be cooked or the virtues of a certain ingredient to compliment the dish. To me it was like watching a master and pupil at lesson.

Another dish that we often found hanging over our fence was rabbit. The farmer would hang a recently shot rabbit or two on our fence and the dish would be planned. I don’t think they were gifts especially for us, I just think the farmer liked shooting things and it gave him an excuse to pop the odd rabbit off.

Rabbit Italian style is a treat to the taste buds. It is known as ‘corniglio arrosta’ roast rabbit to you and me.

It’s a simple dish, but tastes like heaven.

Two rabbits skinned and quartered. Lay them in a Pyrex dish and add a cup of white wine. Add onions and a clove of garlic, then peeled and chipped potatoes some more water to cover, mixed herbs, salt and pepper, cover the dish and cook slowly, then just before serving remove the lid and add half a pound of fresh peas and allow just enough time to heat them through, serve and enjoy the freshest tasting rabbit hot pot you’ll ever eat.

To say we enjoyed the benefits of the lane would be understating it a bit. There was miles and miles of wild garlic in the lane, the leaves go well in a salad or added to a dish as garlic would be. In early May the baskets were out and off we would go happily harvesting the free garlic leaves of the lane. In August and September the hedges were filled with blackberries, beech nuts and hazelnuts. It was a race to beat the squirrels to the nuts though, they’re the masters of nut collection without doubt.

In Italy they eat acorns, I’d eaten them in Calabria and was curious as to how they were prepared. Lou’s dad showed me how.

Collect the acorns and peel off the outer green skin, keep a net, like the ones peas or onions come in at the veg shop. Fill the net with as many peeled acorns as you can, it takes a while to fill a net, but if you had the patience to fill it you had a good supply for eating for very little outlay.

Lou’s dad Tony would spend hours peeling the acorns he collected down the lane, he’d sit contentedly with his little knife making a slit around the side and peeling back the green outer skin before dropping it in the net glancing occasionally at the progress and how full the net was. I think he was more happy sat there peeling acorns than at any other time of his life, I think it reminded him of his childhood in Italy. When he’d filled the net he would tie the neck with a long string that tailed some 15 foot or so, he’d sling the net over his shoulder and head for the fast flowing channel of the cattle drink and chuck the net in the river and tie it to an handy branch. Happily he’d stroll back whistling some aria or other and occasionally singing his own variation on the words ( usually slightly rude ) he’d be smiling and looking forward to the fruits of his labours.

The next day he would fetch the net out of the river in the full knowledge the flow of the river had agitated the acorns in the net and removed the tanning by friction. He handed them out like a magic prize. He loved the look on people’s faces when they tasted an acorn and it didn’t poison them, you could see his glee in revealing a secret and surprising a friend. It was a good moment. The acorns could be milled or ground to make a flour for polenta or a coffee bean substitute. I loved learning these things from Tony, he even showed me how to harvest fungi in the autumn . He used the beautifully poetic Naples names for them, but even though I understood them at the time, unfortunately I forget them now and Tony is long gone. Chanterelles and honey fungus from a tree stump were my favourite, yet there were hundreds of edible ones we picked and ate, I just haven’t got the knowledge to do it myself these days.

Down the lane we ate pheasant, pigeon, all manner of fish from the river done with an amazing array of accompaniments picked fresh from the field or hedge. The Taste was something that always amazed our friends and sometimes we would say after they were fully fed and happy that it it came from the field or river and cost nothing but time. I don’t know whether it was the actual meal or the copious amounts of strong wine we encouraged them to wash it down with, but everyone seemed to love it and ask how we learned such wonderful cooking techniques.

It’s difficult to explain something that is so natural to a person brought up in a culture of fresh food to people that look upon food as a thing they have to eat to get through the day as opposed to people that are brought up on food as a way of life like Lou was, but we tried. People would listen and promise their self they’d cook it one day, but they Seldom got it and seldom less cooked it, no, it was much better to eat at ours and talk about it to our other friends afterwards. I have to admit I preferred eating it to preparing it myself, but I was brought up differently too.

