Away With The Fairies

Fóidín Mearbhaill or Meara is according folklore, especially in the West of Ireland, a widely-held superstition that the fairies sometimes put a spell on a piece of earth, usually a sod of grass.  Whoever inadvertently steps upon it loses their way at once and cannot find an exit until the fairies tire of their game and at last throw open the unseen doors. It is also widely believed that one can counter the spell by turning one's coat inside out and so wearing it.

The fairies of the Lagan Valley are still at this game, but have updated their procedures to better reflect modern times. Recently while en route to Lambeg station with the bike intending to cycle back down the river to the city, I figured out a last-minute short cut with Google Maps on my iPhone, but was lead to use the map of the environs of Derriaghy station as the focus of my cunning plan instead of Dunmurry station, where I alighted.

I was a confused little sod indeed for a while.

Where my brain was.

Where I actually was.

Lovely Scraps!

"Shall I throw these leftovers out, or put them in the fridge and throw them out tomorrow?" - words my silver-haired old mother used to say all the time when clearing away after a meal. Wrong, mum! There's always some way in which this stuff can be recycled, in an alimentary way of course. Even cabbage. You just have to be hungry enough.

Note that this is not quite the same thing as an 'Eilish tea', invented by my wife (Eilish) who just sticks the contents of the fridge on the table when out of culinary inspiration. Or my own variant of this, which is to stir fry everything first.

Endless possibilities here. Four roast spuds, cabbage, some Irish stew, a lump of stuffing, itself salvage from some soda farls and pancakes left over from a fry, some tomatoes and mushrooms (same fry), sweetcorn from the grand-daughter's half-eaten lunch, and a smidgeon of gravy.

I think just bung it all on a large pizza plate, and heat in the oven.

Yum!

The Lie-In

I got my first paper round in my teens in the mid-60s, which at times involved warming my hands up by running COLD water over them, hot water being too painful. I don't remember any lovely spring or summer mornings, just grey winter light, dustings of snow, and the stares of owls settling down for the day. I was Le Grand Meaulnes. Ever since then, and possibly before, I have been an early riser, even at weekends, on holidays, or after wild nights out. The morning switch over from BBC World Service to Radio Four was the piper at the gates of dawn, while the late Shipping Forecast marked the knitting up of the ravell’d sleeve of care.

But no longer. I am freed from the chains of labour, and the Gods o'erwhelm my eye-lids with a flood of sleep...all the long night, the morning and the noon. No longer waking to a pressing catalogue of activities which gather like harsh voiced birds of ill-omen, I can now watch my thoughts roaming the sunlit plains and gathering at the quiet waterholes

There a few disadvantages, and many benefits to this development. More sleep means less time awake and therefore fewer opportunities to make a fool of oneself or ruin the day of others. It is always daylight when you rise, even in the depths of winter. Insomnia has no fears, just get up, make a cup of tea, and take it back to bed, and wait for the Gods to do their work again. This feeds into the concept of segmented sleep, which holds that mankind naturally wakes after a first sleep of four hours or so, has a time of activity, then sleeps again. And it turns out that most of the aforementioned pressing activities aren't really that pressing at all.

The only downside I can think of is that there is no longer time to fit in elevenses.

A typical Sunday morning.

Mince Pies - For Men!

Another 'To Hell With Pastry' post! Why bother with all that nonsense when you can blast this kind of thing out nae bother. Here followeth a pictorial guide...

Mix up some pizza dough.

Knead and let sit for a bit.

Make a long thin dough snake.

Roll it out.

Keep rolling it out.

Spread mincemeat over it (mincemeat just lies about the kitchen in tubs).

Start rolling it up.

Fast 'n' bulbous, the mincemeat snake!

Chop it up into segments.

Put segments on tray and bake...

...'til ready.

YUM!

Paddle Your Own Canoe

And old post (late 1990's) from the days before blogging, which I was reminded of recently, largely due to similarities between my canoe building (then) and my pastry making (now).

