A year of Wwoofing, on hold for now...

A year of Wwoofing on hold, for now...

I sat in my empty room.  All my worldly possessions, stowed away in boxes in a neat line leading down the hallway. It’s 8pm now and I've been working flat out since I arrived back in Bournemouth yesterday. Things took an unexpected turn 2 weeks ago when I received a phone call from my step-brother telling me our father had died of suspected heart attack earlier that day. It didn’t compute initially, I felt as though I was no longer in my own body and as the day progressed my natural response was to pace around in my friends empty flat (I was flat sitting) and cry. My father Bill, had woken up that morning, made himself a cup of tea. Put the grill on for breakfast and popped out quickly to speak to his mate. During their conversation, Dad, went quiet and fell forward. His friend caught him before he hit the floor and begin CPR, sadly to no avail. And with that, the light went out.

Three days later I arrived in Coventry and instead of Dad picking me up, his friends did. His absence was overwhelming. I went straight to Dad’s campervan, saw the empty cup next to the sink and tried to talk to him, but the silence was deafening. 

He was a wonderful man, loved by many, and he and I were extremely close. During our relationship there had been a ten year gap where we didn’t speak to each-other, but as luck would have it, Facebook brought us back together, along with the help of a couple of friends. And, for the past eleven years we had both made the effort to make up for lost time. It worked! We lived over 100 miles apart, so sadly it was not as often as we would have liked. But we went off in his camper for a holiday every now and then and we spent the last two Christmases together. In the end we became so close that we’d cry when it was time for one of us to go home and Dad would have to jump in the van and disappear before his stiff upper lip crumbled. I loved him desperately and I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life, I just can’t believe he’s gone!

The trouble with death is you’ve so much to do in the aftermath. Dad, God bless him, had a campervan, which he was renting off a friend and a large workshop. The campervan was simple enough, but the workshop, a whole other story. 

During this time of emotional and physical upheaval, word of a national lockdown began to circulate. I had to move quickly and tie up my life in Bournemouth. I’d taken a risk going through London and back down to the south coast, to pack up my life. As an Asthmatic, it’s really not a good idea to be running around in the midst of a deadly virus, but I didn’t have a choice.

I managed to get everything sorted and whisked over to Bridport to store with a friend, as my plans for storing it at Dads were no longer an option. My friends were amazing and it was all hands to the pump. I managed to get back to Leicestershire before Boris Johnson made the UKs Lockdown official. Just in the nick of time, I was so relieved.

For the next three days I worked solidly in the old man’s workshop. He’d not spent much time in there lately. In the centre stood a large Hanomag lorry, German built in 1954. Dad was in the process of turning it into a campervan, but had changed his mind and decided to turn it back into a pick-up. The living space at the back (now a shell) was so tall, it would have to be cut up to get it out of the workshop. Around the edges were shelves, full of stuff he’d bought from the army surplus store, and various other places. On the floor, tools, scrap metal, discarded overalls that had seen better days, empty food packets and lots of boxes of ‘bits’. He very much worked on several things at once with distractions in between as well as the odd Cider break. Dad did not have funeral insurance (he was never really the type) so it would all have to go to pay for the funeral. I began by grouping things up which looked the same and hoped that would be a good start. I’ve never seen so many screws, washers and bolts in my life, and they were everywhere, all over the floor, the benches, in the Hanomag and on the shelves. After two days I began to see systems that Dad initially had in place, and things started to take shape. If this were a film, this bit would be the montage.

Using Facebook I started to shift all major parts of his collection. I began to see progress in the savings account and we were very close to the target for the funeral. A guy had messaged asking about the workshop and talked about buying the whole lot. He asked me to give him a rough idea of what was available and how much I was asking. I obliged and nothing more was said apart from the fact he thought a few items were over priced. A few days later I posted the Hanomag for sale and swiftly received a message from him saying he was no longer interested. I was disappointed but no promises had been made and I had a job to do. 

I then received a message about the lorry from another guy and negotiations began, we came to an arrangement and a pick-up date was organised. I was told said man was sending his friend to pick up the lorry. Little did I know Mr Pick Up was actually the original interested party asking about the entire contents of the workshop. Mr Pick Up called the pretend buyer, who then called me and told me the work to get the lorry out of the workshop would take ages and I should therefore refund five hundred quid to Mr Pick Up as that was his fee and the buyer was now too busy to have any further dealings with regard to the lorry. Stupidly I did it, as by this point Mr Pick Up had already sawn off the back of the lorry. I later learned that Mr Pick Up is actually a millionaire, as a friend of a friend knew him and actually told us his real name (the name he’d given us was false).  What hurts the most, apart from own ignorance and naivety, is that this guy knew why I was selling and what the money was for.

