Conservation, history, green living and local self-sufficiency are the priorities for these volunteers.

All | Charlotte | Jessica | Laura

Thursday Nov 12, 2009

Moi: Insulation Guru Extraordinaire

If there’s one thing I don’t know much about, it’s house insulation. However, I am a big fan of herbal teas (check out the ‘Herbal Tea Raaaaaaaaawks!’ group on facebook if you don’t believe me!) So, in the spirit of learning how to insulate your home in an environmentally friendly manner, whilst simultaneously getting closer to the farm’s stash of herbal tea, I agreed to help run the South Yorkshire Energy Centre’s weekend workshop.

This included showing visitors around the centre, encouraging them to interact with the attractions and dolling out handy hints on everything from sheep’s wool insulation, to digital clocks that run on water. First things first though, I had to learn about these things myself.

Although I’d photocopied every leaflet I could get my grubby little paws on in the SYEC offices, I hadn’t ventured onto the main stage, and so had to be given the full guided tour before I could make myself useful. First up, was an instrument of torture that, in a previous incarnation, had been an exercise bike, but now went by the moniker of ‘The Human Power Station.’ Mounted on the front of the rather fearsome-looking bike were bulbs, a radio and a kettle, all driven by the power generated by the bike’s wheels.

After much puffing, panting and crunching of mint crumbles for energy, I realised that managing to get the bulbs flickering and the radio crackling, was nothing compared to the aches and pains of getting a kettle to boil a cup of water. My twelve-cups-a-day habit suddenly made me feel very guilty indeed. Later, when I was showing excited tykes and adults around The Human Power Station, I made sure to stress the importance of only boiling as much water as you need. We already know this, of course, but nothing makes you appreciate the difference between the energy needed to boil one cup of water, and the energy needed to boil two, more than having to hop on an exercise bike and get that water a-bubbling yourself. Ouch.

Thankfully, not all the attractions caused minor muscle spasms. There was also a fan - which caused no muscle spasms, minor or otherwise - with a drawing of a cutesy cartoon cloud puckering its cloud lips around the air-vent, and a miniature turbine mounted on a pole with a bulb attached to the end. Holding the turbine up to the fan made the light flicker, thus demonstrating how wind power can be transformed into electricity. It was a fun and simple way to demonstrate renewable energy sources to the kiddies, and by the end of the day I had one little boy enthusing that he was going to ask his dad if they could have a wind turbine in their back garden. A job well done, me thinks!

But, it wasn’t all fun, games, pretend wind turbines and herbal teas of every colour. I shadowed the regular volunteer, eavesdropping on her conversations with visitors and gradually getting more involved in playing Energy Centre hostess. I learnt that the Energy Centre was originally a crumpet factory (a fact which sent one grandfather and his grandson into rapture but then, who doesn’t love crumpets?) The property had then briefly served as a house, before Heeley farm acquired it. In an effort to demonstrate environmentally-friendly building practices, the property had been kitted out with all the latest insulation gadgetry and glass panels had been fitted onto the walls, allowing a rare glimpse of insulation in action. I was also shown samples of all the different insulations, ranging from sheep’s wool, to scrunched-up paper.

By the time the fourth person dropped in for advice on how to keep their home toasty, while causing minimal damage to all the nice trees and the ozone layer, I was able to take them to one side, show them the samples, point them in the direction of the glass panels and give them some useful contact details - if not like a regular pro, then at least like someone who had a vague idea of what they were talking about. And, in a double-whammy of jaw-dropping professionalism, I was even able to point out that the rather snazzy-looking kitchen at the back of the Energy Centre, was actually made entirely from reclaimed wood.

As the day grew dark - at 3:30 in the afternoon, God bless winter - and I sent the last visitor off with a newfound appreciation for insulation, all that was left to do was tidy up, water the plants, switch off the visitors’ attractions (leaving attractions that demonstrate energy-saving techniques, running overnight would be a rookie error) and re-fill the environmentally-friendly clocks with water. The last one fascinated me. Water-powered clocks made me think of cast-iron pipes, water wheels, pumps and GCSE History lessons on the Industrial Revolution, but I was amazed (and a little disappointed, I must confess) to discover that the water-powered clock looked like any other digital clock. In the back, was a pill-sized capsule that had to be filled with approximately three drops of water. Who needs batteries, when you can power a clock on the stray drops that dribble out of your tap? Genius.

