A very different college

As I have remarked elsewhere I enjoyed and have greatly appreciated my undergraduate years at Oxford. I spent another three years in a very different college, one which was just as vital to my education. I want this post to be a sort of fond memorial of those years.

I recall that last journey in our own car - an ancient, hideously yellow, but very reliable Volvo estate... and savouring, somewhere along the North Wales coast, the last packed lunch that my wife would make for many years. After getting lost for a while in Dublin (they didn't believe in signposts back then) we finally arrived late-evening at our destination in Co. Down and were met by a member of the community who informed as that, as a meeting was in progress, could we find our own way to "No. 2" in the village several miles away? No. 2 turned out to be fairly horrific and damp rented accommodation that we would share with other community members. Our three kids got an attic room literally under the roof tiles - they were young and half asleep so I had to half carry them up the two flights of stairs and stagger under the low beams in the attic to get them to bed. I suppose it was not until the next morning that we made it to "the farm".

The meeting room in "C-block"

Breakfast was at 06:00 every morning and consisted of a quick bowl of porridge (no milk, no sugar) followed by devotions in the meeting room and then work. It was November and still dark at 06:30 and even when dawn eventually managed to struggle lethargically above the horizon it was grey - everything was grey, the mountains, the houses, the flowers, the people. The first task I was given was to make a bungalow's worth of wooden door and window frames for a customer. Although I had machined hardwood stock to work from, all the joints had to be made the hard way with mallet and chisel and it felt like the job was interminable. It was cold too - because the workshop had only three walls. But good training - since then I have been involved in other projects that have degenerated to the same feeling of morass! Staying motivated is a choice we make.

The accusation has been made that we were part of a cult - I think not and this definition would tend to agree but, towards the end, things went bad. For me the reason for leaving was a matter of conviction.

The shop

These pictures were taken in the good times. I mentioned the shop in a previous post: here it was just a farm shop but by the time we were at Abba it had evolved to a high class delicatessen, hence the large quantities of blue cheese. As I stated in my previous post, after my time Abba was taken over by and is now thriving under new management. Any reminiscences I record here have absolutely no connection with the present company.

The main house

Much happened in those three years. Somewhere along the line the decision was taken to open a high class restaurant and before long we had the exclusive Memories, by reservation only, the more accessible Kitchen Garden which kept busy particularly at weekends, and a coffee shop where you could enjoy home baked scones with jam. We had our own bakery where bread and savoury pastries were made daily for the restaurants and also sold locally. There was a period soon after I had started working for Abba in Belfast but was commuting daily from the farm when I would get home in the wee hours only to find Alison just getting up to start work in the bakery. Thankfully this arrangement did not persist - it was not long afterwards that our family moved to Belfast.

At the beginning of the restaurant phase I fancied myself as a chef. I figured it would be an easier life than hauling concrete blocks. Such foolishness. I cooked one meal for what was perhaps our first booking. When I say "I cooked" it was my assistant who was really in control - her expertise was legendary. But at the time I thought I was something. As the meal was ready ahead of time I took a short walk to get some fresh air in my lungs. A short walk - unheard of liberty! I remember reveling in the freedom. I was my own boss even if only for half an hour. I don't think there was anything exactly wrong with the meal - it was good home cooking - but I was never invited to cook again. And that possibly was my salvation.

There was the time we arrived back from a trip to England only to find, surprise surprise, that our bedroom furniture was being moved. We must have changed bedrooms maybe a half a dozen times in those three years. The accommodation was mostly converted farm buildings. One particularly notable suite we had was a couple of rooms (one for the kids) on the first floor and directly above the wood-burning boiler that heated the main house. This gave us welcome warmth (as well as smoke) since there was no door between our bedroom and the outside world - just a thick curtain. And a make-shift outside ladder was the only access. Not too convenient for loo trips in the middle of the night, but I cannot remember complaining about this arrangement - in fact I think we rather liked the way our accommodation was self-contained and apart from the rest of the community. I can remember complaining about other issues though.

Turkey plucking

Every December the community would earn some ready cash by hand-plucking turkeys for the Christmas market. Some of us maintained this practice for the first few years in our new home in the Republic. I was never very plucky myself and did what I could to avoid the imposition but nevertheless on occasions found myself bird in the hand. I regret to say that to this day I cannot enjoy eating turkey. It's that stench.

