Post by rocha on Oct 27, 2007 10:31:27 GMT -8
I am writing this in pencil because the pens in the trailer are frozen. It is mid-February and i am here to build my fence. The time is 7am and the cockerel is calling. A few birds are chattering and it's bitterly cold.The trailer is on the side of a deep valley surrounded by tall pines. To the rear of the farmhouse is a huge rock face.Last night i went to bed at 10pm. It was too cold to sit up any later. During the day i must have banged my leg for rivulets of dried blood ran down my shin. I was too cold to bother to wash them away. I was reminded of my boyhood.Strange noises are heard at night , i dont know what they are and i refuse to leave my sleeping bag. The farm dog hears them too for he barks his displeasure and then settles. I had forgotten about cold, it chills me to the bone. My small gas heater purrs like an ancient aeroplane and does it's best to warm me , but when i am out of bed i am cold. Alone i talk to myself , it would seem stranger not to... not rambling conversations but just the odd word of encouragement.
By mid-morning the sun is warm and so am i. The crows sit and mock me as i dig holes for the posts. I hear a cow groan in the field and somewhere a lamb is bleating. The digging proves laborious , first chippings and then clay and chippings and finally lower still clay and stone. Each hole stiffens my back until after the fifth it will take no more. By late afternoon i am sitting on the step drinking hot tea and eating sardines. The sun is falling and so is the temperature. Of the birds only the crows linger bickering at one and other upon a tree canopy. Evening twilight decomposes to darkness and with it the cold damp air tumbles down from the mountain. I retreat inside, wash and eat biscuits.
I read Churchill's "Young Statesman" but slowly my eyes grow tired, my nose grows cold and i seek the refuge of my sleeping bag. Living in sub-zero temperature is hard to imagine unless you are doing it. Your whole body begins to shiver. The thermometer reads -5 c but i think it's colder still. My small gas heater is making deep groaning noises , I watch it's flame...its struggle for life and then its death. I shall have no heat in the morning.
The morning arrives colder again and with it a thick white frost covers th ground. The crows are nest building , carrying twigs from tree to tree. The cows stand outside the barn, great clouds of steam from their nostrils . They will milk at 6 am and the collection will be at 8.30am when the milkwagon lumbers up the narrow lane leading to the farmhouse. How hardy nature is.
Though bitterly cold the morning seems pleasant.The thermometer is reading a balmy 1c and the gutters chatter with trickles of water. I drive to a service station and replenish the gas bottle , return and make cofee. More holes need to be dug.
A line is strung out and posts put in place. Cement , sand and gravel are mixed . The heat returns to my body but the sun fails to show. By early afternoon the work is complete and i am sitting on the step again eating biscuits and drinking tea. The bird's are singing ...for them this is the high point of the day and mine too.
It's night time and the star's are out. I have just eaten the last of the cake. All that's left is an egg and three rounds of bread. That will be my breakfast in the morning. It is cold , i am tired but the night sky has never looked so beautiful. Tomorrow I shall be returning home...to conversation and central heating and civilization, but moving further away from nature.
I spent four days in that Caravan on a working farm in Snowdonia.
I was alone apart from the Farmer , his wife and two small boys.
Four of the coldest days of my life.
And yet remembered fondly.
By mid-morning the sun is warm and so am i. The crows sit and mock me as i dig holes for the posts. I hear a cow groan in the field and somewhere a lamb is bleating. The digging proves laborious , first chippings and then clay and chippings and finally lower still clay and stone. Each hole stiffens my back until after the fifth it will take no more. By late afternoon i am sitting on the step drinking hot tea and eating sardines. The sun is falling and so is the temperature. Of the birds only the crows linger bickering at one and other upon a tree canopy. Evening twilight decomposes to darkness and with it the cold damp air tumbles down from the mountain. I retreat inside, wash and eat biscuits.
I read Churchill's "Young Statesman" but slowly my eyes grow tired, my nose grows cold and i seek the refuge of my sleeping bag. Living in sub-zero temperature is hard to imagine unless you are doing it. Your whole body begins to shiver. The thermometer reads -5 c but i think it's colder still. My small gas heater is making deep groaning noises , I watch it's flame...its struggle for life and then its death. I shall have no heat in the morning.
The morning arrives colder again and with it a thick white frost covers th ground. The crows are nest building , carrying twigs from tree to tree. The cows stand outside the barn, great clouds of steam from their nostrils . They will milk at 6 am and the collection will be at 8.30am when the milkwagon lumbers up the narrow lane leading to the farmhouse. How hardy nature is.
Though bitterly cold the morning seems pleasant.The thermometer is reading a balmy 1c and the gutters chatter with trickles of water. I drive to a service station and replenish the gas bottle , return and make cofee. More holes need to be dug.
A line is strung out and posts put in place. Cement , sand and gravel are mixed . The heat returns to my body but the sun fails to show. By early afternoon the work is complete and i am sitting on the step again eating biscuits and drinking tea. The bird's are singing ...for them this is the high point of the day and mine too.
It's night time and the star's are out. I have just eaten the last of the cake. All that's left is an egg and three rounds of bread. That will be my breakfast in the morning. It is cold , i am tired but the night sky has never looked so beautiful. Tomorrow I shall be returning home...to conversation and central heating and civilization, but moving further away from nature.
I spent four days in that Caravan on a working farm in Snowdonia.
I was alone apart from the Farmer , his wife and two small boys.
Four of the coldest days of my life.
And yet remembered fondly.
