A CARPENTER'S STORY - FIRST STEPS

IN CARVING 

About 10 years ago, I purchased a book called 'Carving Letters in Wood' by Master craftsman Cris Pye. I said to my wife Judith “ I really would like to have a go at doing that”. Being a graphic artist in the print, I have always loved letters and typography and Cris's book, brought an interest in wood and typography together. On two occasions in the past I had been asked to sign write two large bible verses for church. The first one I did with my dad and the second one on my own. But these were painted, not carved, like letters in churches should be. I wanted to carve letters that you could touch and run your fingers through, letters you could read with your fingers and not just with your eyes.

But having the book “Carving Letters in Wood” was like having Bert Weedon's book on how to play the guitar, without actually owning one. I had the book, but not the tools. I had no chisels, mallets or timber. I was miles away from being able to have a go at carving. The chisels seemed expensive to buy and you needed a lot of them! I realised that even if I was able to get all the equipment required, I needed a workshop or, at the very least, a work bench. A lot carpentry books I have looked at, the man writing it, invariably has the biggest shed or workshop you can imagine and every tool under the sun. So, my book stayed on the shelf, and was only taken down every now and again, the dust wiped off, looked through, then put back on the shelf. During one of these rare moments, I manged to spill a cup of coffee over it, so it was stained and some of the pages were then stuck together.

Then, as is so often the case, my long suffering wife stepped in and got me kick started. Judith had bumped into Bill Hudson, who she new from activities she had taken our kids to at Art in the Park, in Burgess Park. Bill said that he was running a workshop “An introduction into wood carving” - all tools and materials supplied, first lesson FREE. So she booked me a place for a weeks time. 

Bill Hudson is a local wood worker and artist. To my surprise no one turned up, except me of coarse. Rather than abandon the class through lack of local interest, Bill, like the gentlemen he is asked me the the question. “So what would you like to carve then?” I think my answer surprised him a little. “Well to be honest I am not really interested in carving figures or animals as such, what I really want to know is how to carve letters.” “Oh” Bill said, “I have not really done much carving of letters, but I can give you the basics” And so my carving journey began.

Bill started me off by giving me a fairly large chisel or gouge and a mallet and said “ here you are, get used to the feel of the tools in your hand and just bash this timber. I can't remember exactly what the wood was but it was certainly a hardwood as opposed to a soft wood. On the whole you can't really carve what would be classed as a softwood. But there are exceptions to this rule (e.g. balsa, is softer than most softwoods, while yew is an example of a "hard" softwood). For a wood to be classed as a hardwood, it would come from a deciduous tree. Meaning every year the tree sheds it's leaves (oak, walnut, beech, ash, cherry, maple etc). Whereas softwood comes from evergreen trees, which account for about 80% of the world's timber and it tends to grow quicker. That's about as scientific I want to get at this point.

Anyway back to my first lesson. After about half and hour of bashing the same piece of timber, my arm was aching and my fingers tingling. Maybe this carving wasn't for me after all. But after a short rest and a cup of tea I continued. Bill instructing me how to best hold the chisel, the angle and so on. Bill also gave an over view of his chisel collection, men and their tools, he must have had between 30-40 different ones, all shapes and sizes. As he talked about them, it was like a father talking about his children. So ended my first lesson, I was hooked from then on. I was eager to return the following week and have another go. Unable to practice at home, I thumbed through my “carving letters” book. This time I had a little bit more understanding as to what Cris Pye meant and the terms he used, and what was involved, if I was to master this craft. 

I would spend the next few months, one night a week attending the Carving Club as it became know. One night sticks out in particular for me. It was the time of the London riots, a week of madness, destruction and looting. I had gone to the club in the early evening when it was bright and still sunny. In the class we chattered away, carving in between cups of tea and biscuits. Not knowing just a short distance away in the Old Kent Road, it had all kicked off, big time. Shop windows had been kicked in, mayhem and looting was taking place. When I left at about 9.30pm into the darkness of Burgess Park, oblivious to the nights events on the street, I was carrying a large piece of wood. In the other direction, coming my way, was a gang of hoddies carrying not their latest carvings, but instead the latest wide screen TV's. Thankfully I got home safely.