 

Thank you. I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I’m quite happy relaying the story and adding to it as and when.

 

A couple of tramps.

Once a year Lou and I had a dinner date with Mo and Bob. It was a tradition we had started the first year we met. One of us would host the the other one at theirs on alternate years. We would dress in our very best dining clothes and put on the best meal we could cook, the others would arrive at 7pm prompt and the the evening’s dinner date would begin with cordial invite to aperitifs. It was all outrageously pretentious, but great fun and had become a looked forward to occasion, each year the table got grander, the food more gourmet and the clothes more formal, it doesn’t sound like a thing everyone would enjoy, but to us and our silly sense of humour it was brilliant

Just so as you get our SOH I must tell you of a time when we lived together years before.

Maureen had a three piece suite that she had bought at a charity shop, she loved the shape and design, but the cushions needed restuffing. For this job Lou and Mo had ordered a huge polythene bag of foam balls, the bag was huge over six foot tall, and when they had finished it had a about six inches of foam balls left in the bottom. Bob and I sat there looking at this bag wondering what we could do with it, I suggested we could make a human snow shaker from it by putting the hoover on blow. in a flash I jumped in the bag and pulled it up over my head, Bob got the hoover out and put the pipe on blow then inserted it into the scrunched top of the bag above my head. The foam balls swirled around me like a snow scene and I began to dance. Lou and Mo were weeing themselves with laughter, the more they laughed the more I danced and we were in hysterics, everyone had a go in the bag. I even got in again after just For the heck of it, then the doorbell rang, it was the Verger from the church, the church hall was on fire could he use the phone. The poor guy rushed in to the sight of me dancing around in a 6ft plastic bag of foam balls and an hoover in the top swirling the balls around me. He stopped dead in his tracks and seemed to think about turning around and using someone else’s phone. Mo pointed him to the cupboard and said the phone was in there. He made his phone call and left with a worried looking glance back to the living room, as the door shut we fell about laughing, I’m sure he thought we were on hard drugs or something, but it was hilarious. The church hall burned down unfortunately.

The meal was at Mo and Bob’s this year. As the hour came around for Lou and I to get prepared I suggested we go as tramps. Lou looked at me as if to say ‘ no, that would be terrible and very naughty’ but fun, so she went for it.

We found old clothes that we gardened in, Lou backcombed her hair into a frizz and put her make up on with smudges. My jeans were dirty and had holes, my shoes were one wellington and a slipper, Lou’s tights had holes and her shoes were from the potting shed, we were a mess, you get the idea. Anyhow off we went with our swag bags over our shoulder and a cheap bottle of plonk for our hosts.

Maureen’s face as she opened the door in her sequinned dress was an absolute picture, if it was to be all downhill from there; that moment and her face was an absolutely brilliant moment, the shock on her face was undeniable, we’d got her’ then her face cracked and she began to laugh, she never actually stopped laughing all night. She called Bob in his dickie bow and dinner suite. He fell about laughing and called us some choice names as he’d had to miss the news to get ready for this and now we’d turned up as a pair of tramps.

Lou and I spoke coarsely all night, throwing in the odd f word and referring constantly to life on the road, the best place to buy cheap sherry, how to get out of date food from the skip at the back of Sainsbury’s, where the best doss houses were etc etc.

How we ate the meal that evening and carried on all the traditional things we did on those nights I’ll never know, tears of laughter rolled down their cheeks. Bob added to the hilarity by occasionally moaning about missing the news and having to do up a dickie bow, it just made us laugh more.

When our friends heard about what we did that night they were horrified at first, they knew the effort we all put in to this night and felt for Maureen and Bob, but then they began to see the funny side of it and it became a legendary tale to relate. The times I’ve heard this story retold in the past twenty five years is uncountable, each time I hear it it becomes more and more outrageous, but that was the real story I’ve just retold. It wasn’t that outrageous, but we still think it was hilarious, especially seeing Mo’s face as she opened the door to us.

They really are missed.

 

My mate, the other Bob.