I know what I shall be getting friends and family for Christmas this year.

Posted by Jessica ( 7:00 PM )
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Friday Oct 23, 2009

Baked Apple Meringues With Orange-Soaked Raisins

Phew! Well, after a few weeks of being entertained by members of the general public and waxing lyrical over depressed peacocks, I can confirm the latter part of October is turning out to be party central down at Heeley City Farm, with events and talks planned left, right and upside-down. This can only mean one thing: preparation, which roughly translates as: everyone running around like ninnys.

I’d barely had time for my weekly whinge about the weather, before I was sent scooting down to the South Yorkshire Energy Centre, where they were midway through Energy Savings Week and also midway through a mini-crisis.

I was pointed in the direction of a formidable stack of promotional literature and industrial-sized envelopes, all emblazoned with the addresses of local schools. The following Saturday was ‘Family Fuel Busters Fun Day,’ where people could drop in and make such delightfully random things as pedal-powered smoothies, recycled jewellery and draft excluders that look like dragons.

After swiftly bundling up the promotional material, I then had the UK’s postal system to contend with. Were the big, brown envelopes classed as letters, large letters, or packages? And what weight category did they fit into? (Besides the obvious, ‘darn heavy.’) Thankfully, Heeley City Farm had weighing scales and a strange, cardboard construction. I had to play post-lady and pretend to mail the envelopes through this odd creation, in order to discern whether they could slip “freely” through your average letterbox. After much um-ing and ah-ing, myself and three other members of staff decided that we didn’t have the foggiest (although we all agreed the packets were “really heavy” and were probably going to cost “a lot” to post.) So, it being the kind of icy-bright winter’s day that I have a particular fondness for, I offered to nip up to the post office and have the packets weighed, measured and pretend-posted-through-a-fake-cardboard-letterbox by the Professionals.

Of course, as soon as word got out that I was heading to the post office, I found myself battling against an avalanche of letters that everyone else on the farm needed posting. So, I procured myself a plastic bag, filled it with the tonne-and-a-half of said letters and set off for the post office. After groaning, huffing, and eye-rolling my way down a queue of near-apocalyptic proportions, I was rewarded in the best possible fashion when the lady at the counter enquired whether I wanted a receipt. “Oh, yes,” I said, grinning (probably a little inappropriately, given the I’m-just-here-to-post-a-few-letters situation) at being able to sound like I had an Important Job “then I can put it on my expenses.” The lady at the counter looked decidedly unimpressed, and I vowed to start wearing more Professional clothes to my volunteering, just in case such an occasion arose again (or at least to replace the neon pink laces in my trainers, with conservative black ones - that’d fool those pesky postal workers, for sure!)

Upon hopping back to the South Yorkshire Energy Centre, it became clear that mailing out all those leaflets had left the reception room downstairs noticeably depleted of informative literature. A quick root around in the filing cabinet, and I located all the master copies, nipped down to the main office and churned out leaflets giving useful tips on how to cut down your energy consumption, whether in the kitchen, travelling to work, or fiddling around with the thermostat at home. Of course, with energy saving and recycling being the themes of the day, I am happy to report all the photocopies were on recycled paper, and some of the leaflets were even printed out half the size, so we could fit two on one page! Environmentally-savvy indeed (although, after cutting the 110th leaflet in half, even my fiercely-held save-the-trees ethos began to shake a little!)

And then, something truly terrible happened. It was approaching home time and I was becoming rather fixated on the thought of mushroom lasagne for tea, so I began chatting to one of the Energy Centre workers to make the time-until-lasagne go quicker. Apparently, she ran healthy eating workshops and was due to begin another cycle in a few weeks’ time. Each session was two hours long; the first hour was for preparation and cooking, and the second was when the group came together and ate their healthy, home-cooked meal as a whole. Since I was photocopying pretty much everything in the Energy Centre except the desks and the biro pens, I inquired whether she needed anything photocopying for her course, while I was on a photocopying roll. She did. Tragically, half an hour before lasagne-time, what she wanted photocopying were recipes.

Pudding recipes.

The recipes came complete with pictures of said puddings, and with scrummy titles, such as Baked Apple Meringues With Orange-Soaked Raisins; Wholemeal Apple And Blackberry Crumble; Baked Pears With Maple Nut Sauce; and Rhubarb Coffee Cake.