AS AN APPRENTICE

When I started working as an apprentice carpenter with Mears - a contractor for Southwark Council, I never realised what an eye opener it would be. What an insight I would have into how the multicultural people of Southwark choose to live, for better or worse. But the first thing I had to get over as an apprentice at the age of 49 is that people don't believe you when you tell them you are an apprentice. Some thought it was a bit of a joke, in some instances some of the men I worked with thought I was some sort of plant, put there by the management to spy on the workers, a sort or undercover boss. For a time my nick name was Undercover Boss, even after a year or so working with all sorts of men in all sorts of trades, there were still one or two who still weren't certain. It takes time in this environment to earn the respect of the men working around you. After 3 years I hope I have done that now. 

According to their website, Southwark Council are the largest local authority social landlord in London. They are committed to making Southwark a great place for all 55,000 tenants and home owners to live. So you can imagine it is a full time job to keep all these properties maintained and the residences who reside in them happy. 

My first day as a trainee carpenter, I was put with a plumber, no carpenters being available at the time, and I have pretty much been with plumbers ever since. As an apprentice carpenter I spent more time with my hands on plastic/cooper pipe and related fittings then timber. 

The very first door we knocked on, we were in search of a leak coming from above in a block of flats in Camberwell. Leak's from above seem to be one the greatest cause of misery to people than almost any other repair problem, more of that later though. But back to that very first knock. A rather large lady opened the door to us, nothing unusual in large ladies in Southwark I hear you say, especially with all those fried chicken shops in the area. But what was unusual, was that standing behind her was her even larger son, who was completely naked and partially covered in some sort of white skin cream.

I must admit, I had been warned by my plumber friend “to expect the unexpected and just carry on as normal and do the job you have been sent to do. So we entered the property and in my naivety expected the son to retreat to the nearest bedroom to cover his modesty. But how wrong I was, for the next 10 to 15 minutes we went room to room searching for the leak, accompanied by mum with her son walking around completely starkers. The leak turned out to be coming from some corroded bathroom taps. We then had to go to the flat below, where the leaking taps were causing all the misery. I knocked on the door, to bring the good news that the leak had been found and it will be repaired straight away. Expecting to have a pleased resident open the door to me, I was immediately brought down to earth, buy a rather angry tattooed lady, who said “that I had knocked on her door to loudly and she thought I was the police, because only they knocked on the door like that”. When she saw my pass she soon calmed down and was happy I wasn’t the local Old Bill and I was welcome to come in. “It’s OK, I don’t need to come in, I can give you the good news from the doorstep”.

But as I said ‘the leak from above’ can ruin people’s lives. Now most leaks can be solved reasonably quickly, the problem comes is when the leak is coming from a tenant who won’t co-operate or a leaseholder, who lives above a council tenant. The vast majority of leaseholders in my experience don’t live in the property they lease, but instead rent it out to others at know small gain to themselves. Now the council if they are allowed to enter a leaseholder’s property to find a leak, have no power to fix that leak, it has to be the done by the leaseholder unless given permission to do so. Very often by the time this is done the damage has already been done, leaks can go on for weeks or even months, if the leaseholder or difficult tenant doesn’t act quickly or in some cases just ignores the problem and hope it goes away. The Council can on occasions make a forced entry or even take people to court, but again this can take ages, and is no comfort for those affected as the water continues to flow.

One such event took place on my rounds. I wasn’t called to a leak from above, but to do some mould treatment on a bathroom ceiling. When I arrived at the property the door was opened by an elderly couple. What struck you full on, as the door opened was the overpowering terrible smell or damp. As I entered the bathroom it was apparent, this wasn’t a small amount of mould this was an extreme case. Again this was being caused by a leak coming from above. As the old couple showed me round their home it was very obvious that this elderly couples home had been ruined and some of their rooms were uninhabitable. The main bedroom had buckets everywhere collecting the droplets of water, the double bed was soaked and all the wall paper was literally hanging of the wall. As for the mould in the bathroom it was like something from a swamp, it was obviously unhealthy. I left that home feeling upset and angry. Upset that this poor couple had been living like this for months and because they were old and frail, didn’t want to make a fuss, they were living in misery. And angry, that I discovered that the flat above was a leaseholder who was renting it out to someone else. That the flat was in a terrible state with rubbish everywhere and the bathroom was again the source of the water leak. The tiles were all coming of the wall, no bath panel, and no tiles on the bathroom floor and the pipe work was in need or renewing. But there was nothing we could do straight away, except report it.

