Waste not Want not

Tales from a student on the Centre for Alternative Technology (CAT) MSc in Sustainability and Behaviour Change (SBC)

Ever since sitting in a local council meeting and hearing the council leader justify the lack of food waste collection across the whole of Wilshire by preaching don’t buy too much food as a means of eliminating food waste I have been seething.  Selecting the Food Waste critical review assignment should give me the ammunition to counter attack (betraying my military credentials) in question time at the next council meeting.  

So to the assignment which is an exercise in trying to understand arcane definitions over which there is no agreement on what is waste – avoidable could be eaten but isn’t, waste at point of disposal avoidable or unavoidable but still going to composting/digestion now not waste but recycling  or to landfill where it will create greenhouse gases but could become recycling if the landfill has some form of gas collection.  As a break from the mind bending definition of waste I went shopping at our weekly food market and here is my food waste score:

Behaviour	Score
There is a list but on several bits of paper as ideas and locations for sustainable shopping are thrown about between myself and my wife. +3 Risk of missing something off – high. -1	2
Go to shed to get my bike and trailer, it has a puncture – it’s raining, Could fix puncture or walk but market bags are heavy.  Decide to drive the 1km to the market -3 but the car is a hybrid +2 (not strictly food waste but is part of provisioning system – where did logistics come into this)	-1
At the fruit and veg stall hand over the bag for life and prevent the stall holders using single use plastic bags +3 Then bought 2 good looking mangos – forgetting we already have 2 mangos at home from last week -2	1
At market go to local market garden producers +4 good spuds but covered in earth (authentic) and no room left in the bag for life. I take one of their plastic bags -2 but it is compostable +1 . However, experience of these bags on my compost heap is they take years to rot down so it will end up in landfill creating methane -2 😦	1
Off to Little Eco Shop where they sell package free.  Feel good stocking up on oats and dried fruit shovelling them into the brown paper bags provided by the shop +5. Don’t feel quite so good when a lady comes in who has brought her own containers -2	3
Finally off to get milk from the butcher, not so weird, the butcher fills up reusable glass bottles with milk from a local dairy  +4 But I’ve forgotten the bottle, off to the supermarket for a plastic container -5	-1

My total score 6 – you’re right that isn’t the sum of the score but using formula ∑ = ∆ ± n²∂ and validated by RSFMK¹ method my score is moderated.   Back at home to grapple with the complexities of Quested et al I’m not surprised that we waste so much food.

Memories are made of….. food

On a school Cadet Force camp in the Lake District in April 1973 we walked from Seatoller (the wettest place in England at 123” per year) to Ambleside around Scarfell Pike.  The idea was to camp overnight at Ambleside.  Inevitably given the time of year and start location it rained on us the whole day.  A group of very wet cadets sloshed into the campsite with the prospect of erecting tents and cooking up our evening meal in the cramped conditions of dripping canvas.  Recognising potential mutiny and collapse of morale the Cadet leaders bundled us into a mini-bus and we drove to a café in Ambleside. Etched into my memory is the steaming mound of cottage pie and gravy that was devoured by the “steaming” mass of damp cadets.  It was and remains the best fifty pence I have spent. Haute cuisine it was not but the time, place and circumstances have made it one of a handful of memorable meals.

Other memorable meals include the lunch from the table d’hote menu in a shabby restaurant near the Perpignan station of grilled salmon and hollandaise sauce for 11 francs enjoyed by Carol and I as we waited for a train on our first holiday together .  In the open air on the foothills of Mount Kenya eating grilled trout followed by fresh fruit salad, tinned cream and fresh Kenyan coffee.  All these meals have in common a simplicity of ingredients and place.

Travelling with Betsy we rack up a some memorable meals.  On the first day we arrive in Verdun hot and road weary.  The plan to walk into town is ditched in favour of the small campsite restaurant which has an open air terrace.  A goats cheese salad starter is followed by herb omelette for me and chicken kebobs (straight taken from the menu) for Carol.  All accompanied by salad and frite  and washed down with chilled local rose and cold beer.  Our first long journey, warm evening sun and Betsy set up to welcome us to bed gave the sense of place with simple fresh cooked food.

On a boat trip along the Istrian coast of Croatia we served another simple meal.  The day long trip is around some the bays which are in accessible from the land. There is the promise of grilled meat and fish. I watch with interest as the the crewman/cook methodically arranges hundreds of small fish on the grill.  He spreads chopped parsley, garlic and salt liberally over the little fish. The result is served with fresh tomatoes and bred which we eat from our fingers flinging the tails and heads to greedy gulls who stalk the boat.