Tired of Grade V? Cape Horn a bore? All surfed out? Then revive your spirits with a day on the Great Ouse among the lunatic fringe of flatwater potterers. Conditions have to be just right; tee-shirt weather but not too much sun, a nice breeze to keep the flies away, and reasonable water levels.

A study of the OS map revealed an interesting area around the Hemingfords, between St. Ives and Huntingdon. Here there was at least two main channels marked, and several smaller ones, giving a choice of routes and a nice circular journey rather than just paddling up and back. I found a good place to launch at Hemingford Abbots, near a bailey bridge marked 'Black Bridge' on the map. My canoe is a Canadian stitch and glue job, badly self made to a Dennis Davies design. For expedition work like this I attach a painter to the bow and take a spare paddle.

Push off into lanquid brown water with lots of tree reflections, floating leaves and small birds singing. Great! Turned left (upstream) and paddled past some nice houses on the left and meadows on the right. The stream soon swung right and a narrow choked channel appeared on the left. Canoeists of my calibre like to live fairly close to the edge, so left it was, the stream soon widening into a large shallow lagoon beneath a weir coming off the main river. 

Potential danger in the form of a family of swans was avoided by going nowhere near them. Dragged the boat up to the main river and answered a call of nature (not exactly simultaneously). There were cruisers moored opposite and what looked like a marina further up, so I was clearly back in the civilized world. Had a bite to eat and then set off downstream with the breeze at my back. The last sentence just about sums up my whole canoeing philosophy. This stretch was obviously the 'main road' as opposed to the 'country lane' I had just left, with the banks cleaner and better kept. 

I soon got down to Houghton Mill, where what in Cambridge would be a punt ramp made for a very easy portage down to the lower river. Had a look at the Mill, which would have been better with more water coming through, and chatted to a couple of anglers ('Did you make that boat yourself?' - thinks 'You couldn't buy one as badly made as that'). 

A nasty looking black cloud with accompanying gusts of wind made paddling far too dangerous and reckless for a while, so I pulled into the bank and had another snack. Opposite this bivouac point, a small side stream with a decided current ran off into a green wall of vegetation. The lure of the unknown proved too much, and as soon as the sun came out again I nosed into a narrow channel between tall cylindrical reeds. 

This ran down to a small weir with some old trestle stuctures below it, the main river higher up to the right, and another feeder to my side stream coming off that. 

I thought about shooting the weir but remembered in time that solo expeditions have a rigorous code of self discipline all of their own. Instead I got involved in a Portage from Hell, going up to main river (nettles) only to find that the other channel onto the side stream had its own weir (this should have been obvious). Portaged back again (more nettles) and managed to scramble in below the first weir. Across the weir pool, through the trestle structure (old bridge?), and onto the side stream again.

The next few minutes severly overloaded the senses as with a tail wind and the good current I followed the stream as it wound through pools of lilies and water crowfoot, alternating with faster narrower passages through the reeds. These latter channels were a neat boat width and this must be a regular canoe run for the locals. The necessary flavouring of danger was provided (again) by a family of swans which hissed at me as I drifted past trying to look like part of the boat.

All too soon this idyll came to an end and the sidestream entered the main river again. I now had to pay the price of my 'downhill' run, and turning right started upstream against the wind. A side channel opened up on the left, leading to the other branch of the river and hopefully some shelter from the wind as there were more trees there. This channel ended in a former (or flood times only) weir pool, with the banks of the main river some way away. Some scouting on the bank revealed a further pool, nearer to the upper river and hidden behind a bed of reeds. I returned to the canoe and bashed my way through the reeds into a scene from Louisiana; a shallow lagoon/swamp full of rotting branches and choked with reeds around the edges. 

I finally managed to pull out beneath an old willow, and from there it was a short carry to the upper river. This was the 'main road' again, with Hemingford Grey church a short way upstream and a lock with cruisers below me. On upstream and another snack at a point where I could get the best view of the church, which was fully up to expectations. 

