Sloe Down

Another Autumnal one, but don't sweat - I'll be back to surfing and sunshine before you know it.  It just struck me that this might be one of the last opportunities to remind those of you based in the UK and above legal drinking age to get out and find some sloes.  
The fruit of the blackthorn tree (although you'll find it in hedgerows as it never really grows over twelve feet tall), sloes look like very small damsons, are inedibly bitter, and are found in British hedgerows throughout the Autumn unless somebody has beaten you to it and picked them all.  If you can pick enough to half-fill a bottle then you've got enough to make some sloe gin which should be ready in time for Christmas.  It's one of those perfect mid-winter hip flask fillers and, like most things, tastes so much better when foraged and home-made rather than bought ready-made from a store.
Harvest time is weather dependant, but you should be able to pick them anytime between September and early November.  Many people will tell you to wait until after the first frost (which they say ripens the fruit and reduces the bitterness), however I'd say to follow logic and pick them when they're ripe (not rock-hard).  If you wait until after the first frost you'll probably find that somebody else has beaten you to it and there are no fruit left on the branches.  

Once you have your sloes don't waste your time pricking each one individually.  If you put them in the freezer overnight then each one will rupture evenly, allowing the flavour to diffuse out whilst they are steeping and saving you precious time.  Next, buy yourself a bottle of good gin.  It'd be a shame to have spent all of that time picking sloes and then produce nasty sloe gin because you've bought nasty gin - sloe's won't magically make cheap gin taste nice, so consider forgoing a take-away coffee that day and spending the extra few coins on your winter warmer.  

Half fill your container (I'd suggest a large kilner-jar) with sloes.  Top up with gin.  Leave in a cupboard and shake every other day for a week.  Then shake the mixture once a week for the next few months, the longer the better really but try to last until at least Christmas.  Once your patience has run out you can strain your sloe gin through muslin into a sterilised bottle.  Then make yourself a sugar syrup by combining equal parts sugar and water in a saucepan over a low heat until it dissolves and allow to cool.  You can then add this to your slow gin to taste, which is far better than adding granulated sugar right at the start and then not having any control over the sweetness.  Pour some of the purple goodness out into a hip flask and put it into your back pocket, then set off in a thick jacket on a wild and wooly winter walk out in the cold, sipping sparingly and sharing and enjoying responsibly. 

Want to see more photos?  I've been digging through my shoebox archiving system and throwing some up on tumblr and instagram recently, click through to check them out and follow if you like them and want to see more.  Thanks!

"Fall and the Coming of Winter"

"The summers passed with each year.  I don't seem to remember them anymore.

I remember the fall and the coming of winter.

The water got cold.  It was a time of the West swell."

Jack Barlow, Big Wednesday (1978)

I can't believe I've never, in the entire history of An Tor Orth An Mor, levered in a quote from my favourite film.  But now seems like an appropriate opportunity; that time of year is creeping up on us in the Northern Hemisphere and I for one am kind of looking forward to some heavy swells.

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Oh, and if you've got a couple of minutes I'd be really made-up if you could head on over to the Talenthouse website and click to give me a vote please.  I've got an image (which can't have been posted or published anywhere before, hence the screengrab) entered in a contest to win a trip photographing "adventure travel" subjects for Nokia and National Geographic in Puerto Rico.  It's judged independently, but votes might help to sway their choices and I'd really appreciate your support to get into the top 50.  Click here to jump to the page.  Ta!

Super Sand

I turned out one of my pockets earlier and dumped half a handful of sand all over the floor.  This isn't an uncommon scenario - not only does sand get in my pockets, but it seems to end up in my wallet, fill my socks (when I wear them), and sometimes rains down from my hair when I shake my head.  Ordinarily it's a massive inconvenience, but today I realised just how good sand is and how important it is to me.  I'd miss it if I didn't spend each summer with my bed full of the stuff.    

Sand is different all over the world, and if you look at a load of it through a microscope each grain varies enormously from the next.  It's just ground up bits of rock and minerals, with the most common constituent in temperate latitudes being silica in the form of quartz crystals (which look incredible through a microscope), whilst in the tropics calcium carbonate from ground up coral reefs and shellfish make the beaches tour-brochure white.  Black sand is normally found on coastlines where there is a lot of volcanic basalt rock.

