Quince jelly reflections

This week I made quince jelly from the fruits in my garden. It's become an annual ritual; my own miniature harvest festival with a bittersweet tang that marks the start of winter and yet the ending of my busiest period of work. The coming months will be—I hope—ones of less stress and more creative plenty. 

Although even to write that has an edge to it too. 

For only recently I gave a talk to some students in which I claimed the difference between creative and corporate writing is more blurred than it seems. I use much the same skills in crafting a blog post as I do in writing a workplace communication; the need for truth and clarity are as applicable to a company announcement as they are to the personal essay. Yesterday I read for the umpteenth time, Orwell's 'In Praise of English Cooking', a piece that in its rounded perfection would merit a place on any menu for a last literary meal on earth.

Orwell doesn't mention quince in his list of British delicacies, though at one time it was more common here than apples, which were not widespread until the middle ages. Today we consider it more of a Mediterranean or even oriental plant, with Japanese varieties having moderate popularity in discerning gardens. The fruits are hard and inedible when raw, but—in some ways like words—when carefully prepared they have seemingly endless possibilities, with a capacity to surprise and delight as well stimulate the tongue.

My crop this year was ample for our needs. In our former house, we had a long hedge of bushes that produced sacks of fruit but made the processing somewhat of a chore. I now have two small shrubs and yet we harvested enough to make four litres of piquant jelly. Had I had more time, I could have made the pith into membrilo, a delicacy from the Iberian peninsula, more commonly known as quince cheese. 

Alternatively, I might have made quince vodka or quince pudding; my friend and fellow blogger Michelle once cooked a quince tarte tatin which she claimed was delicious. Orwell says in his essay that Oxford orange marmalade is one of England's finest foods, but I wonder if he knew that the word comes from the Portuguese marmalada which means quince preparation.  

On which subject, my annual ritual is more about patience than skill. I don't follow a recipe but simply chop the fruits, cover with water and bring to a simmer...  After an hour at most, I mash the mixture and strain it through a muslin bag. The resulting juice is mixed 60:40 to sugar, boiled vigorously and then decanted into sterile jars. Once it's cooled, you can spread it on your toast the next morning... or perhaps you prefer muffins, or eating it with cheese or merely spooned from the jar.

Who cares, it's all good.

I shall share much of our bounty with friends, for though it keeps well the jelly is best eaten when young. There's a piquancy to the new crop that's more alive and arresting than any supposed depth of flavour that comes with age. Or in plainer English—and the type of words Orwell would favour—it comes with a raw and vigorous smack in the mouth!  

Perhaps that's why I like it so much; why this strange gnarly apple appeals to my sense of self; why its tang is something I crave and yet can't quite fix and even less hold onto?

Quinces it seems are among the oldest of fruits but their taste is the flavour of youth. 

Ploughman's lunch

Cottage loaf - I can bake too.

If I had to make a call for 'last meal on earth', then I reckon a picnic would come top of my list—with a flask of tea and a blanket to sit on, ideally, in the lee of the Cheviot Hills. Such is my land of lost content...

But for an average Tuesday when it's more likely raining and the wind blowing hard, I'll settle for a ploughman's lunch as a close second best. Especially with a hunk of my cottage loaf to go with the cheddar, the pickled onions, obligatory chutney and of course, a sliced apple on the side. 

I made one last week—comfort food of a sort—and my son said it was like my being in France (as I'd hoped to have been). He was no doubt thinking of the brie and salami we buy at the market, the huge plum tomatoes, the fresh baguettes from our village baker...  Summers in the Alps are fuelled by this fare.

But for all the similarities I reckon he's wrong, because there are few meals more English than a hearty ploughman's - pickled onions for a start, you don't get them in the Haute Savoie. Nor do you find chutney very easily, and as for apples - pah: Golden Delicious at best and that's a misnomer if ever there was one.

I jest of course, for the food in France is fabulous, and were I to drink, the wine would be too. But we shouldn't underestimate the delights of our own. I'm serious when I say I would rank a ploughman's in my favourite meals. Last week I accompanied mine with a glass of alcohol-free beer and finished off with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Delightful.