From here there was more shelter from the wind and I plodded on, taking the right channel where the rivers split, and then left onto a cross channel to bring me back to the stretch of water I had launched onto. By now I had aching shoulders and that 'last long mile' feeling and the last few hundred yards to my starting point brought little pleasure.

But thats how all good expeditions end.

To Hell With Pastry!

I'm getting into cooking these days, so one day while musing upon the remains of a roast chicken dinner, I decided to make my first chicken pie. Which it turned out was a rather fiddly procedure, accompanied by such strange concepts as 'shortening', 'baking blind' and running your hands under the cold tap so as not to overheat the pastry mix. Not to mention working out how much pastry you actually needed.

Anyway I stuck with it, rubbed up the flour and butter, cut out all the panels for the base and sides, and produced this:

which was voted a success (bearing in mind that to criticise another's cooking is to take on the burden oneself). 'Baking blind' was mentioned at this point. As were 'beads'. WTF?

However, butter is a bit of a no-no these days, so I came up with the brilliant idea of using a pizza dough mix for the pastry. A lot less work (fewer ingredients and you can use the bread machine) and a better grip on the amount (just use the usual three pizzas quantity).

Which produced this:

as voted a success and just as delicious.

This still needed a lot of fiddling with the panels however, as with making a stitch-and-glue plywood canoe (another story) where at least templates were provided.

However in another blinding flash I realised that if I just split the dough into three, as if making pizzas, I could make individual pies by just wrapping the fill up and baking in a stand-alone fashion.

Which produced this:

with the edges folded to the top and sealed. For some reason I was reminded of the pods in 'Alien'.

Another success!

Although the unbaked 'pies' did have a tendency to unfold, so I finally settled on this:

which is a sort of Cornish pasty I suppose.

The only way I can think of to simplify things further is to chuck EVERYTHING into the bread machine, a bake the result into a sort of conglomerate of chicken in a pastry matrix, but I'll hardly get away with this. I can't find any examples on the Web, so here's a picture of a lithological version, which gives an idea of what the result might looked like, although the colours would of course be different.

Firewood!

Along with food, the main concern of the hunter-gatherer. Bringing dinosaurs etc. back to the ol' cave is all very well but they have to be cooked, and you need a nice warm fireside afterwards. As by definition the wood has to be hunted and gathered, what's the procedure?

A visual guide follows.


Sources:

A man after my own heart, on the beach at Newcastle, Co. Down. We bonded and talked of driftwood we had known and loved. The HUGE advantage of driftwood is that it is in the public domain. Councils do have a tendency to tidy this up, so carpe diem.

Salvage from house renovations can yield a lot of easily gathered, but usually dirty and spitty wood. There may well be ownership issues too; approach with caution after dark. With gloves.

A good haul of hedgerow blackthorn. Council hedge operations are a great source for this, also elderwood, which doesn't burn well, but if dry enough will smoulder away to nothing.

A mixed bag of drift and other wood, saw for scale.

Firewood pornography, but too big, too public, and too owned!

Almost perfect. Four foot plus lengths of driftwood washed onto the large boulders of a reclaimed shoreline. Easy access from motorway-side cycle track, and the wood is off damp ground.

The Twelve (ash) Logs of Christmas. I cannot reveal my source for this. Gives out a lovely warm, green scent with the stove is hot.

You can get a lot on a transport bike! This sort of find cannot really be passed by, although it needs a lot of lifting, cutting and drying.

Drying:

Of course it needs to be dry. I don't have a woodshed but for small batches you can improvise.

A batch of driftwood maturing nicely.

Blackthorn, ash and pine, under the polycarbonate roof of the outside toilet. It gets REALLY hot in here in Summer.

A sunny spot.

Yule logs, 2011, carefully sorted and labelled. One problem is getting emotionally attached to your firewood, particularly prize items, or pieces which you have carefully matured over a long period.

Postscript:

Before...

...and After.

It's a man's world.