After twenty minutes of keeping my eyes firmly averted from pictures of Cherry Almond Scones and Banana-Spice Cookies, and a quick session of folding flat-pack ‘Heeley City Farm Events’ sheets into handy, take-away leaflets, it was time to head home. But not before nipping into the farm café and grabbing a slice of chocolate cake before I left, which possibly wasn’t the lesson I should have taken from photocopying all those ‘healthy, low-fat dessert’ recipes, but I’m going to attempt to make Baked Apple Meringues With Orange-Soaked Raisins at home this weekend. Just to balance out that chocolate cake, you understand…..

Posted by Jessica ( 6:50 PM )
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Monday Oct 12, 2009

Peacocks Do The Funniest Things

After my last blog turned into something of a 'Random-People-You-Meet-While-Walking-Around-A-Farm-With-A-Hammer Say The Darn-dest Things' I decided that the only logical course of action, was to do an animal-based instalment.

Now, I know it's hard to believe, but before I started volunteering at Heeley City Farm I had no idea what a hormonal peacock sounded like. During the mating season, peacocks flare out their beautiful, brightly-coloured tail feathers in a timeless, regal and elegant display - and then emit a sound somewhat like a bag-full of ill-tempered cats, only with added notes of strangulation, distressed infant, and honking goose.

For the past month, it seems I've never been more than ten metres away from the farm's resident peacock. And, it seems he's never kept his beak shut for longer than ten seconds. There was initially something comical about the sight of him honking furiously away with tail-feathers at full-mast, while his peahen lady friend went quietly about her business, completely oblivious to his display. However, his angry-feline-meets-car-horn tones quickly began to get on my wick.

Then, one day I arrived at the farm and couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was amiss. I clicked and tapped away at the office computers for a while; I shredded; I helped one of the teachers devise an educational, recycling-based board game for her afternoon class; and still I felt out of sorts. And then it dawned on me: it was too quiet. With a sinking feeling that life was about to become far too Hollywood Tearjerker Movie for my liking, I looked out of the window at the duck pond, where the peacock had spent many hours happily making a racket.

There was no peacock.

Before the wailing strings could start up in my head, I glanced to the left, and there were the peacock and peahen, in a brand spanking new enclosure directly next to the pond. After breathing a sigh of relief that life wasn't as melodramatic as the movies, I realised that the peacock's silence had a moping, teenage quality to it, and was instantly smarting with indignation. I'd have sold my Facebook account for a place of my own (as in, my own house, not my own cage) and there was that ungrateful bird, sulking, when he'd just had his own private cage handed to him on a plate! I fumed to my nearest member of staff (while stressing that it wasn't the cage I was jealous of, but what it represented) who then told me that I shouldn't be so harsh on the poor, throwing-a-strop peacock, because he was depressed.

Why? Well, the peacock was depressed because he was missing the ducks.

It turns out the ducks and the peacock had been involved in a dysfunctional friendship that had culminated in all five ducks leaping onto the peacock's back and hanging on while the peacock spun around, trying desperately to shake said ducks off. Naturally, my heart sank to have missed this spectacle. The peacock's insistent honking, in turns out, had not all been aimed at impressing his lady-love. It had been partially the result of increasing tensions between him and his flatmates. I felt slightly guilty for all those times I'd winced at the racket and shot him irritated looks. While living in halls at university, I'd made a fair old ruckus if someone used my milk, or didn't wash the frying pan properly - but at least my flatmates had never attacked me en mass, leaping onto my back and forcing me to spin around to try and shake them off, shedding fist-fulls of feathers in the process! Although, one did have a habit of using my cooking oil, which was equally annoying.

Thankfully, the farm's anti inter-species-bullying radar was far more acute than mine, and they'd removed the peacock and the peahen from the duck enclosure pretty sharpish. Apparently, problem solved - but, in life nothing is ever simple. Ever since, the peacock had been subdued, moping around and being uncharacteristically uncommunicative. The ducks too, had been acting out of sorts, and had taken to lying next to the new peacock enclosure, bills thrust through the bars and beady eyes turned mournfully towards their favourite frenemy.

While the moral of this story could be: 'you don't know what you've got until it's gone' or 'you can't live with some people, and you can't live without them,' it could equally be 'don't honk more than you absolutely have to, or else you may just end up being separated from the ducks you were honking at, only to discover you were enjoying the drama, and now you're stuck with the peahen, who's actually really boring.'