Freshly grilled sardines

A feature of Croatian cooking is grilled meat.  Near Zadar we watch fascinated as a whole cow is roasted on a spit to celebrate a national holiday.  Most restaurants have an open spit outside the entrance, it is a must try.  By the gate of the campsite there is a piggy turning on the spit all day.  Despite assurances that we didn’t need to book the restaurant is crowded and we are given a seat inside – it’s hot and there is a long wait.  One of the waiters, an old gent who moves between the tables in a stooped running shuffle secures us a table on the terrace and eventually the suckling pig arrives. The decision to forgo starters proves to be a wise one. There are 3 huge chunks of meat, recognisable as coming directly from the pig.  Dark seared skin, moist tender meat and perhaps more fat than than we would normally choose, it is gorgeous.  The piggy did not die in vain.  The old gent apologies profusely because he can’t remember what one of the deserts is called, he explains he is 70.  He is charming, humorous and part of the evening.

Spit roasted beef

The suckling pig

Suckling pigon a plate

It is coming to the end of our journey.  We meet Emma and Tom at Venice airport then drive north into Prosecco country.  We are heading for a campsite Riva D’Oro near the small town of Revine.  The campsite is dilapidated but the welcome is warm and we are offered an evening meal.  On the journey up every shop and restaurant is closed and the only refreshment we can find is an espresso and Pringles in a betting shop cafe.  We are hungry and Betsy has no provisions.  Several menu options are offered, one of which is porchetta, a taster is proffered.  The lovely lady running the cafe sets to work on a giant slicer and produces a large plate covered in thin slices of porchetta.  It is moist, salty with strong flavours of pork and herbs, it melts in the mouth.  The choice of supper is made.  We have a convivial evening each with a large plate of the porchetta, with large bowls of salad and frites washed down with a beautifully dry but soft processo.  It is a memorable final night of our holiday and first night in Betsy for Emma and Tom marked by excellent simple food.  

Porchetta a plateful

l to r Tom, Emma, Jess and Carol

Carol and I are are avowed foodies who have eaten in some fine restaurants.  While we have memories of these culinary establishments we can rarely remember what we ate.  The meals we remember are those with simple ingredients, freshly cooked in memorable surroundings of time place and events.  

Under Canvas

My father in his youth was a bush walker (walking and wild camping) trekking for days in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales.  He camped wild carrying his kit in an old Boy Scout style rucksack with a blanket, ground sheet and small billy can used for cooking over an open fire.  As a 10 year old Dad, my best friend Paul with his Father went camping for a week end in the New Forest.  We had tents, canvas single skinned and the cooker was a tetchy and potentially explosive Primus stove fuelled by methylated spirit that required much coaxing to light.  We pitched in a spot of our own choosing with no near neighbours and could roam wherever we pleases.  With a rubberised ground sheet we slept directly on the ground with sheets and blankets.  We were free to roam the glades and streams of the forest.  Food comes out of tins.

50+ years on and I’m writing this sat beside Betsy, our tent on wheels (camper van) constructing  a list, which has become more and more extensive, of all the additional pieces of kit that are essential to our survival.  We are mere novices compared to those we camp hugger mugger beside.  Our pitch is designated and numbered, 273 with a boundary marked by young bay trees.  It is a generous size but our in experience means the positions of Betsy is limited to 10m away from the all important electricity connection.  10m is the length of our electrical cable – I had ignored Carol’s warning that we needed more cable – it is added to the list.  Without electricity there will be no chilled wine and all the fresh vegetables will wilt in the heat.  

The consequence of only a 10m cable is we are very close to the pitch boundary and the configuration of our neighbours’ plot means they keep taking a short cut through our space bouncing past us as we eat and relax under the patch of shade we have rigged up.  It took us a long time to work out the optimum position for Betsy on our pitch. There is much discussion, pointing, peering at the sky and referring to the compass on an iPhone.  Some discussion is heated fuelled by the sun boring down onto a pitch that is devoid of shade and the anxiety of slowly being roasted every time we want to sit beside our tent on wheels. The positioning is constrained by the slope of the pitch which could be overcome if it weren’t for that 10m cable – not for the first time in 36 years of marriage  how I wished I had listened to Carol.

We are on a campsite in Istria, Croatia with over 500 pitches, as many people as a small town. We are serviced by a bakery, fruit stall, supermarket, 2 restaurants and beach bar.  Pursuit of a beach holiday has brought us here.  Our pitch is within spitting distance of the beach along with thousands of others.  This is where we become holiday makers as opposed to tourists or travellers.  We quickly work out what we prefer and with Betsy we are able to move on and morph back to travellers to go in search of the shady glades and the simplicity camping.

