Yes that’s right SIX HUNDRED POUNDS! £600 is more than I live off in month, even before this experiment! If £600 is the average, this means some people spend more! Unless I became a cocaine addict with a passion for hiring sports cars I don’t think I could every spend that much in a single weekend. So if £600 is the average could it be possible to do an entire festival for nothing?
I has a head start on most as early this year I emailed loads of festivals to try and do some workshops. A few got back to me but then working at the Eden project meant I had to cancel some of them. One I could do as it was in July rather than August was Camp Bestival down in Lulworth Cove. It’s a fantastic part of the country and somewhere I would go on holiday even without a festival taking place, so getting a free pair of tickets to do a wild food walk was a real bonus.

After putting messages all over the internet on car-share schemes and even this very site weeks in advance it got closer to the date and no-one was coming forward to drive us. In despair I emailed the woman who booked me in the first place to see if she had any ideas. She put me in touch with someone who was driving down on the Friday (who quite by chance lived around two minutes walk from my house).

Our companions for the trip down to Dorset were due to join their wives and children who had set up on the festival site a few days before to run a stall. They were really friendly and the journey down flew by just chatting about what we all respectively did for a living and generally getting to know each other. They were TV music producers and by the sounds of things quite busy and skilled at their trade. We didn’t mention our no-money experiment and as we’d already agreed to pay for travel if essential – Our plan was to offer petrol money, or if they asked we would give them it. On arrival we had the usual great British politeness stand off – ‘are you sure you don’t want any petrol money?’ ‘go on please take it’ etc, etc. In the end we agreed to give them £10 for parking.

As we set foot into the festival we’d spent £5 each rather than the £410 the average person had already spent at this point. Some might see this as a defeat but our no-money rules meant we only spent money transport (when unable to travel by bike), bills, rent and tax – Dorset is a 2-3 day cycle and Ellie couldn’t get that time off work. To me this experiment is more to do with self-reliance than blagging off someone else; so paying someone kind enough to drive us on a 6 hour round trip just ten pounds didn’t seem like a defeat to us!

The first night was easy, we had a gas hob, food to cook on it (pasta from the coffee barter) and some booze we had in the back of the cupboard. It’s amazing really just what you can find lying around your home that is perfectly edible or drinkable. I think alcohol is one of those things that most will have a bottle or two of something lying around. Booze is often left for years and years before a brave (or alcoholic) friend turns up and drinks it all. A friend of mine told me a story of his near alcoholic mate turning up at his parents house and drinking a bottle of whiskey with a label reading ‘by appointment to his majesty the King’. So later that night we watched Mercury Rev and for the first time in what seemed like months, both of us were feeling a little tipsy.

Our easy ride of Friday began to wain a little as whilst boiling water for tea the gas burner ran out of gas! I was feeling a little fuzzy from the night before at this point and just wanted a caffeine hit to get me started. The water was half way to boiling when it died so we did at least have luke warm tea and instead of porridge we ate the last of the croissants we’d gleaned the week before from a Tesco bin.

I did have my storm kettle as a back up for the gas burner but unsure of the fire regulations and as security seemed to be quite tight (we got told off quite a lot on Friday night for various very minor misdemeanor’s – like being in the wrong field at the wrong time!) we decided it best to leave the festival site to cook our lunch and dinner.

Camp Bestival is a festival by the sea, so for those inclined, a good day’s foraging could be had. On the Friday we had already foraged nettle tops, jelly ear fungus and a few other bits and bobs from the festival perimeter but on the Saturday we decided to take a walk down to the cove and see what diverse goodies Lulworth had to offer.
We were not disappointed, on the two mile walk to the beach we found the last of the wild cherries, cherry plums, horse mushrooms, sorrel and some fat hen! The cove itself was full of coastal favourites like sea beet and rock samphire.

We made a delicious one pot pasta meal on the base of the storm kettle and sat eating our bartered and foraged feast looking out to sea as the sun was setting (whilst removing stinging ants from various parts of our body).

We arrived back at the festival for P J Harvey and some obscure Mexican aniseed, honey booze I pulled from the back of the cupboard at home. Perhaps it was the lack of anything else to drink rather than being as bad as I remembered (hence being left in the cupboard for months) it was actually really nice. It was also incredibly strong – a little like a Mexican ouzo.