Finally but by no means least and probably the saddest of them all. A families home had been plighted by water for months, but when I investigated where the water was coming from it wasn’t a leaseholders home it was a pipe that ran through the whole block. But whilst looking for the leak I knocked on a door of an elderly gentleman, it was towards the end of the day and it was winter. When he came to the door it was clear his home was in total darkness. “Are your lights not working sir” I asked. He told me he had had no electricity for several years. He had given up topping up his electricity, because it swallowed up all his money, the people before had accumulated a large bill on the key meter and every time he put money on the key, it went straight away. In the end he gave up, it was too expensive. He showed me round his tiny home, all he had was a couple of candles giving him light. He had no means of cooking hot food. On his wall were pictures of his children and grand children. Did they not know how there dad was living? You can only judge by what you see at times, I contacted a local councillor that I knew and they were able help the gentlemen with his many varied problems.

A CARPENTER'S STORY - BEGINNINGS

Well I did it, I finally did it. Three years of my life, dedicated to learning. But now I am a qualified Carpenter/Joiner, City and Guilds Level 3. At least that is what the certificates will say when they finally arrive through my letter box. I can officially say, I have changed my occupation from graphic artist to carpenter or chippy. But I can honestly say I don't really feel that I can really call myself a carpenter just yet. I still feel more comfortable in front of a computer screen with a mouse in my hand, getting to grips with Photoshop, than I do with hanging a new street door and fitting all the locks.

To call yourself a carpenter/joiner you need many years of practice and experience. At 52 years if, God willing, I reach retirement, I might be able to say, yes I was a carpenter. Working as a maintenance man for Southwark Council is probably not the best environment to hone and practise your new skills as a carpenter, youre more likely to be handling, plastic and chipboard than timber. But maybe I will touch on that in another blog in the future.

The craft of carpentry goes back to the very beginning of man's existence on this earth. I remember many years ago doing a series of Bible talks for some young people on a camp. The subject was Noah. I told the children that Noah had a lot in common with Jesus, who would arrive many years later. Noah as well as being a preacher and a saviour, was a carpenter too. He had to be a skilled carpenter if he was a going to build an ark or gopher wood, which would be used to save the world. Jesus was firstly a carpenter, then a preacher and finally a saviour, crucified on a cross of wood.

My journey into carpentry has much more humble beginnings, and there is no large amounts of water involved, thank goodness! Though once, when putting back some floors in a council house, I did manage to place a screw directly into a copper water pipe. Thankfully, that day, a plumber was on hand, to put right a potentially disastrous situation, avoid a flood and a call to Direct Line.

My journey started with my lovely Dad, Sidney Walter Whitton. My dad was never a carpenter, but like men of that generation, who had lived through the war, he seemed, to a young lad like myself, to be able to do just about everything: fix my bike, mend my toys and make things work that didn't. My dad had several jobs after the war, the most scary of which was that of a steeple jack. I have pictures of him at the top of these enormous tall chimneys, dangling there in very basic bosun's chair, a piece of wood and some rope. No hard hat, no safety clothing, just a bare torso, painting away, smiling and laughing, not scared at all. I miss my Dad terribly sometimes. Just writing this brings back so many memories. When Dad wasn't working, which he was, 6 full days a week, and half day on Sunday sometimes, up and down the country, he was making things at home. I think my mum missed him a great deal when he was working away from home. But when he made things, it was not always with wood but rather with metal like brass and aluminum. He made buses, canons, planes, a sword etc and all in miniature and from scratch, no kits. He would sit at a little table or in the kitchen, a cup of tea next to him, a woodbine cigarette smoking away in the ash try (in the days before he gave up and became addicted to Polo mints). There he would use a small vice, along with an assortment of tools and put together these one-of-a-kinds. My older brother Steve obviously inherited that love of all things metal. He worked with my dad for several years and went on to own his own foundry in Charlton.

