how long is a piece of string?

I finally got the chance to have a nettle string making class with our resident Celtic wildman last week. We have a new experimental archaeology project underway at work - Bryn Eryr, a reconstruction of an iron age roundhouse farmstead from Anglesey in North Wales. As well as the main building operation, there is a lot of peripheral activity going on across other departments. The farmers are growing a field of spelt with the intention that the straw will be used to thatch the roof. The blacksmith has been making replica tools to create the wooden objects that will populate the buildings. The Celtic guy is charged with producing 4km of nettle string to make rope for lashing the roof structure - so he is busily teaching the technique to everyone who is willing (and a few who said yes without listening to the question properly).

The operation falls into two stages - harvesting and preparing the fibres, then allowing them to dry and shrink overnight before twisting them up to make string. I have pictures of the first stage - but not enough hands to take process pics of the making phase. Gloves are advised for cutting the nettles and stripping the leaves off, but a good rub with a gloved hand is enough to remove the stings and make them friendly to handle. The stems are then lightly crushed and peeled to get the outer fibres. It reminded me of peeling the stringy bits off celery.

Twisting the fibres together to make string requires a little technique and creative skill. But not in a 'go away I'm writing War and Peace' kind of way - more the 'sitting round the fire having a gossip while creating with your hands' thing. A bit of patience and some acquired muscle memory will have you doing it while hardly even looking, just like your Nana knitting and watching the wrestling at the same time.

There's an excellent tutorial here from the lovely Ray Mears*

With my little pile of nettles I made about 10 metres of 2 ply string, which I then twisted up on itself twice more to make about a metre of 8 ply cord. (That's it in the picture at the top of this post). It's incredibly strong - I was going to try and take a picture to demonstrate its weight bearing capacity but couldn't think how. Suffice to say I could easily restrain someone against their will with it should I decide to kidnap them - don't have nightmares folks!

Not sure I'll be going into the string making business any time soon, (or the kidnapping business for the record). But it's a fantastically satisfying feeling to have the skill to whip up something so useful with your bare (okay gloved) hands.


* (who could canoe me up the fjords any day - Grylls might have the poster boy looks, but Ray would always cook you a much nicer tea).

sticks and string

It's time to get supports in for all my tall heritage veggies, (shortness has been bred into modern varieties to make them easier to manage).  These 'Champion of England' peas will easily get to 2 metres - so although these might look like the most optimistic pea sticks in the world, they'll be fully covered in a few weeks. They need to be strong enough to hold the weight of the crop without keeling over at the crucial moment. I kept lots of nice sturdy bits of hazel from the hedge I laid back in January - perfect for the job and I love how they look. Plenty of twiggy bits for the peas to wrap their little tendrils around as they sprint skywards.

On Monday I found myself short of a few sticks to finish the supports for my broad beans. Now I wouldn't normally disappear up the woods on a busy bank holiday (honest boss if you're reading this), but the siren call of an hour's peace among the trees was hard to resist. So I took some loppers and set off to cut some ash poles.

Here they are in situ with cats cradle string.

The beans on the right are a month ahead.

I'm going to learn to make string out of nettles to help build our new Celtic village.

That's exciting (if you're me).

My arms are covered in nettle rash from pulling them out of the hedges.

Might as well make use of the little buggers - too tough to eat now, so string it is...

foraging notes

Over the past couple of months I've been trying to educate myself about the joy of foraging. Here are my findings so far:

• I use the word 'joy' advisedly - there is something very special and satisfying about gathering your food from the wild. Even my stepsons have changed from quietly suspicious, to enthusiastic taste testers - it's weeds for tea again tonight boys!
• It's free!  (with all the usual caveats about getting the landowner's permission etc).
• The food is as fresh as it could be and full of nutrients. (Would this be a good time to repeat the 'don't eat anything unless you're SURE you know what it is' mantra?).
• Lastly - the words 'rare' and 'special delicacy' are okay if you're hunting for fabulously expensive truffles, or working as a Danish foraging pixie at Noma, but if you need to get the tea on the table after work then 'abundant' and 'invasive weed' is what you're after. Preferably close to your back door, rather than requiring a special trip to a distant beauty spot.

With that last point in mind, my eye fell upon the particularly lush patch of weeds that flourishes around the beehives at work.  The uniquely uncomfortable combination of ear defenders and bee protection headgear means that it doesn't get strimmed very often.  A quick shuffle through my reference books revealed that the three things growing there in profusion were ideal candidates for a wild greens recipe. 

ground elder, stinging nettles and cleavers

Anyone who has ever looked at books about wild food or heritage vegetables will be familiar with the words 'an acceptable substitute for spinach'. So harnessing the spirit of my inner elderly Greek woman, (the one that's usually squashed underneath the 6' kiwi bird), I gathered a generous bag full of greens to make hortakopita.  That's the wild food version of the greek spinach and feta pie, spanakopita.

had to sneak over the fence to avoid upsetting the bees

here's the greens after I washed them

steamed, squeezed, chopped and mixed with feta cheese

hortakopita... Opa! 

Verdict: Delicious - and all the better for growing right on my doorstep.

 I used store bought puff pastry rather than filo to speed up the proceedings.

eat your greens

I am a good girl - I eat my greens, (and I have very curly hair), but by the time it gets to March I am sick of cabbage.  The dark green crinkle of a Savoy that used to make me salivate in the supermarket produce section, now leaves me feeling slightly uninspired. I can still raise my enthusiasm for the irony bite of a bit of purple sprouting broccoli - but really I long for the soft new greens of spring, (and I refuse to buy them air freighted in from N Africa).

So today, after a quick flick through the foraging books, I set off to see what the hedgerows had to offer.  Started with a bit of surreptitious munching on new hawthorn leaves (okay in a nondescript sort of way), followed by another try at Good King Henry from the herb bed (bleurgh!), then I donned a fetching pair of latex gloves and collected a bag of stinging nettle tops.

wash well

pick leaves  - discard stalks

I have long been meaning to check out the delights of the humble nettle, but it's usually too late in the season by the time it occurs to me.  There's plenty of info about how fantastic they are nutritionally - packed with iron, calcium, vitamins A and C, as well loads of important trace elements.  They're also traditionally valued as a spring tonic with many medicinal uses - including increasing the amount of lead in a gentleman's pencil, and soothing the rages of a lady who may be suffering from a touch of Irritable Cow Syndrome.

But do they taste any good?

Wasn't feeling in a soupy mood so I decided to whip up a nettle omelette:

ingredients

sweated onion, garlic and nettle tops in butter

yummo!

Verdict:  Delicious! (in a slightly earthy, nutty kind of way). Will definitely be doing this again.

(I also made a pot of nettle tea which tasted exactly like Japanese Green Tea)