 Sand moves around a lot, and not just by hitching a ride in my pockets.  In the littoral zone waves push it up the beach and pull it back down, shifting untold amounts of it along shorelines each year.  This movement of sand forms the lumps, bumps, and eventually the sand banks that cause waves to break on the beach, so you can see all of a sudden where my appreciation for the stuff comes from.  There is nothing quite so good as some well organised grains of sand.  Whilst on a University field trip five other students and I had to try to hold a sand trap in a French shorebreak to assist with research into the movement of sediment.  We had to keep repeating the measurements, however, because each successive wave knocked at least four of us off our feet and washed us and all of the apparatus up the beach on our backs.  Sand also carries well on the wind, as can be seen in the Pyrenees where the south facing sides of some of the mountains are tinged yellow with sand that has been blown north from the Sahara, and it's even been said that Saharan sand has, on occasions, fallen from the skies over South America having been carried by the trade winds across the Atlantic.

Sand is pretty special stuff.  We once used it to measure our most precious resource - time.  

It covers massive areas of our planet both above and below the water and has a big role in shaping how we have fun, whether with a bucket and spade building sandcastles on the beach as grommets or by facilitating how the waves that we surf as adults break.  For that, I can deal with having to tidy up the piles of it that fall from my body and clothing at regular intervals.

Humble Pie For One

I would say that I am a pretty patient person, at least with most things besides computers.  

I've been waiting for the perfect combination of quite specific conditions for a couple of summers now with the hope of taking the boat that I built, an outrigger sailing canoe, on a short overnight expedition to surf, spearfish and camp onboard. I won't go into the details of my plan, but because of my planned route and the nature of my trip I had to wait for the stars to align with favourable winds, tides, swell and weather all falling over a 48 hour period.  Last summer I took the boat on a maiden voyage along a short stretch of my route; this spring I tested the boat's abilities to launch through surf and return again, using the experience to make some minor modifications; then this July the weather was perfect however I had work commitments.  I scoured the weather forecasts daily.  I started to become impatient.  In mid-August there was a day that looked do-able; not ideal, but I thought that I could give it a shot.

My alarm was set early and I got up in the dark.  I'd set the boat up on the beach just above the high tide line the evening before, so I arrived early and loaded it whilst the local small-boat fishermen prepared their boats and reversed them into the water.  I launched twice, and I returned twice.  I never did make it to the beach where I had planned on surfing, or to the small cove where I had intended to moor up and sleep under a boom tent on the hiking boards strapped across the outrigger arms.  I spent hours at sea out in the bay battling against the wind, swell and the power of a big spring tide.  I couldn't sail upwind so had to drop the sail and paddle, but for a solid hour I made no progress against the elements.  I measured my progress against the flow of the pushing tide by triangulating my position with a lobster-pot buoy and the westernmost point of a small bay.  If I paused my paddling the wind pushed the bow around so that I was broadside on to the large swells so I had to pull relentlessly.  Continuing to my intended camp spot would have been foolhardy so I turned around, put the mast back up, raised sail and then slipped.  One leg went overboard into the water and I landed heavily on the gunnel.  With the sail up and a following wind it took me less than ten minutes to retrace my course which had taken over three hours in the other direction.  

Back on the beach one of the fishermen, Lloyd, told me that I did the right thing coming back - he didn't think it a good day to be out in a little boat like mine without a motor.  The next day the bruise under my leg came out, a proper deep one the size of a dinner plate, and I ached from the hours of paddling.  I felt pretty humbled by the entire experience.  What must it've been like for the early Polynesians who explored the Pacific Ocean on boats not dissimilar to mine, or for modern day fishermen who still use these boats across the Pacific and Indian Oceans to scrape a living?  The Ocean is massive…my small boat was like a grain of rice in a swimming pool out in the bay, and yet only ever a mile or so from safe harbour. 

And now the seasons have started to turn.  Perhaps next summer...

Vintage Vroom Vroom

During World War Two the RAF used Goodwood, a country house estate on the edge of the South Downs in West Sussex, as the base for a squadron of spitfires.  When the war ended the Earl of March turned the airfield's perimeter road into a motor racing circuit and the first race was held there on September 18th 1948.

Sixty five years on and each September Goodwood hosts the Goodwood Revival, an event celebrating the circuit's motorsport heyday from 1948-1966.   Of the 150,000 people attending I'd estimate that 90% were dressed in genuine mid-century era fashions which, along with the plethora of beautiful vintage racing cars (including the spectacular Ferrari GTO250), motorbikes and historic aeroplanes meant that I shot an awful lot of rolls of film.  Below is a small selection of ten images from the films that I've had developed so far.  Enjoy the time machine:

GT40

Hair and Helmet

Belle and the Biplane

 RAF

Airmen

Noisy Norton

Home Straight Spectators

 Spannering

Green Light for GO! 

