Milking the Rooster

I hold a definate sense of being bound to the earth. Not just by gravity, but by something in my blood, or deep in my being. Something about living in interaction (symbiosis?) with the earth and world around me, hand in the earth. The right tools feel like a natural extension of my arms and my intention, the sweet smell of good, well tended earth stirs a passing excitement.

So am I dedicated, to growing, both my self and my garden. No wonder then, given this connection, that in the wet, quiet months, where naught but weeds will grow, I find myself questioning this aspect of my character. Alright, I find myself outright hating the cold miserable soil, wondering what the fuck I’m doing out again in the bitter numbing cold, when there is rare beauty to tracked down, strange wonders and humour that shakes the very belly existence.

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One of the major winter undertakings is the construction of a hot compost, a job involving some nuance, as layering of materials is necessary to ensure a good decomposition and that the appropriate ratios (C:N:P) are maintained to get a good even pH. In the photo below I am upto the manure layer. I am also using wood chips from spent goat fodder and green weeds from the garden, this is the time for weeding as so little is active and it meens that gradually I can prepare all of the garden beds for planting in spring.