But my dad also put his hand to making things out of wood. He made wooden forts for soldiers, a full size sewing box for mum, a miniature sewing box, a tiny model of the Cutty Sark, crib boards and small tables. One of the small tables he made, I can only describe as a double top table. On one top he painted a simple chess board and on the other a colourful bird. It's these memories that maybe placed a seed in me and gave me that interest in wood and the desire to make things.

I am 52 as I write this and some might say I have left it a bit late to life to begin a new career as a carpenter. For 32 years of my life, since leaving school in 1980, I worked in the print industry. For the greater part of those 32 years, I was an artworker or a graphic artist. I assumed that would always be my trade until retirement or death, whatever came first. But life doesn’t always turn out like you plan, or hope for. In my 32 years in the print I had just 4 jobs and pretty much continuous employment in that time. But then I lost my job, the details of which I have tried to forget. Thereafter followed a period of over 2 years where I was out of work. Anyone who has been out of work for a long period will know how difficult it is, especially when you have a family. It grinds you down, reduces your confidence, makes you feel useless, and make you think you'll never be employed again. But worst of all is the stigma that clings to you. That said, those two plus years had some real highs as well. The extra time I got to spend with my family was probably the biggest advantage. But also, in that time, I took a Post Graduate course in Design, became a volunteer gardener and took up wood carving.

Then one day a friend I knew at Southwark Council suggested, “why don't you try for one of the apprenticeships on offer at the council”. I thought to myself “me an apprentice, at the age of 49, your joking....aren’t apprentices young people who have just left school, still covered in spots and living with mum and dad? What hope do I have of becoming an apprentice at my age, married with 4 children?”

But, I swallowed what pride I had left and looked at the vacancies on offer. Amongst the list of various office jobs, there was also a sign maker, a surveyor, a cemetery worker, a plumber and a carpenter. So I went for the position of apprentice carpenter with Mears, a maintenance contractor with the council. After 3 interviews, 2 tests and a six month process, for some reason they picked me.

Three years on, I find myself writing about my experiences, carpentry, wood carving and working for the council. As I said at the beginning, I maybe be a qualified carpenter on paper, but I am not worthy of the title yet. In my opinion carpenters are some of the most skillful people there are. They build houses, boats, churches, furniture, areoplanes, wheels, toboggans etc, the list is endless. In a book I just finished reading, called 'The man who made things out of trees' by Robert Penn, it mentions the fact that carpenters were even employed in the early days of the car industry, when the car frames were made out of ash wood. In the 1960's the London Routemaster buses were still built with wooden structural bodies. There is also a company today who make wooden bike frames, a bit pricey though at £2000. In his book he was able to get over 40 different objects made from just one ash tree. From wooden wheels to a simple tent peg, made by carpenters and related trades.

One of the reasons I chose to be come a carpenter, was that by becoming one, I would never be out of work again. Let's hope that’s the case. Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed chapter one of this story and you stick with me in the weeks and months to come. So I can share with you, the stories behind my carvings, working as a carpenter for the council, and maybe even how to make things out of wood.

THE PECKHAM GARDEN

The Garden Museum recently held a writing competition, with a particular emphasis on a Memoir of a Garden. I thought I would give it a go. It was not a great surprise to find out that I wasn't a finalist, but here it is anyway. Enjoy.

My wife, four children and I lived in a tiny, two bedroomed house. We longed to move to a bigger home.  After several years of waiting, a newly refurbished council house was offered to us, in the heart of beautiful Peckham, south east London. It was placed on a busy main road, right next to a popular bus stop and had front and back gardens. Now when I say gardens, I mean two areas of mud, with the odd weed poking out here and there. Or, as I have come to realise not weeds, but rather lonely, ­­­unwanted plants growing in the wrong place!

