Dave's blog

Writing your own publicity is a tricky business. It is fine if you have a leaning towards the supercilious or are comfortable with your own ego but, as a state school educated Englishman, I find the whole business thoroughly uncomfortable.  If I meet them in person, unless it comes up in conversation, I prefer not to tell people what I do.   Those with me don’t always feel the same and I often get, ‘He’s written a book you know’ accompanied by a nudge signalling my queue to start talking about my literary accomplishments.

So when I’m asked to write biographies (or ‘biogs’ as they are usually referred to) I can’t help but cringe a little.

I’m tempted to take the piss a little and use something like -

“What a piece of work is Dave Hamilton, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and gardening how express and
admirable, in digging how like an angel, in raising seedlings how like
a god!”

Or on the other end of the scale,

“Dave grows plants to eat. He also looks for plants to eat. He writes about both growing plants to eat and looking for plants to eat”

Or for more of my life story – “Crap School , Band, Crap Jobs, Travel, Failed Businesses, Back to Education, Grow Food, Website, Book, 30 Seconds of Fame, More Education, Second Book. “

Although this doesn’t really give a full picture, it is perhaps more accurate than most biogs I end up writing.

The amount of detail is the most difficult. I feel I’ve had two really distinctive periods in my life – one of going from temp job to temp job, struggling to make ends meet and the one I’m in now.  I didn’t ‘downsize’ or give up a corporate job to begin writing about self-sufficiency, I grew food because it saved me from the horror of endless shitty jobs. It’s not made me rich but it has certainly made me happy.   It wasn’t all that long ago I was an office temp at the bottom rung of a ladder I didn’t want to climb, with an allotment just to keep me sane.

Not long after I started really getting an interest in plants, I was stuck temping for a publisher. All I wanted to do was spend time on my plot, but instead, I spent my day typing in an endless pile of names, addresses, job titles and book preferences into a database. The job was like painting the Forth Bridge; as soon as I finished one pile a new one would reappear.  I found a way to streamline the job using a macro to programme book preferences with jobs, i.e. Nurses would automatically select titles on Nursing and Healthcare. This put me months ahead but still the pile of cards would never end.

At one point I thought I’d been recognised for my services to data-entry as one of the office seniors came over to my desk with a crate of wine. He banged down his fist right next to my mouse to gain the attention of the office, proclaiming in a loud voice how hard work did not go unnoticed at Reed Elsevier.  As I looked up at the senior member of staff a beam crept its way on my pale monitor burnt face and my grey lifeless eyes filled with all the life of a desert flower after the summer rain.  Much to my dismay, his eyes were not there to meet mine. Instead he grinned at every person in my vicinity except me. To add insult to injury he leant over me to hand the bottles to all those on my ‘team’ excluding myself. As he began to over-zealously clap I found myself ducking out of his way to avoid his managerial elbow in my face.

I left shortly after that and thought that would be my last brush with the publishing world.

Last Years Successful Tap

It’s easy to miss the short window of time open for Birch tapping. The sap rises in the spring and if you miss it, that’s it for another year! The first tell tail sign is the new growth high in the canopy of the tree itself. When I was informed in late February the trees had started to bud early I knew I had to get on the case and get tapping. This year I was delighted to find not one but a whole row of Birches not far from my house. I thought my luck was in and this ear I would get a lot more than usual and could experiment with the stuff!
My girlfriend had been keen to get some sap and brew some birch sap wine so along with my brother Andy we went out with drill and bottles in hand to harvest some of the delicate fresh tree juice to play around with.
I use a hand drill rather than an electric one, it seems a much purer exercise and a bit kinder to the tree. The trick is to cut only a little passed the bark rather than deep within the tree. If you find yourself cutting deep into the tree without the sap oozing out then you’re either too early, too late. If this is the case and you should plug up the hole and try again later or the following year.

The three of us took it in turns to tap the trees and using string and parcel tape we attached bottles to the trees so the sap would drip into to collect in them. There are methods where you suspend a can on a nail dug into the tree or even make a container out of the tree bark itself. I have a box full of plastic bottles I keep meaning to take to the recycling bank, so it seemed pointless to spend all afternoon fashioning a vessel from tree bark.

Whilst tapping the final tree we noticed someone had been there before as they’d left a cork bunged into the trunk of the tree. If they were tapping it for sap there really is no need for the hole to be this big. The cork looked like one that would fit a demijohn and the hole only needs to be the diameter of a drinking straw!!!! Having said that cork is one of the best ways to seal up the tree as it expands to fit the size of the hole and can be removed for next years tap.
Without cork to hand I use a twig and sometimes tap it in with a hammer to make sure it is a proper seal.

It is important to reseal the hole as the sap would simply leach from it and never reach the canopy to feed the tree for the year to come, thus the tree would literally ‘bleed’ to death.