Thankfully, I can report that both birds have since settled into their new home. The ducks no longer spend hours standing sentinel and are back to splashing happily around, and the peacock has even started honking again. The peahen is still oblivious to everything the peacock does; and I'm back to having a peacock-induced headache. Good times.

Posted by Jessica ( 1:13 PM )
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Monday Sep 28, 2009

"Is That Sheep Called Horacio?"

The best thing about hands-on, in-person volunteering, for me at least, is that the people you encounter can make even the most mundane of tasks enjoyable. Today, I was charged with putting some signs around the farm, informing the general public of everything from fire procedure and emergency meeting points, to reminding them that the horses are on a strict no-bread diet, and that visitors Should Not Eat The Animal Food.

It was something of a buzz to be let loose on the farm with a toolbox. I certainly had an extra swagger in my step as I traversed the farm, swinging my hammer and imagining myself as a bona fide farmhand. Hammering notices onto the stable doors made me feel like a consummate professional, although hammering the same notices onto the walls of the small animal house, just made me feel guilty (although Hannah the tarantula took the racket in her stride.)

I quickly discovered that an unexpected side effect of walking around a farm with any sort of tool, is the illusion that you Know What You’re Doing. Within minutes, a group of youngsters approached me and asked if they could buy some goat food. Presumably, they didn’t mean off me directly. After a brief, just-opened-the-exam-paper panic, I realised I knew the answer to this question and pointed them in the direction of the farm shop.

But things only got more surreal. As I was minding my own business hammering a fire safety notice onto the stable doors, a child on the opposite side of the road shouted, suddenly and without any prior warning, “is that Elvis?” I did a double-take (after all, this is not a question you’re ever expected to be asked) and then realised he was pointing at the goat pen. I answered that yes, that’s Elvis over there, and mentally ticked off Number Seventy-Two on my ‘Sentences I Will Probably Never Say’ list.

And, just when I thought my interactions with the general public couldn’t possibly get anymore random, another young ‘un approached me, pointed at one of the sheep and asked, without a trace of irony and with perfect pronunciation “is that sheep called Horacio?” ‘I certainly hope so!’ I thought ‘because that’s the most awesome name for a sheep I’ve ever heard!’

After wandering around in the sunshine for a little while longer, hammering away (and, in all honesty, getting a little hammer-happy and ending up giving myself a headache) it was time to venture inside for some indoors signposting action. As per usual, I had no idea where I was going, but as per usual, help was on hand, and I was pointed in the right direction.

The right direction turned out to be another part of the farm I had yet to explore, which catered to the young adults who visit the farm on educational placements. The first room was the woodwork cabin, which took me straight back to technology classes at school, but the second room, nicknamed ‘The Green Cabin’ (because it’s green. And a cabin.) was like nothing I’d been fortunate enough to encounter at school. Every inch of the walls were covered in arty graffiti, in every colour imaginable. Even the fire door was painted. I was immediately distraught that I’d missed the painting process although, admiring some of the jaw-droppingly artistic graffiti, I realised it was probably a blessing. I’d have only embarrassed myself.

Despite growing rather attached to my hammer, the time had come to down tools and become just another member of the public, which was probably for the best - I don’t think anyone could have topped that child’s Horacio question!

Posted by Jessica ( 6:35 PM )
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Tuesday Sep 08, 2009

The Importance Of A Football-Neutral Colour Scheme

In my day-to-day shenanigans, it never ceases to amaze me how even the smallest task can magically expand (no need to add water) into a stonking great mission that ends up taking triple the amount of time you’d originally set aside. So, it was with a (slightly guilty) sense of satisfaction, that I discovered although a week had passed since my last visit, the classroom still needed a final coat of paint, and the glossing hadn’t even been started yet.

It seems it’s not just me then. Phew!

The walls had already received one slick of sparkly white emulsion, so I didn’t feel too nervous about putting paintbrush to wall, and applying an extra coat. After all, it was only white-on-white, even I couldn’t mess that one up!

Again, people dropped by on their way to and from the farm kitchen, and we’d soon amassed a gaggle of enthusiastic young helpers. I was merrily painting away, congratulating myself on learning a Useful Life Skill and imagining all the pennies I’d save by never having to hire a painter/decorator. Then I turned around and saw half the pot of paint had disappeared in the space of twenty minutes. Where it had disappeared to, turned out to be the wall where the younger of our painting posse had stationed themselves at the beginning of the session, and were now still enthusiastically painting away.