A YOUNG GRACE WITH OUR FIRST HARVEST

It was the beginning of the year when we moved in and very colda.  As we moved the last of our furniture inside, a heavy snow storm swirled outside. This seemed great, for a day or two, as the lovely carpet of white covered up all the horrible dirty, brown earth underneath. However, as the snow began to melt, the patches of muddy earth looked even worse than before - like a soiled nappy waiting to be changed.

Gazing out of the widow during those first few weeks, it dawned on me that I had adopted a fifth child. A child I had not reckoned on and was by no means prepared for. And, my new child needed a home and a loving family. It was also going to need a great deal of love and hard work bestowed upon it. It was going to cost money and take up a lot of my time. I had to bring it up properly and make it fit and presentable for the world.

The first thing I had to decide on was whether I should start work on the front or the back garden first. The natural thing would be to start on the front first, because that was an area which people at the bus stop would see.  It was open to scrutiny. On the other hand, the back I could leave to another time and it wouldn’t matter if it was a mess, because no one would see it. But would this be a reflection of me?  Was I more interested in the outward appearance than the real me, the person that only my family saw? Well I have to admit, that the shallow me, took the lead. The front mud patch would be worked on first.

When you have a baby, especially your first, you are showered with gifts, clothes, toys and advice on how to feed and nurture the child. But when you have your very first garden, nothing like that happens really, and you have to fend for yourself.  Yes, you can read books on the subject, but you don’t see mud patches like mine in books - you just see the beautiful finished product. My patch needed clothing and it needed it fast,  I didn’t want the people to stare from the bus stop, shaking their heads at my patch, thinking to themselves “look at the lack of love and neglect in that place:  maybe it should be taken away and given to someone else to care for. To get started, I plumped for the cheapest option, with maximum effect.  I decided to lay a lawn (the flower beds would have to wait for now). But I had no tools, no spade, no rack, no watering can or hose. Like I said nobody buys presents for the father of a new garden.

I allowed myself a day to prepare the ground and a day to lay the grassy carpet tiles. Babies can have the nicest of clothing, but they need to be fed constantly or they will fail. My grass needed to be fed, it needed water and it needed lots of it, or it would dry up and not take root. However, there was a hosepipe ban, which was a big problem, as all I had was one newly purchased watering can and a bucket. For a week I was like a very strict Park-Keeper.... “Mind the grass.  Please don’t stand on it”. It was like a new carpet and the kids were desperate to walk all over it. It was so tempting, especially as it formed a short cut, avoiding the paths set out along three sides of it. They found these much too tiresome, when they could easily walk diagonally across my lovely green grass and take at least a whole second off their journey time. You know, however much you try to steer children in the right direction, they eventually choose their own path and this one went across my grass!! I call it grass and not a lawn, because to me a lawn is something you enjoy at Wimbledon, all soft and springy and exceedingly green and well trimmed. Or you might find at some fancy country house, where it is roped off, and to nice for plebs like me to walk on.

A solution to the problem was stepping stones.  I bought four (only four due to financial constraints!), but I placed them at various points, in a sort of squiggly diagonal, from gate to front door. They solved the problem perfectly. The kids loved them, especially as they had pretty sunflowers on them.  Gradually my new step child was starting to get a character of its own.

The grass now sorted, it was time to work on the flower beds. Money as usual, was the big issue.  However we managed to find a decent and varied selection of cheap shrubs and then planting got under way. As a modern parent, who takes a keen interest in their education, of course I wanted the children to get involved with their adopted sibling. But like most parents, trying to get your kids interested in the things you like, is nigh on impossible. It’s like getting your teenage son to like the same music you liked when you were his age. “It’s not cool dad; someone might see me digging outside. I might get dirty!” and “Gardens are for old people.”  Sigh!

However, I pressed on, soon my adopted child was starting to take their first steps at becoming established. I knew I was on the right course when one day I heard a gruff voice call out, from the bus stop “It’s looking good mate!”, I thought to myself “Who me? Are you talking to me? What’s looking good? Is he trying to be funny?  Am I showing my builder’s bum again?” “Yeah, the garden, it’s looking nice. Oh here’s me bus, gotta go!” I was chuffed, maybe I wasn’t such a bad parent after all.