I wasn't invited to cook again but I still got to work in the restaurant kitchen on numerous occasions. I was the itinerant and de facto electrician and plumber in those days. Itinerant because by now I had graduated to Abba.  Every so often the command would filter northwards for me to be released for work back at base, so my lessons were hastily rescheduled and I'd be on the road back to Co. Down. O sweet Ballynahinch, were you aware of my oft nocturnal comings and going through thy streets?

Thus would start a three day and night virtually non-stop electrical and plumbing remodel of the make-shift restaurant kitchens to facilitate some new move around or equipment purchase. Gas pipes, hot and cold water, waste, three-phase electricity, lubricated with endless cups of coffee and left-over scones. There comes a point where the human body cannot take another coffee or scone. There comes a point where you look at - this 'ere pipe has got to feed down and through this 'ere wall and round these corners and get behind that there piece of equipment and - oh - how slow the progress is - every joint to be soldered becomes a marathon.  But it would, eventually, as most things do, come to pass. My hands would be full of cracks and grazes but, oh bliss, the journey back to Belfast at last. Mind the curbs though - on several occasions the car mounting the curb would jolt me out of sleep. I was more fortunate that one community member who sustained a serious accident in which the vehicle was written off - for the same crime of falling asleep whilst at the wheel.

Or at other times I might be called in to mend a leak or replace a fuse whilst the kitchen was in full swing, saucepans flying (literally), shouting, clatter of dishes - such a strange feeling being able, indeed welcome, to pass through all that din and confusion with diplomatic immunity. Since those days I have worked in several hotels (installing or repairing minibars) and felt similarly as if in another world. Opening a bedroom door with my pass key whilst clearly announcing "minibar service!" only to find two pairs of feet sticking out of the bed. "Come in, come in, don't mind us" the owners would herald.

There was a period when, every Saturday evening, the whole Abba staff would up and leave after the last lessons and drive in convoy to the community where we would spend most of the rest of the night cleaning up the restaurant areas ready for the Sunday trade.  On one such occasion I was following the lead car as it was motoring up the Ormeau road at considerably above the speed limit. The RUC arrived and guess who they pulled over? The injustice! Fortunately I was only given a warning - they were more concerned that a gang might have been stealing the Abba fleet.

Two of my boys

But there was fun to. It wasn't all hard work. We enjoyed special meals, BBQ's, times of praise and worship, school performances like the one above. On one occasion we even went the the seaside, complete with ice creams doled out!

my son, Tyrella beach

And then there were the potatoes.  Every year we would pick potatoes for a local farmer. And we grew our own crop too. When I say "we" - in fact I can only remember one time myself - I was too busy driving Abba cars or rerouting the kitchen pipework for the N'th time. But one time I recall - after a few hours the back begins to ache real bad, and the monotony... Then someone shouts "lunchtime" and we all rush together to receive our packed lunches. We open the package expectantly only to find a cold baked-potato staring back. No butter, cheese or salt. Just a potato. Another potato.

A break whilst potato picking

We had an affinity for potatoes. One winter (before I moved to Belfast) money was particularly short and for a good few of us potatoes became the staple. Potatoes for breakfast. Potatoes for lunch... We conjured up many ways of cooking those potatoes but there are limits when the necessary extra ingredients are missing or in seriously short supply. But we survived that winter (although I lost weight). There was the time when a tray full of scones destined for the shop got freezer-burn so could not be sold and, oh, how I relished every bite not having had anything made from flour for months.

There was the time the potato barn collapsed. The barn was in fact owned by a neighbour and had brick walls to half height then steel framework above. We were dumping trailer load after trailer load of potatoes into this barn - someone suggested that maybe we should stop but, no, we kept going until the outward pressure pushed the brick walls over and so the whole superstructure collapsed on top. It was, of course, late at night, raining and a howling gale (what else?) - someone fetched polythene and somehow we managed to cover the catastrophe in an attempt to at least save the crop. We did eventually rebuild the barn so I suppose the neighbour ended up better off.

What did these years teach me? Not that I'm out of school yet, mind you. To be content whether abased or abounding. To be more confident in my own ability to discern - for example the difference between anointing and charisma. To apply myself to the task in hand whatever it might be. When all was said and done these three long years had no negative effect but rather have grown me up. I recall Joseph's summary after all he suffered: "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today". Not that anyone meant evil against me but it did feel like it at times!