We left it over night and came back the following afternoon. I looked down the line of trees and all our containers looked empty. Sap seemed to ooze down the tree but not into our containers. I looked more closely and it looked like they’d all been tampered with. Spotting a large hole nearby it seems a fox; badger or even rabbit could have seen the containers and out of curiosity knocked them all.

Well this is what I thought until I closely examined container 5. Instead of the characteristic clear watery colour birch sap the milk bottle was full of a yellowy brown liquid*See Note.  Now this is where the small mammal theory breaks down! For a fox to disturb all five containers, and then jump on it’s hind legs and piss into a recently emptied one would be a feat even for an anthropomorphic animal with the dexterity of a Wind in the Willows or Pooh bear character! Even Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox wouldn’t be skilled enough to aim into a milk carton half way up a tree.

One assumption from this situation is that foragers might at times be very territorial, pissing in my bottles could be a sign for me not to go near their patch. Either that or some kids thought it might be funny to knock a load of bottles around then piss into one. Either way, I’m finding slightly less urban birches to tap!

Note - As a forager or indeed in any aspect of life you are constantly revising what you’ve learned.  I have since found out if the sap comes yellow or yellow/brown then there is a bacteria present in the sap and you should not drink it.  Also the downy birch looks very similar to the silver birch but the sap has a bitter taste and therefore it is not advisable to tap a downy birch.

All in all it’s been a strange few days. Thursday started off normal enough, some bits of writing in the morning, then down the allotment in the afternoon to prepare for spring. I started digging out a fallow piece of land that the previous owner had his shed on. The more I dug, the more I crap I found, tin cans, corrugated iron, broken glass, plastic bottles and bags etc, etc –so, what was supposed to be a job for an afternoon I had to abandon to finish another day.

I came home tired and aching and thought I’d treat myself to a nice relaxing bath, I felt like I deserved a long hot soak. Half way through my watery meditation the phone rang, I didn’t move a muscle knowing that if it were important they would leave a message or call back.

An unknown number flashed on the screen, must be work I thought to myself.

‘Hi this is Astra from the BBC, we wondered if you wanted to come and talk about allotments on News 24 tonight?’

My heart started racing, ‘tonight!’, I thought to myself now panicking a little.

I called back and she informed me that I was to have a car turn up in 2 hours to take me up to BBC Bristol in Clifton.

I spent the next couple of hours nervously wandering about, swatting up on allotments. At one point I had to go to the local shop just to get some of the nervous energy out of my system.
Up to that point I’d been on – BBC Breakfast, ITV Weather, BBC Inside Out West, Radio 4’s Today Programme and Working Lunch not to mention countless local radio appearances. So this was to be my fourth live television appearance and yet I was still shitting it.

I was dropped off at BBC Clifton at about 8pm. The lights were off and the whole place looked closed for the night, I began to think the whole thing was a hoax and reached for my mobile phone. Thankfully, all was made clear after a couple of phone calls. I was told to head for the vehicle entrance and wait in the security office for a bloke called Peter. Forty minutes of shivering next to an open door in a semi-dark room Peter turned up with obligatory clipboard in hand. I think the only information on these clipboards is the guest’s name as the usual action, and Peter was no exception, is to nod and point to a page on the clipboard before uttering, ‘Dave Hamilton?’

Peter ushered me to the newsroom, which was empty save for one bloke working a few rows away. He sat me on a high stool and put a microphone on my collar and earpiece in my ear. I faced the camera checking my hair in the monitor; it looked like it always looks, messy despite brushing it before leaving the house. With no cameraman there was nothing human to engage with, just a remote controlled eye staring at me.

The time came for my piece and I felt myself freeze up for a second or two. Like the first dump after a couple of days of painful constipation the words suddenly began to flow (I’m sure other analogies could be better there!)

I looked in the monitor to see who was asking these idiotic questions but what showed on the screen bore no resemblance to the inane chatter in my ear.

‘My wife goes up the allotment for hours and never seems to return with anything!’

My interrogator utters.

My first thought was to joke that she was more likely having an affair than digging for carrots but I think better of this and return the chatter with something equally nonsensical. The next thing I know I’m telling the country to grow more potatoes and then I’m off air.

I pull out the air-piece feeling like I’ve just been in a car-crash and Peter directs my bewildered self out into the open air.

I wait for 20-30 minutes in the cold night air on my own for the car to take me home before realising it isn’t coming. I debate walking or getting the bus but it’s getting late now so I head into the security office again to see what’s happened to my car.

After leaving messages with Peter and Astra it becomes clear that their phones are off for the night and I have to call a taxi home.

A few years ago I used to work for an employment agency in Oxford called ‘Driver Hire’, I wasn’t a driver for hire but I did work for them as a drivers mate. I would be picked up outside the agency then dropped off in whatever logistics, delivery or removal company needed a drivers mate that day. It was a one-way deal however and regardless if the company was in Cowley, Didcot or a village in the middle of no-where I would have to find my own way home.

I never thought a television appearance would echo this but I guess that’s the glamorous life of a TV pundit!