As Easter and spring arrived, they brought back to life many bulbs, which had been planted by the previous ‘squatters, and which had been hidden from view all winter.  True to say the resurrection was here for everyone to see.  Where there seemed no life or beauty, green shoots and flowers appeared from the earth, daffodils and blue bells ringing their arrival. How quickly things had changed in only a short period time. My new child was now on solids and experiencing a growing spurt.

PRAWNEOUS INBATTERCUS

One thing I was warned about, by one or two scare mongers was “If you have a garden by a bus stop, people will throw rubbish into it”. But I have to say they were right to a degree, but thankfully the fall-out was nowhere near what they would have me to believe. I was expecting discarded furniture, broken fridges and all that sort of thing. True we did get the odd bottle of beer lobbed over, or soft drink cans but that was all. However, the strangest thing, by far, which appeared in the garden, one day, was what I believed to be a prawn ball (or to give its Latin name prawneous inbattercus) which had originated from our local Chinese takeaway.  But it didn’t lay on the ground, tucked under one of the shrubs.  Instead someone had pushed it, firmly, onto one of the branches. I have never removed it - I just left it there, and over the weeks it took on a fossil-like appearance, changing colour and form, as the days, weeks and even months went by.  And there it clung to the branch, enduring rain, wind, hail, snow and sunshine. It made me wonder what in  goes into those prawn balls?  I have to admit that I haven’t eaten one since.

One of my favourite flowers, which I did plant and which has brought no end of pleasure, was the Rose of Sharon (a type of Hibiscus syriacus). It’s a very beautiful flower – very pure and delicate.  It even has a link to biblical times, being mentioned in the book, The Song of Solomon. Whether mine is the same as the flower mentioned there, I cannot say for sure but, for arguments sake, let’s assume that it is. It held a great significance to me, as being the first flower that grew in my garden and I wanted to take pictures of it. And to quote....”Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” All my children have been photographed, at every stage of their development, and now I realised that here I was doing the same thing but this time using a Rose as my subject. It was refreshing to discover that it even liked to be photographed, didn’t have to be told to smile or tuck their shirts in.

THE ROSE OF SHARON

But for all my small successes in the front garden, there was still the back garden, the black tulip of the family. This child was growing up a rebel, it was wild, and had to be tamed.  But what should I do? Could I grow some vegetables?  After all I was growing prawn balls in the front garden, so why not vegetables at the back? At our previous abode in our back yard I tried with the children to grow some carrots in a container. Whatever we did they never grew properly. One night so not to disappoint the children I bought some carrots with the green heads still on and stuck them into the container so the kids had something to pull up. Thankfully I never had to explain about why this variety of carrot grows so rapidly over night, from just a small green shoot one day to a perfectly formed carrot the next.

The garden area, to the rear of the house, like the front, was in a terrible state. The only thing that had sustained life was a vicious looking rose bush, with massive thorns. I realised as I began to dig the soil through that this had been a sort of dumping ground for the builders who had refurbished the house. It became like an archaeological dig, where I discovered old tiles, water taps, bits of wood, bricks, plastic soldiers, tin cans, bottles, cuddly toy and even a set of handle bars from a child’s bike, complete with a bell. I expected Tony Robinson to turn with the Time Team.  To remedy the poor state of the soil, I proceeded to scatter some fish, blood, bone and fertiliser (all purchased from the pound shop). Except for the blood that is, that was mine from trying to prune the vicious Rose bush!

But now I was ready for sowing my first crop. Like all first children, I decided to buy a baby book to record my child’s progress, the first lock of grass and that sort of thing. I recorded each set of seeds, where and when I planted them and when I should expect to see them materialise and harvest. Sure enough as the weeks and months past, edible produce began to appear. They weren’t the biggest, best or nicest looking vegetable you had ever seen, but they were vegetable nonetheless. Many did fall by the wayside, victims of a nasty slimy creature called the slug. Not just one slug but a whole army of them. Where did they come from? How did they get here? Could they fly? Were they related to the vampire family, only coming out at night to prey on their victims?

MONTY DON BEWARE

I can remember purchasing a box of baby lettuces all ready to plant out. But, within a couple of days they were completely gone; literally eaten alive. One can only imagine the fear that gripped these baby lettuce, as a slow moving slimy army slithered towards them and then sucked the life out of them.