George Orwell wrote that the best of British food lay in our bread, cheese and puddings. He rated haggis too and I'd join him in that, though not for a picnic; English apples—and Scottish raspberries—we'd both agree, are the best in the world.  I wish I'd had some home-grown tomatoes with my platter last week, that would have topped it off to perfection.

Or maybe, I could have followed it with a rhubarb fool like the one Jane made on Saturday. That's another of our specialities even if the plant comes originally from elsewhere—though try telling them as much in Yorkshire; forced rhubarb from Wakefield was once despatched daily to London to meet the demand.

As was stilton cheese which is named after the village on the A1 where the carriages stopped to pick up supplies. Pubs sometimes offer it as an alternative to cheddar in their ploughman's; others add ham, a pork pie or even a pickled egg.  No end of variation I guess, but I'll stick to the basics thanks very much.

It's not that I'm a Luddite, nor that I can't appreciate anything more sophisticated. Rather, it's that simple foods and settings are what gives me most pleasure. I'd rather have fish and chips by the quay than Dover sole in a fancy restaurant; I rate good eggs more highly than any caviar... My favourite food in all the world is homemade bread and jam.

Which come to think of it, would make a fine last meal in itself.

Books I'm reading # 8

My father in law decided to be helpful this week, packing my books randomly into cardboard boxes in preparation for the move to the new house. I was thus saved five minutes work at the cost of losing a carefully organised filing system that he would have otherwise admired. Oh well, that's six hours distraction I can find this winter. He meant well, said Jane.

Today is the 'big move' so I'm writing this in advance - perhaps as a distraction activity too, for the thought of it is worrying. Jane's brother is coming to help; he has the attributes of being large, available and keen, but isn't known for the gentle touch. We've packed the raku already.

None of this has much to do with what I'm reading. Which is kind of appropriate as this autumn I've been distracted by other things. I have a wide selection of banjo manuals but they don't really count, and though I can only photograph the few books that were by my bed (the rest are in random boxes), there are not many more I can remember.

Except a quick mention that Dylan has been enjoying the copy of Struwell Peter that I bought him last week - highly politically incorrect, but superbly old fashioned cautionary tales. I especially liked the story of Little Suck-A-Thumb who get his thumbs snipped off by the long red-legged scissor man.

I've also been re-reading George Orwell's diaries, but I've written enough about Orwell in the past and everyone who would be interested knows about them anyway. Much more interesting is The Peregrine by JA Baker, a cult book amongst nature writers that has recently been rediscovered. I'd rate it as one of the most beautifully written texts I've read -  in fact, it is so good it makes you feel like giving up writing. Essentially a diary of watching peregrines, you wouldn't think it would appeal beyond the birding community. Yet Andrew Motion writes the cover blurb and whole list of writers now quote it as a seminal influence. Here is the opening paragraph - read it slowly.

East of my home, the long ridge lies across the skyline like the low hull of a submarine. Above it, the eastern sky is bright with reflections of distant water and there is a feeling of sails beyond the land. Hill trees mass together in a dark-spired forest, but when I move towards them they slowly fan apart, the sky descends between, and they are solitary oaks and elms, each with its own wide territory and winter shadow.  The calmness, the solitude of horizons lures me toward them, through them, and on to others.  They layer the memory like strata.

After that, everything else pales a bit. Even the excellent Alun Richards' memoirs of his childhood in Dai Country. Or Kasuo Ishiguro's An Artist of The Floating World, which is much like his better known Remains of the Day. And the weirdness of Bugs Brittanica, companion volume  to Birds Brittanica (also in random box), both of which are a strange mix of coffee table and enthusiasts guide.

Finally, I re-read the Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep (another random box), which also has a brilliant opening paragraph: It was eleven o clock in the morning and the sun was not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness foothills... I was calling on four million dollars.

Talking of big sleeps, with tomorrow looming that's just what I need right now.

Must try harder.