The next day I went to do a volunteer day at Eastside Roots, a community garden scheme set up on an abandoned piece of land at Stapleton Road Station in Bristol. The co-ordinator, Nick Ward, asked how I’d been so I mentioned I’d been on TV the night before to which he replied, ‘oh I was on TV on Monday, what were you on?’

He’d been short listed as one of the RHS’s Peoples Gardener and had appeared on the Alan Titchmarsh show the Monday before. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for him as we could do with any extra support for the project we can get!

The following day it’s quite sunny so I head to the allotment again to finish digging out my mini landfill site. I arrive to find the plot below me teaming with people. That particular plot has been more or less empty since I got mine three years before so it came as quite a shock to see it swarming like this. Rather strangely it turns out that I know the allotment holder and I chat to her briefly as she heads home to get tea for her personal garden army.

I mention that I’ve been on TV to which she replies, ‘Oh me too, and I’m going to be on Gardener’s World Soon!’

I can’t believe it, is everyone on TV these days!!??

She’s part of an organization called Gro Fun and the plot is a community project to get people interested in gardening. Just like Nick it’s a worthy cause and I really can’t get jealous of her TV exposure!

This kind of puts things in perspective for me, my plot is for my own enjoyment rather than a community project. The closest I get to community work there is when I call up my video-making friend to free him from his editing suite or when my girlfriend pops by to do some weeding.

I finish the day feeling like an allotment holder rather than a minor-celebrity and whilst I pull out a vintage Old English Ginger Beer can from the soil I remind myself that I’m not doing this for the fame (and yes I do see the irony of writing that in a public blog!)

It’s funny how your allotment neighbours can have beautifully well tended plots that must take hours and hours to maintain; yet you never see them! I can go for three days straight working without seeing anyone on either side, yet neat rows of roots and leaves still taunt my tatty half rows. I work like a dog sometimes but the weeds still win at times and I feel I’m growing nothing more than a slug farm.

Just before Christmas, around the solstice, I wandered up to my little piece of land, dressed in my thermals to plant out my garlic. The old garden lore is to plant around the winter solstice and harvest around the summer one – plant on the shortest day harvest on the longest.

If you’re reading this as I’ve posted it (around February) don’t worry about missing the boat, garlic can also be planted in the spring.

With garlic in hand I arrived at my plot only to realise I should perhaps de-weed the area where I wanted to plant the garlic and clear the last of the now stringy looking broccoli.

I took my time, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped up warm in the winter air. The ground was quite cold and wet, so I tried not to disturb the soil too much as I pulled out the old broccoli stems. A bramble had somehow found its way in under the brassica net and I took a while untangling it, cutting my hand as I did so. I always get little nicks and scratches on the allotment and I’ve become so used to it, I don’t always notice if my whole arm is dripping with blood.

By the time the plot was cleared the sun was quickly beginning to set and if not for the moon it would have been completely dark. I broke up the bulbs carefully and started inserting the bulbs into the ground using my finger as a dibber.

Just over my head I heard the flutter of wings and felt a chill run down my spine. I looked up but couldn’t see what had made the noise. It was a little late for birds and it was quite a way to the train tunnel the local bats live in. I wasn’t used to being out in this light and everything had an eerie edge; the sound could have been anything, I reassured myself.

Half way through planting my first bulb I was pulled out of my daydreams by the sound of the shed next door being opened. The figure of a gaunt, pale man dressed almost totally in black emerged, holding a hoe in one hand and a wave in the other.

‘Hullo’ he muttered quietly.

I looked up and nodded.

He wandered over for a proper greeting.

‘You look like you’ve cut yourself’ he said smiling and moving his head towards my hand to investigate.

‘I know, I can barely see to plant all this garlic’, I said waving a bulb in front of his face.

He recoiled back and seemed to almost hiss as he did so.

‘Er, sorry, I’m really not a big fan of garlic’

I felt a little embarrassed by my actions, not everyone likes the smell of the stuff and I moved away from my plot to chat to him on his.

He told me he only came down to the plot at night, which is why I never saw him. He also informed me he actually had an allergy to all alliums, not just garlic. I felt even worse about my actions and thought I’d make it up to him by pulling up a couple of parsnips before I left.

We actually got on really well and even joked about the number of people who have worked the plot next to him and how it must be cursed. I remember talking to the allotment rep about the very same thing. People just seem to vanish without a trace from plot 33, no forwarding address, nothing, all very strange.

I dug up two of the biggest parsnips I could find and handed them to my new friend.

“Why thank you”, he grinned, “they still have a little of your blood on them”

I reached for the roots, “I’ll give them a little wash for you”.

He must have really wanted the parsnips as he clutched them to his chest at this remark, mumbling there really was no need, a little blood wouldn’t put him off some lovely fresh parsnips. He took a nibble at one of my offerings.

“Perhaps you should come at night again soon, I always like a little bite on the allotment”, he said grinning from ear to ear revealing a mouth full of bloody parsnip stuck to his protruding canines.