One vegetable which sticks out as a success story, but for all the wrong reasons is the humble runner bean. It was recommended to me as being easy to grow, with a high yield. What I didn’t consider though, was that I actually don’t like runner beans.  And nor does my wife (who likes more vegetables then anyone I know). As for the kids liking them that was none starter. Maybe if I grew my own runner beans, I might start to like them; they would taste nicer. The kids might even start to like them, if I coated them in chocolate and pass them off as Chocolate Brazils. Or another trick would be to cut them up so small that they became unrecognisable in a stew.  The yield was so high in fact I didn’t know what to do with them all. There was only so many I could freeze. You can’t even give them away as we found out. One neighbour took some, probably out of politeness. But when I said “if you want some more just knock” they never came back.

I did come up with a brilliant plan to rid us of all these unwanted runner beans. After watching an episode of River Cottage, I tied the beans up in small bunches, accompanied with a some herbs we were also growing and a rustic labelling which said “Free runner beans, grown in Peckham”. I felt smugly optimistic.  Then I neatly placed the green parcels, on the garden fence, next to bus stop, and waited and waited and waited, until it got embarrassing.  Not one person from the diverse community of Peckham would partake. After several hours, I sheepishly retrieved the unwanted beanies, which now looked decidedly shrivelled and sad. I bet Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall doesn’t have this problem, I pondered.  In a desperate attempt, I placed them at the entrance to the local park. Thankfully, they were all gone the next day, but where to, I cannot say. Maybe Mrs Fox is trying force feed her cubs with them.

It has been four years now since my adopted child entered my life and, like bringing up any child, there have been highs and lows. At times, I have shown neglect and it’s all been too much and you feel like a rubbish parent. But, on the whole, it has been a privilege and an honour. What a wonder to experience the miracle of life.  How you can have a bulb or seed, and to all intents and purposes, it seems dead and lifeless and yet, when you put it into the ground, cover it with earth and rotted dead stuff (aka compost) in a short time it comes back to life and turns into a beautiful flower or something you can eat (runner beans being the exception to the rule, of course!). Then the following year you start the whole process all over again. I am reminded of a verse from the New Testament, the Apostle Paul wrote “I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase.

A CHAIR CALLED SERENDIPITY

Serendipity means a "happy accident" or "pleasant surprise"; specifically, the accident of finding something good or useful while not specifically searching for it. So it was almost a year ago now my wife and I were browsing through a second hand shop, come junk yard. It was in a small town called Bridport, West Dorset. There resting against a wall outside were a pair of rustic cast iron bench ends. We understand they had come from the platform of a country railway station, at least that’s how they were sold to us.



My wife saw the potential in these heavy rusty looking bits of metal. Here first words to me were “you could make a chair with those and carve something on it”. I have to admit I wasn’t convinced, and it seemed like a lot of hard work for me. We agreed if they were cheap enough we would make the purchase. The shop owner was happy to take £10 for the pair. We thought this pretty good value and after handing over the money we placed them in the boot of the car for the journey home.

The bench ends have been sitting in my garden ever since, subject to wind, rain, snow and the occasional ray of sunshine. To be fair to Judith she hasn’t nagged me too much, to do something with them. But this week, with the sun coming through on Bank Holiday Monday, I decided I should bite the bullet and get on with the job in question.

THE WOOD IS TREATED WITH TEAK OIL, TO PROTECT IT FROM THE OUTSIDE ELEMENTS

The first thing we had to decide was “should or should we not paint the bench ends”. We toyed with the idea of purple for a while or some other bright colour. But in the end not wanting to spend any more money we decided just to clean the metal and leave it as it was.

We decided on the word Serendipity for the carving, because we came across it recently and we liked the sound of it. The word Serendipity has been voted one of the ten English words hardest to translate. But it was a nice word to carve and here is how it came together. The wood I used is called sapele, it is a large tree native to tropical Africa.

THE COMPLETED CARVING BEFORE FINISHING

ALL FINISHED

THE BIG PLANT - 23 APRIL 2013