After a few days of feeling sorry for myself I was on my way over to the funeral director. I’d got enough together for Dads funeral, so we were on our way. Unfortunately the funeral we would of liked was no longer possible. We could only have ten mourners present and there would be no visits in the Chapel of rest. I can sometimes have a very dark sense of humour, passed down from the old man I think, and in my strange and peculiar way, my words of comfort to those who would’ve liked to have seen him were “Well you know what, it’s been nearly a month now and there’s only so much make-up can do. He may not look that fresh anymore”. 

So enough about death, what about the Wwoofing?

Since I started this journey in 2016 I have experienced such a lot. Tests on my confidence, strength and mental capabilities. Learning to get out of my own way and have faith that I can actually achieve what I set my mind to – definitely a work in progress. 

I’ve volunteered a few times now, got myself through the shock of Agricultural college. Saved up, something which usually I’m not very good at. Navigated the stormy waters of being made redundant, just weeks before I was due to pack up and leave. And quickly acquired another job to continue saving, which then went out the window when Dad passed away.

But I’ve had time to prepare myself and I’ve done my homework, when I get the call, I’m ready to Wwoof my little heart out.

I wouldn't consider myself a confident cook. Generally I don't like people to be around when I'm in the kitchen, as I tend to burn things or give food a slightly anaemic, traumatised look. This often poses a problem as everyone tends to mill around in the kitchen. And isn't it funny how people like to stand exactly where you need to be at the most crucial moment?  I'm sure I'm not alone in this trail of thought?

Whilst organising placements, I often read how hosts (not, all but some) suggest it would be nice if you could cook them a meal once in a while. Absolutely fine to many, unfortunately in my case, it conjures up a range of different feelings, one of them... impending doom.

But, I understand, and I absolutely do not expect to waited on all the time. So, I prepared myself. Back in Bournemouth, a good friend of mine lived down the road from me, how convenient.

She agreed, (we may have been drunk at the time, but nevertheless she agreed) that if I could use her kitchen, alone, without the entire population of Bournemouth, which seemed to frequent my shared flat on a regular basis, being there. I would cook for her once a week, I could get some practice in and learn to be a more confident cook. And she would get a free dinner and perhaps the occasional bout of food poisoning - I failed to mention the latter.

And so, every week, I cooked for her. We had Sunday Roast, Veggie Cobbler, Irish Stew and Mac and Cheese. I perfected roast potatoes and we even spent New Year's Eve together, drunk and baking. The Courgette and Lemon Drizzle cake came out perfectly, apart from the overlapped bit which started to burn! We made video's and plastered them all over Facebook - We were hilarious???? My confidence improved and actually, I enjoy cooking now. I’m a complete tyrant in the kitchen but at least I’ve the ability to feed people.

And its no only cooking. Over the last few months, I’ve slowly acquired suitable clothing for my adventures. Any old hiking boots, coats etc. have been replaced with new ones. I’ve packed three sets of overalls, two waterproof coats and two pairs of wellies, one of them, a posh pair that I have to break in. After two days work in Cumbria, I had blisters on the back of my heels, which made things exciting for all the wrong reasons. I took to twitter for advice. Apparently, two pairs of socks, a thin pair and then a thicker pair is a good idea. Keep away from cotton, go for wool/or polyester which “Wicks away moisture”. You can use a Deodorant stick on the actual heel for lubrication and make sure you’ve plenty of plasters. I bought thick Compeed Heel Plasters to be specific however, other brands of plasters are available. I also bought a cheap pair of wellies, they don’t keep my feet remotely warm, but are super comfy. 

A high viz vest, face mask (straw actually makes me sneeze, but don’t tell anyone OK – it’s very inconvenient and possibly the most ridiculous thing ever that a farming student could, in all likelihood, be allergic to straw). I’m working on the basis that exposure results in a cure or I’ll look into some questionable solution from the Internet. I’ve a million pairs of pants, several T-shirts, five hundred fleeces, jogging bottoms and all the lotions and potions a girl needs. I also have my tablet, phone and Goddess of the Moon oracle cards for when I’m having a breakdown. 

Due to the plague, my first placement has been cancelled. I’ve booked up until July so hopefully, one or two will come through.

So here we are and who knows what’s going to happen. Sometimes life is shit but it’s so much more exciting flying by the seat of your pants.

Speak soon and stay safe...

This Blog is lovingly dedicated to Bill Hawkins, my father, my hero and my friend. Xxxxxxxxxx