Bees and Cod

Today and other programmes are abuzz, as it were, with discussion of the danger posed to bees by a certain type of pesticide. It is clear that the bee population is suffering, though how much of that is down to the several years of wet weather we have (not) enjoyed is unclear. But on the precautionary principal alone I cannot see how we are willing to take the risk that these chemicals can continue to be used.

Except I can - it is the power of lobbying by a narrow interest group with a lot to lose, in this case the chemical suppliers. Years ago governments in North America took no notice of the obvious decline of the cod population on the Grand Banks. Fishery companies stated that it was a natural fluctuation; a blip; small measures would be enough to address the situation. Eventually when even pork-barrel politicians could not ignore the numbers a full ban on fishing there was imposed, but too late as the stocks have never returned to anything like their former glories. 

If we do that with bees, we lose a major pollinator and so we will lose commercial production of many fruits and vegetables - a few enthusiasts may pollinate by hand, but economically it is hard to imagine that working on farms here. I have read of parts of China where the bee population has been destroyed by pesticides, and the farmers told to hand-pollinate their trees. The lesson surely is not that there is an alternative way of pollinating, but rather  not to wipe out the bees in the first place. But today in London and Brussels MPs, MEPs and ministers will be wined and dined by lobbyists repeating their mantras - the scientific evidence is not yet, as it probably never can be, 100 per cent conclusive.  

Eco Tech

Yesterday I went to Brockholes, a nature reserve on the edge of Preston (the entrance yards from M6 junction 31 aka the Tickled Trout junction). It was developed from the ruins of a quarry, so has a series of ponds/lakes/meres now used by a wide variety of birds. The interesting bit though was the buildings, floating on one of those expanses of water. They are now blending into the landscape, the wood graying with time. A nice bit of eco-technology all round, though they do need to do some planting.

What was more interesting for me, however, was another sign of the age. In the restaurant there were a couple of old gents I'd guess in their mid-seventies. Last of the Summer Wine and all that. But one of them had a touch-screen phone out and was flicking through messages or numbers, totally at ease with it. I worry about my father's isolation, his friends dying off, and his health (and natural inclination) keeping him indoors. This chap was clearly the opposite, in touch and licking the bowl of life clean, technology helping him do so, and good on him for that.

Circular Chickens

It is not the chickens which are circular - though I'd pay good money to see that - but what they are involved with, namely being living bins for our waste vegetable matter. I made some vegetable stock yesterday, the onion, carrots, celery etc simmered to soggy mush by the end. Not appetizing for us, but with a bit of grain mixed in it made a treat for the hens.

I thought of this listening to Drive on 5-Live today, where people are complaining about recycling - not about doing it, but the stupidity of separating everything out then the council putting it all in one munching truck. Recycling and reuse are economic and sensible, but we don't get it right often enough. A lot of the glass from recycling is, so I have been told, used as cullet, one of the layers in building up a road. that is use of course, but it isn't the best use surely, as recycled it could go round and round. Circular glass in fact.

We like the idea of a pig to take this one stage further, but as a) our neighbours might not be so keen; and b) our Victorian house's deeds state in terms we have to have a 12 foot wall if we want to keep pigs, it isn't practical. Which is a pity, as with a lifelong love of Wodehouse and Blandings (I recently declared myself Life President of the Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe Defence League) I'd love to raise a fat pig like the Empress. Who (not which for such a character) was indeed circular.

Back to the Allotment Blues

For an all too brief time (like Norwich's lead over Arsenal this afternoon) we had what felt like the first day of summer today. Unless I missed it we missed out spring this year. We dashed to the allotment to plant our spuds, far later than in any of the seven previous years on the plot. Or rather the first lot of spuds, we have two more to do.

Not just spuds. A few beans went in, which like second marriages shows the triumph of hope over experience. It was a clearing up from last year day too, so a load of leeks, purple sprouting broccoli and Brussels sprouts were harvested. All of which changes my thoughts about the weekend's food, but then bounty like that is not to be wasted.