By the Sunday we thought ‘sod it’ to security and decided to cook on the storm kettle inside the perimeter. We were in Crew camping which meant security were in the same field as us and every security guard at the festival had to walk past our tent. Whilst boiling up our morning cuppa using scraps of wood and discarded cardboard I started to rouse a little attention. Rather than tell me off security were fascinated by the workings of the storm kettle. One even jotted down the name of the company that made them and swore he would buy one for the next festival he was working at.
It also attracted the attention of a festival geek, he spotted it from across the field and ran over in an affected ‘kooky’ manner.
‘wow, what’s that, is it a milk churn, is it a …..’
I cut him off mid flow, ‘It’s a storm kettle, it boils water quickly with very little fuel’
‘oh, well, yeah, I just thought it looked weird, I know you’ve told me what it is but it looks weird, I mean is it a puzzle, a jug within a jug’
‘Are you a dickhead within a wanker’ I felt like replying but bit my tongue and grinned.

I’m not surprised it got so much attention as they are a very useful bits of kit, the kettle itself sits on what is essentially a portable container for a fire. It also needs very little fuel to burn and will boil 1.5 litres of water in very little time.

Sunday lunch was a high point, we cooked up a noodle soup using the rock samphire, a small piece of block coconut cream, curry powder, some jelly ear, sorrel, beet spinach, nettles and a little bit of a half bottle of wine we found discarded as someone had left the festival. It was absolutely delicious and set me up for the wild food walk I was set to do that afternoon.

By evening we were feeling a little smug as heavy rain was forecast the next day and we’d done it, we’d gone through a whole festival without spending a penny! We had timed it well also as we had just a Tupperware box of turnip curry left to have that evening. As we packed up the tent we gave the curry a little sniff to see what we had in store for later and both of us nearly retched. Nearly three days in the Dorset sun had not done good things to this humble turnip meal and against all of our principals we were forced to throw away this fermenting box of veggies.

We arrived at the camp-site of the bloke who drove us and instantly sensed something was afoot. We weren’t mistaken and for reasons I won’t go into here our lift was now to leave in the morning rather than in five minutes! SHIT, SHIT, SHITTY, SHIT! I thought to myself, we have nothing to eat! The rain started to pour and we sat down to gather our thoughts assuring our hosts that leaving tomorrow was no problem at all.
We were hungover, sleep deprived, tired, hungry and now a little demoralised and both decided this was time to call an end to the experiment, we had to eat!
Wandering over to the field with all the catering vans we soon realised we had no idea what food was on offer. I had seen Hugh Fernly Whitingstall the night before and recalled that he had a River Cottage stand at the festival. I couldn’t help but feel a little awkward as he passed me in a crowd, he stared at me right in the eye as if he recognised me from somewhere. I felt like talking to him but I couldn’t help but think about my Chef within a Chef blog where I suggest that you stuff Anthony Worrel Thompson straight up Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s arse! How can I say, ‘yeah, I’m quite a fan of your work, did you read that blog about shoving a short fat man up your anal passage?’. That aside River Cottage would at least be local, seasonal, organic and free range so if we were going to spend money it would at least support local farmers and not line the pockets of large oil companies or multi-nationals.
I’m not sure what I expected, It was all bloody meat, not a single veggie meal to be had or at least none that seemed worthy of breaking our not spending regime. We moved on and queued for our joint favourite – flat Italian pizza. We’d seen people eating it all weekend and now we wanted to sample it for ourselves. It seemed half the festival had the same idea and the queue didn’t budge for around half and hour. This gave us enough time to come to our senses, we could forage and cook a meal in the time it would take to get served. We headed back to get the storm kettle and on the way found a loaf of bread and some margarine left by someone vacating the festival. The festival fatigue was really getting us by this point and we thought well we’ll eat some bread then go look for some more food.
Whilst eating the bread and butter an odd thing happened, although very plain it became one of the nicest things I’d ever eaten! After a number of slices with a little foraged sorrel and rock samphire I had in my pocket from the night before we both felt strangely satisfied.
To avoid the rain that was now chucking it down we had an early night followed by a breakfast of bread and butter. The long sleepy ride home was punctuated by finding red currents in a lay-by and the rest of Monday was spent recovering gently by eating, sleeping and generally making the most of not being under canvas.