Harbour walls - M Charlton

Two years ago,the Welsh poet Christine Evans was one of my tutors on a writing course. She had recently written a long poem, Burning The Candle, publishing it in an interesting format. Along side the poem she included a 'log of writing' which chronicled her daily thoughts over two months it took to complete. The log is twice as long as the poem itself - together they make a powerful piece of work.

It was after that course, entitled Journeys and Journals, that I started blogging. It seemed a good way to open up my writing, much of which was introspective and wasn't likely to be accepted for traditional publication. Maybe someone out there might be interested; in any case a blog is just a sort of daily journal isn't it?

I soon learned that blogs are not the same as journals. That should have been obvious given the vast array of blogs, most of which offer no pretence to care about such things. But as a writer, intending to use a blog as quasi-diary, the difference is more subtle. If the first defining feature of a blog is its electronic format, then the second is that it is immediately public - and that makes all the difference.

I'd say that writing a journal is largely a personal dialogue. The 'audience' is usually the writer themselves - and this is why the diaries of the famous give us such an insight into their personalities. George Orwell's journals are centred on notes he makes of his garden and his chickens; they build a picture of a quiet reflective man, taking comfort from nature as the world is sucked into a second world war. Christine Evans' log of writing has similarities; in her case, the contrast between the isolated Bardsey where she lives and her fears for the environment, her interest in science. Published retrospectively both these journals make fascinating reading, but I doubt they would have worked as blogs.

That is because blogs, even when written as a diary, are largely written to someone. As I sit here typing, I am, in a sense, writing to you - certainly I'm conscious that people will read this and I am crafting it now with that in mind. On the plus side, this makes for better writing - even a little polishing, generally makes for a more interesting read. On the other hand, the public aspect of blogging can restrict what is said; at worst, some blogs are so anodyne and trivial that you wonder why people bother.

Am I being harsh here? Many blogs are open in their omissions - it is common to refer to partners or children by initials, to avoid personal photographs - this hardly matters, even if at times it goes well beyond the requirements of internet security. Other blogs are clearly more concerned with social networking, the initial post little more than a prompt for comments and chat - what is 'not said' isn't important, and frankly what I'm saying now would probably be regarded as highbrow or irrelevant.

On balance I think the positives hugely outweigh the negatives. As someone whose initial goal was to transfer their introspective writing on-line, I've learned there many more possibilities and benefits. Not the least of these is that having an audience is an incentive to write more regularly. There are literally millions of people out there blogging every day - encouraged by the feedback they get - and that seems to me to offer huge potential for people to say something of value, to become interested in writing and perhaps take it a step further.

It is a pity that much of the writing community still takes a sniffy attitude to blogs, regarding them as somehow, not quite serious enough. I am guilty too; I know that in response to the question, 'What do I write?' I usually start by saying that I'm mainly interested in autobiography, a little fiction too. And almost apologising as an afterthought (how about that for alliteration), 'Oh, and I write a semi-serious blog too.'

As a consequence of blogging my writing has changed. Much of my blog is still concerned with the themes of landscape, family and fatherhood. But I have tried to expand into other areas, and the response of followers can be a useful measure of whether or not it is a success. I had thought my pondering on philosophy would be deeply dull, but it seems not entirely so - or are you just being kind?

There are other benefits to blogging too. In the Nineties I was lucky enough to travel to the US to visit Microsoft and number of newspapers pioneering the move to on-line. I was in the Los Angeles Times the day OJ Simpson was acquitted - it took one hour to get the paper onto the streets; the internet edition took 45 seconds. Blogs have the same capability, with the added advantage that they lack any censorship or editorial control.

So far from being a restrictor on what is written, blogs can equally be a force for truth and freedom. Dictatorships fear them because they undermine control of the media. The historian Tim Garton Ash argues that that blogging played a central role in the velvet revolutions of Eastern Europe which followed the collapse of the Berlin Wall, and as recently as 2005 in Ukraine.

I'm certain that my efforts will never have that sort of influence, but if in a small way somebody listens to what I have to say, then that is success of a sort. It's a great joy for me as a writer too, for otherwise this can be a lonely and self indulgent craft. I often wonder why more poets don't blog their work - poetry books typically sell in tiny numbers; blogs might not have the kudos of a printed work, but is that what really matters?