The tidying up included chopping down the last six feet of the pear tree we had lopped a few months back. I was busy with a handsaw for ten minutes, then a kind neighbour came over with his petrol-driven jobbie and had the thing down in about ten seconds. But I did saw up some of the trunk into smaller sections to dry off and bring home for the burner - and the new smoker. I collected a bag of the apple logs and logettes that had been drying in the shed over the winter with an eye to making some wood chips for the new toy.

Then it rained and ended both our plans to use the smoker - smoking food in the damp is apparently a waste of time - and the fleeting flash of summer.

With true male logic having a smoker means we need to do more fishing trips, to catch things to smoke, especially mackerel. They'll have to be local, as mackerel don't keep at all well. At the supermarket yesterday I had a look for the fish in case they had some good ones I could experiment on, but their stock had the dead eyes and skin tone of a heroin user.

What Are You Smoking?

I just bought a ready-made home smoker, wimping out of making the design I had in my head for a garden incinerator topped with a dustbin (both new of course) fitted with rods and racks. One motive is simply wanting to give it a go, another something of a V-sign to the food fascists, eating more than a single slice of bacon every six months apparently risking Death's instant scythe.

The third is my fascination, or is it obsession, with the wood for free from our garden and allotment. I have a stack of pear logs in the allotment shed, and in the front-garden wood-store a similar stash of apple wood. They were cut with the intention of burning them in our stove, but from all accounts they smell divine when alight and we would miss that if the wood-burner's door is closed as it should be.

Sadly the weather has turned damp and drizzly, not it seems the ideal for smoking food. But watch this space (if anyone is reading this at all) for reports on progress once it brightens again, and I have laid in a stock of salt and salmon.

FYI the smoker is a telescopic thing, supposedly good for cold- as well as hot-smoking, 29cm wide and when extended 92cm tall (if memory serves), complete with a rack, hooks and drip tray, not cheap at just shy of £100 but it is well-made. They provided a starter-pack of sawdust, which will be added to with our own hardwood stuff as and when, plus I intend splitting pear and apple logs down to the thinnest possible slivers and cutting those into chips, ideally not covered in blood from my fingers. A man can dream.

The Decline of the British Pub Quiz

An addendum to the post on why pubs close. Our Thursday visit coincided with the pub's quiz. We were there to chat, so didn't bother (though I love trivia, with which my mind overflows), but couldn't help hearing some of the questions. Two repeated here I think verbatim were:

"Name something you can do in a lift."

"Give a different name for an American policeman."

I am reasonably sure the quiz-master was not an absurdist comedian. The alternative explanation is obvious.

The Decline of the British Pub

Every other time you read a newspaper there's a story about pubs closing, the angle invariably and unimaginatively that this reflects terrible economic times.

I have an alternative thesis. Too many pubs and the British 'craft' beers they sell are rubbish. A couple of mates and I go for the occasional pint, and I estimate that three of five we purchase are below mediocre, one in five undrinkable. On Thursday our last local in reasonable distance was a case in point. They are having their spring beer festival. Three of eight beers were left on, one a stout, another a Scottish 'heavy', and the third a golden ale. We chose the last. It was tasteless but not complaint material. I opted for well-made lager for round two. My mate's 'same again' was not possible as by then it too was off.

Someone we talked to had to wait 90 minutes for a curry. There were just two experienced people behind the bar, plus one lad of about 12, so you had to wait for a good 10 - 15 minutes to be served. Why bother.

In my writing job I regularly speak to brewers. One medium-sized firm has set up a centre to teach bar-staff how to keep and pull a pint, as they recognize what the problem is.

Many artisan brewers who've appeared over the last two decades brew vile beer. Most of the bad ones disappear, happily, but before they do they have spoiled evenings at pubs daft enough to buy their slops for new drinkers keen to try real ale. Some will switch back to factory-made cider, which at least will be refreshing, others to vodka shots. Many will reason they can buy excellent bottled beers to enjoy at home, below £2 for a characterful pint in front of the TV, no designated driver or taxi.

There are good artisan brewers. A few months back I enjoyed a pint made by Frodsham Brewery, nice hoppy flavour, and well kept. That is the exception. Especially the well kept bit. Eventually drinkers reason that £3.10 or above for a pint of cloudy vinegary flat greyness is a price not worth paying. And pubs close.