We had a great variety of people that owned property down the lane. Some were quiet and almost secretive in their existence others were more prominent and outspoken, and some were positively outgoing and friendly. One of these was Mick, a keen fisherman who also happened to be Bob Geldof’s road manager, or so he said.

Mick had a beautiful cabin built in the meadow, along with an aviary and a fishing shed, it was obvious he wasn’t short of a Bob or two, but Geldof’s road manager, mmm?

Mick occasionally popped into a job I was doing to borrow some sand or cement or a tool to finish a project and we became friendly, I’m not saying over friendly or went out for a drink, but matey enough to have a laugh now and again.

One day Mick said his 50th birthday was looming and he was thinking of having a marquee in the field and a birthday party. I just smiled and said it sounded like a good night, Mick said Lou and I would be more than welcome too and an invite would be sent.

As the day drew closer it became obvious this wasn’t just an ordinary party or even ordinary marquee, yes there was an ordinary (slightly huge) marquee erected in the field, but also an enormous stage was erected, blimey we were getting some live music too, that got a thumbs up from me.

Unfortunately for Lou and I we had a previous arrangement to attend that evening and wouldn’t be back until 9.30 on the evening, I apologised to Mick and sent a gift and card, Mick said just come later as the band wouldn’t play until 10 ish.

Lou and I did go out that night and returned about 9 as we thought, Lou didn’t fancy the field party though and suggested I popped down to show face. I’m glad I did.

The party was in full swing when I went down, there was lots of lights and music and I recognised lots of people from the field and from the town. It was obvious Mick was quite well known locally and he did seem a nice guy. I then began to notice lots of minor rock musicians from locally and further afield, it was obvious we were going to get some decent music shortly. Mick spotted me and made a beeline for me with a bottle of wine and a glass. He made me welcome and said he’d like me to meet his friend and almost dragged me to the table this person was sat at. Well, bugger me it was only Bob Geldof himself. Mick virtually pushed us together and said we’d probably get on. As I shook his hand a lady from the local paper took a picture. Fame at last!

Actually me and my new mate Bob got on really well, I made him laugh talking about our life down the lane and the characters surrounding us, he seemed a genuinely nice guy, but excused himself as he had to go sing a few songs, and he went.

He did a few songs accompanied by a few local notable rock musicians and ended his set with ‘ the great song of indifference’ it was a great moment seeing this band aid and boomtown rats legend doing his stuff in our field. He came off to a roar of approval, and headed back to me and my growing collection of wine. Mick kept bringing me bottles of wine over and telling me to drink up, well, I tried my best along with new mate Bob and we got absolutely bladdered that night, at four in the morning there was me Mick, a guitarist called Gary from Chickenshack and Bob Geldof as pye eyed as newts talking totally carp in a field. It was like a celebrity VW camp. I could hardly stand if I’m honest and I certainly couldn’t talk, my eyes felt tired and I heard a thump when my head suddenly hit the table as I passed out from alcoholic poisoning.

Apparently Bob and Mick walked me home, but they were so pie eyed we got lost on the 200 yard walk to mine and nearly walked to the reservoir a mile away. It was only because the sun was coming up that Mick recognised where we were that I actually got home at all. I have no idea how they got home. I was out for the count all day.

Mick said Bob really enjoyed his couple of days in the field, he’d been at Mick’s a few days quietly relaxing and taking in the surroundings, and he had talked about buying a place in the meadow himself.

I never got to see him again as I slept through that day and he left that day too. I did enjoy his company though, I enjoyed his songs too. He seemed a good bloke and didn’t put on any airs and graces at all. Lou always said I should have got him to sign her rats album as it would be worth a few Bob now, but how could I have. I would have just come across as star struck ( as if I wasn’t)

 

If you’ve stayed this long and aren’t bored to tears by now I’d like to hear if you think I should add a few more stories or wrap it up in the next one.

 

Thank you.

When you said you were a mental health nurse I immediately expected you to recommend I’d be locked away, phew!

Yes, I agree some sketches or more clear outlining of some of the situations could be helpful. Perhaps my descriptive writing could be clearer too