Dhobi day

Mobile home with towed scooters

House that never loses touch

The Pitches

Bring Back the Box Brownie

When I was 5 years old and living in Uganda I went on safari with my parents as we travelled from Kampala to Mombasa for a holiday.  The safari was in Murchinson Falls which is the source of the Nile.  There are few photos of this epic trip because my Mother’s camera was a Box Brownie which had just 8 shots and a sighting view finder where the camera was held against the chest and you looked down into a periscope lenses to line up the picture.  In other words, you had to really want to take that photo.  We have a brilliant shot of an elephant in silhouette but with our encounter with a rhino there was no question of lining up the camera.  What I do have are loads of memory images of baboons, crocodiles, wart hogs, zebras, giraffe and a grumpy rhino to name a few.

Forward more than 55 years with a least 2 leaps in technology and our trip to the UNESCO world heritage site of Plitvice National Park, a karst landscape in Croatia.  Much of my geography education was spent learning about karst limestone landscape and here was a field trip in the making.  

We strike camp early – a more practiced drill now – the lowering of the roof is no longer an ordeal.  Leaving the Matea Campsite with relief and relish for the journey to Plitivce National Park.  A quick stop for breakfast overlooking classic limestone set the scene.  As we head off towards Plitvice there is little traffic and no clue as to the mass of humanity that descends on the national park in August.  The park is heaving and when we reach the queue for park entrance the it snakes around the shops and cafes.  We jostle an Italian woman out of the queue who takes advantage of a gap to try and barge in front of us – we are not having any of that!  An hour and a half later we are in the park and are immediately wowed by the beauty and spectacle of the karst landscape, crystal clear waters and tumbling waterfalls.

There are specified trails which follow paths that about 2m wide And particularly at the early stages progress round is halted by the mass of people all stopping to take photo after photo of the admittedly stunning scenery.  With n opportunities and n people there must be millions of pictures taken and stored in the clouds above the park everyday.

Many of the pathways are over water and there is an almost overwhelming temptation to nudge a photographer into the drink.  One large man is videoing the whole experience and at one point a large family take individual poses for each family member in front of a waterfall, oblivious to the huge tail back they have caused.  I stare in amazement as another chap, surrounded by nature’s majesty, watches a football match on his phone.

In the end I stop taking photos because I’m missing the beauty of the place and I will instead treasure the memories of Plitvice and the connection back to the school room studying my favourite subject.  I can’t help feeling that unlike the incidents with my Mother and her Box Brownie there will be thousands who visited the Park today who will have plenty of photos but no memories.

The queue

Box Brownie

Travelling South – Sat 4 Aug 18

I’ve skipped some days in this blog because now have managed to post something it feels better to write it live rather try and play endless catch up.

Striking Camp in my Army days was well organised chaos, everything had a place and there was always an urgency to moving out.  We are still learning the most efficient way to strike camp and urgency is tempered by the desire for a leisurely breakfast and a predicted journey time of 3 1/2 hours.  The packing up turns into a physical test in the morning sun of 27 degrees and massive humidity.   The mere act of rolling up a tent sends rivers of sweat pouring off of me.  Surveying a packed Betsy feeling moist and limp I decide on a shower before departure.  Returning refreshed from the shower I realise the there is one packing drill still to be done – the bloody roof has not ben pulled down.

Lowering the roof is a 2 person tasking involving physical contortions in the confined space of a metal box that has been heated in the sun to sauna temperatures and humidity.

Moist and limp we set off on our journey from Slovenia to Croatia.  The verdant valleys of Slovenia start to yellow as we drive south.  There is a long queue to cross the border, surly border guards open the side door and ascertain we are not carrying illegal immigrants – no free movement of people into Croatia.  We hit the motorway and realise our mistake of travelling south on a Saturday in August when the whole of Europe is going on holiday.  Almost immediately we run into queues of traffic with over 150km to go.  A random survey of 10 cars revealed no Croatian vehicles.  The rest of Europe was heading in our direction: Germans, Dutch (loads of Dutch are the any left in Holland?), Czechs, Poles, Hungarians and Italians.  I spotted one other Brit car the whole way down.

As we ground along at between 20 – 50 mph Carol read the history of Croatia from the Rough Guide, how complicated.  We are visiting a country that committed act of ethnic cleansing only 20 years ago.  The UN peacekeeping and Dayton Agreement are very much part of our adult memory.  

It took over 6 sweltering hours to reach the campsite, it is everything I feared and hoped for.  Chaotic crammed with tents hugger mugger, random electrical provision, hard stones ground but it is 20m walk for a swim in the Adriatic.

Betsy before striking camp and the sunset in Croatia 20m from our pitch