 Guests of the Earl of March

Tin Mugs

There is something special about drinking out of a tin mug.  That something just shouts "OUTDOORS!" almost as much as the smell of wood smoke on a flannel shirt.

Since the 1920's these white mugs with the classic blue rim have been a staple piece of kit for anybody who is spending a night sleeping outside, for whatever reason.  Made by fusing porcelain onto steel at over 750ºC, enamel mugs (and other plates and cookware) are pretty sturdy bits of kit that are not only durable but chemical resistant and you can put them straight onto a heat source.  You can even use them to make pies.  Typically these things get knocked around alot; hung off the sides of kit bags or balanced precariously on rocks, but the worst that usually happens if they get a big knock is that some of the porcelain chips off and the exposed steel underneath goes a bit rusty.  But that's adding character right?

It's lucky that these simple tin mugs evoke such strong loyalties from people who have the twin passions of hot caffeinated drinks and getting out into nature, because they don't half burn your lips when you try to drink from them too soon, and your tea goes cold kind of fast.  But trying to strike the perfect balance between drinkability and not scorching yourself is a pleasant challenge to try and master (an outdoor skill right up there with building a fire and gutting a fish) and at least you can be safe in the knowledge that when you're drinking from a tin mug you're more than likely out in the fresh air, and celebrate that fact.

Top image:  Kate's Cornish coastpath coffee break, August 2013.

Bottom image:  What an Otter Surfboards tea break looks like - the image that's been heading up the wooden surfboard company's blog page and, until recently, monthly newsletters. 

Oh, and one last thing:  this past week I finally went and hit the "publish" button on the Mat Arney Photography facebook page. I'd be super grateful if you'd head on over and click the "like" button to get updates on blogs and other photographic work every now and then.  Many thanks, Mat.

And The Staves Played On

I found Alex, my oldest friend, on the beach building a fire.  It was his job to organise this whole thing and as the sun dropped people were starting to trickle onto Porthcurnick beach from the coast path and the small lane that runs down onto the sand.  Over the past year he's organised a series of small, intimate, performances by rising stars of the music scene at unique venues for mobile phone company Nokia.  The theme of the Nokia Lumia Live Sessions has been undiscovered artists in undiscovered locations and he's put on gigs such as Kodaline in an old tannery in Dublin, Fenech Soler in a fight cage in Leeds and Lianne La Havas in a skate park in Liverpool, to name but a few.  This was due to be the last Lumia Live Session and was to feature British folk sisters The Staves performing fireside on a small beach in Cornwall to an invited crowd.  

Of all of the Lumia Live Sessions that he's had to organise, this one was perhaps the most unpredictable due to the vagaries of the British Summertime weather.  It had been a lovely, sunny, August day and there was a fair crowd on the grass and benches around The Hidden Hut cafe above the sand.  There were paper cups of wine and seven enormous paella pans were being tended to by a team of chefs and the brightly coloured food looked, and tasted, incredible.  Around 150 people had been invited (plus some of the cafe's regulars and passers by) and as is so often the way at events like this in this little county, most of the crowd knew each other.

The Staves made their way up from the water's edge just after 8pm and the three sisters arranged themselves on the rocks and piles of logs beside the small fire.  They were performing accoustically, with French film makers La Blogotheque recording the performance and they'd placed their microphone right next to me.  The crowd was absolutely silent, listening intently to the sister's familial harmonies and the gentle guitar over the sound of the outgoing tide, until a few bars into the second song the rain began to drip...and then drum.  It was a summer downpour of biblical proportions, the heavy black cloud like a bruise appearing over the hillside and emptying onto the beach within minutes.  People ran for cover under the low cliffs, umbrellas appeared over the three heads of the Staveley Taylor sisters, and the French film crew hurriedly covered their expensive equipment in whatever jackets they could find.  Many people left as the rain set in, but the performance was simply being relocated to the Hidden Hut cafe just behind the grass.

Two large gazebos had appeared, tables were cleared and The Staves reappeared a short time later in the serving hatch.  Periodically the rainwater would build up on one of the gazebos and overflow, crashing down onto the already soaked-to-the-skin spectators.  But the band played on, and ended their performance with an encore in the midst of the small, steaming, crowd.

This was one of those events where it seemed that every other person present had a big, fancy, camera so I'm really proud that Nokia have used a load of the images that I shot for their website banner images and other post-event publicity.  I'm certainly really grateful for the opportunity to attend such a unique gig; if you get the chance then spend some time watching the La Blogotheque films of the other five Lumia Live Sessions and checking out The Staves beautiful music.