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!)

Last week I’d planned to put in a pond, build a shed, put in a path and erect some kind of greenhouse but my plans were dashed when down came the snow! I perhaps wouldn’t have managed all the tasks in hand, I tend to overload myself and then feel bad when I can’t do everything I planned! So at least chipping away at some of the tasks would have been good but the weather had just made it impossible; filling a pond only for it to freeze is perhaps counter productive at best.

So instead last Monday I decided to take myself off to Abergavenny to enjoy the snow in a nice hilly, country setting. It’s only an hour by train there from Bristol and it really feels like you’re out in the wilds. I’m working on a novel at the moment and some of this features snowy surroundings so if I couldn’t do practical work then a little research would perhaps be the next best thing.

I arrived in the picturesque town of Abergavenny to a near blizzard. Sensing walking could be dangerous in this weather I took myself to a nice little café to sit it out with a newspaper, a nice hot cup of tea and jacket potato.

After half and hour or so the snow seemed to calm a little and I took myself on a route out of town, over the canal, and up a hill through a line of trees. I was so taken by the beauty of the landscape enveloped in snow I found myself taking countless pictures.

Half way up the hill I stumbled across a farmer whose land I must have been walking on. I asked him, “if I carry on walking up this way, how long before I…”

He interrupted, “how long before you die?!”

I laughed a little but saw that he was really only half joking, I’m sure dealing with a frozen corpse on your land is not a job most farmers would wish for. He advised I walk up a little to a spot where he turns the sheep out and if the fog has really set in and I can’t see much it would be for the best that I turn round and come back down.

Now I remember once whilst walking in Scotland myself and two friends aimed to climb a mountain and come back down within a day. On the ascent we met a well-seasoned walker who told us the footpath was only on our side of the mountain and our route would take us through ‘just, deer tracks and heather’. Rather than follow his advice we completely ignored it and just walked up the route we’d planed. After spending 24 longer than intended, sleeping in a tent pitched in a bog, drinking boiled snow (we’d run out of water), starving as we only packed enough food for 1 day and 1 night and twisting my ankle on the deer tracks and heather I have since then taken the advice of people who know an area better than I do!

I walked up to the area he turned the sheep out and the fog had really set in, visibility was low and I could barely walk two paces without slipping. Still something in me wanted to get to the top of the hill, it’s almost as if I have some suicidal gene that wants me to get into trouble! However, I ignored my self-destructive internal dialogue and stared heading back down the hill. I’d made quite a lot of notes for the novel and taken a lot of pictures so I’d done what I set out to do and I wandered back down.

Not wanting to cut the walk to short I wandered up and down the canal for a bit and stumbled across some velvet shank (Flammulina velutipes) growing out of a dead standing tree. It really stood out in the frost and I couldn’t resist taking a bit home to eat and taking a few pics.

Velvet shank is quite easy to identify but it can look like Galerina marginata, a particularly nasty mushroom. The toxins in Galerina margina (or Galerina autumnalis) are known as amatoxins give you bloody diarrhea and make you vomit about a day after ingestion. Then after a little bit of time you start to feel better so most hospitals will discharge you. During this brief respite your organs collapse causing a certain and very painful death. Needless to say I made darn sure I had he right mushroom before I ate them. A spore print is essential; look at the mushroom expert for more details.

Velvet shank is a bit bland so I stir fried it up with, amongst other things, some chilli, black beans, ginger and had it with tofu, broccoli, home grown Jew’s ear fungus (or jelly ear) with some soba noodles. It was pretty tasty once I flavoured it but I wonder if it’s always worth risking death for such a bland mushroom!?

The week was a bit more sedate after Monday, I felt risking death twice in 24 hours was quite enough for one week. It may be perhaps as I’ve given up smoking that I still need to be dicing with death on a daily basis. Perhaps it wasn’t the nicotine I was addicted to but the fact I was ingesting a poison.