And so to close, I had two encouraging compliments this week which prompted all this musing.

Firstly, my follower over at French Leave, gave me one of those blog award and said some nice things about what goes on here at the bike shed. She also nominated Jimmy Bastard, in whose virtual company I'm chuffed even be mentioned - check out the link and tell me if blogs don't have some brilliant writers. You might also look at French Leave herself, or Her On The Hill, or my friend Sara who ought to blog more.

And yesterday, I received a thank you card from Andy and Kat, two of the kayakers who had stayed in my house to paddle the Bitches. Their P.S. said, 'We looked at your blog - Andy's Mum (who is an English teacher) is using it as an example of good writing in a lesson.'

Now that really is a turn up, for when I looked at my old school reports the most regular comment for English was 'Must try harder.' Fair comment, I think.

Genius at work

One of my favourite blogs isn't a proper blog at all. It is the Orwell Prize, the first on-line publishing of George Orwell's personal journal. Each entry is released exactly seventy years to the day he wrote it - his life and the world around him, gradually unfolding. It is an extraordinary read.

For months the diary covered little more than his kitchen garden, recording the progress of flowers, vegetables and chickens. Typically he'd write: dug a patch for the leeks, gave liquid manure to the Larkspurs; planted Godetias. 12 eggs (4 small). Orwell seems obsessed with his chickens, recording their broody moods, egg production, the amount he sells and at at what price. Some days he simply writes: 12 eggs (1 small)

But in recent months (the daily publishing makes it seem contemporary) he has also recorded the build up to war. In the entry which follows the one above he writes with equal calm: Invasion of Poland began this morning. Warsaw bombed. General mobilization proclaimed in England, ditto in France plus martial law.

This is typical of Orwell, recording his mundane chores alongside world changing events, the banality of his domestic life contrasting with profound observation of the wider world. Part of Orwell's genius was to pass comment as if he were an innocent outsider - giving the impression of a naive wisdom, and tricking us into believing we might have had the same insight.

In fact, the diary is steeped in careful scrutiny. His recording of the build up to war is meticulous; sources noted, newspaper articles appended, due consideration given to other nations besides Britain. Similarly his garden diary records the seasons and the nature of his district: Blackberries are ripening... many Finches beginning to flock.

Seventy years ago last Tuesday he recorded the British Declaration of War. There is an irony that after following events so diligently he misses the broadcast. I found the transcript on Google, it is worth reading in full, but the extract below illustrates well enough:

We and France are today, in fulfilment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland... and now that we have resolved to finish it, I know that you will play your part with calmness and courage...

By Thursday, Orwell has returned to his home after travelling to London. He writes, 'returning to Wallington after 10 days absence find weeds are terrible. Turnips good & some carrots have now reached a very large size. Runner beans fairly good. The last lot of peas did not come to much...

There is something about the juxtaposition of the two worlds that fascinates and moves me. I think it's because my life is so far removed from either of their concerns. If I need eggs or carrots, I go to the supermarket; military conflicts are generally distant, experienced through a TV screen or the Internet. The tone of the British Declaration is from a world beyond my comprehension. I can't imagine a general mobilisation, or how I'd feel if my sons were called up to fight. And yet I know all this happened a mere fifteen years before I was born - and more than that, both of Orwell's concerns (food and war) are still the dominant fears in the world today. Orwell's diaries remind me how lucky I am.

I can't think of a contemporary equivalent to Orwell. At his best, Tim Garton Ash can write with great intelligence and liberalism of thought - but not with Orwell's range or skill. There are others who have written of the same events with the benefit of hindsight and detailed research (Jonathan Glover's, Humanity, a moral history of the twentieth century is a stunning work that comes to mind) - but that is different to writing 'live' and recording the world as it changes around you.

My friend Sara once said to me that Orwell gets better with time; it's only now that we realise just how good a writer he was. I agree. Oddly enough I'm not a huge fan of his most famous books, 1984 and Animal Farm; I prefer his essays and documentary writing. And his diaries too are fascinating insight into genius at work.