Now that the room was approximately five centimetres smaller than it had been twenty minutes ago, we decided it was high time we put a lid on the emulsion, and commenced glossing.

The gloss was a beautiful colour, somewhere between lilac and blue. I enthused about its calming, cooling qualities, and how such a tranquil shade would be conductive to learning - and then felt a little overly New-Age-ee when I was told it had been chosen because it wasn’t anything remotely like blue - Sheffield Wednesday - or red - Sheffield United. Still, we all agreed it was a pretty colour.

Now, dipping your brush into a football-neutral shade of lilac, and then carefully edging your way around the window frames and skirting boards, is far more nerve wracking than rubbing a white roller across an already-white wall. But, I took a deep breath and made my first stroke (across the metre-deep window sill, I’m not that brave!) and when no-one shrieked that I’d done it wrong, I’d ruined the whole thing, now the entire classroom was going to have to be redecorated/demolished, I felt a little more confident. Soon, I was painting the window ledge, the window frame, and even risking the sharp edges around the corners of the window. And no-one shouted at me that I’d ruined the entire thing and it all had to be started again. Not even once.

By four o’clock the painting was all but finished, and I could step back and observe our work with pride. True, the young guns probably would have preferred a more controversial, football-themed colour scheme, but the blue-tinged lilac borders and bright, clean white walls looked pretty snappy. And, while I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to redecorate my own house top-to-toe, I won’t think twice about picking up a paintbrush and freshening up plain walls with a quick lick of emulsion in the future.

And, as a completely unexpected bonus, I now own one pair of lilac-splattered trainers that make a great talking point down my local pub. “What’s that on your shoes?” “Oh, I was just painting this classroom at a farm the other day, you know, as you do…….”
 

Posted by Jessica ( 12:42 PM )
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Wednesday Aug 26, 2009

Sprucing Up The Mystery Classroom

The school holidays are upon us, and that can only mean one thing: redecorating classrooms!

After instantaneously pledging my support to this noble cause, I realised I didn’t even know Heeley farm had a classroom, so I set off to find someone who could tell me where this mystery classroom was. It turned out to be directly below the office where I spend a few hours every week performing wholesome office activities such as typing, filing, answering the telephone, drinking coffee and asking if anyone had biscuits to go with said coffee.

Upon arriving at the classroom, I was given a hammer, screwdriver and a freakishly long screw, and was put to work levering plastic tracts out of the wall, which the usual classroom paraphernalia of notice boards and posters had previously been attached to. It isn’t half as difficult as it sounds, but it does make you look like you’re a hands-on, D.I.Y expert, which is most definitely a good thing. After a few minutes, I was half-screwing in that nail and prising it out of the plaster, bringing the plastic tract with it, like a pro. As I worked, the resident teacher followed me around the room filling in the holes I'd left in my wake.

Once that was completed, it was time to scour the top layer of gloss off the room’s two bay windows, the skirting boards and the door frames. What initially seemed like a five minute job, turned out to be a task of epic proportions, as the window frame suddenly acquired more nooks and crannies than should be physically possible. The skirting board too, seemed twice as long as it had been before I started crawling around on the floor scrubbing away at it with a piece of sandpaper.

Thankfully, we weren’t alone for long, as helpers drifted in and out throughout the day. Every time I turned around, there was someone different attacking the wood with sandpaper. The classroom was also next to the farm kitchen, so every time someone went for a cup of tea or a snack, they’d pop their head around the door and ask what we were doing - “sprucing up the classroom” - then, if that someone was under ten years old, inquire “why” - “to make it look nice” - and, if they were particularly teeny, they’d then ask why we wanted to make it look nice.

So, the constant stream of helpers and lookers-on kept things interesting, and I was able to quiz the teacher on this hitherto unknown educational service Heeley farm offers. Apparently, they provide vocational training to youngsters who aren’t interested in pursuing an academic route, as well as offering support to young adults with behavioural problems. Even after six weeks, it seemed I still didn’t know half the services the farm provided. I made a mental note not to crash and bang around in the office quite so much, the next time I was tootling between the kettle and the filing cabinet.

Like any self-respecting D.I.Y project, once we started, the workload seemed to double in size, so we’d barely finished sanding, filling in holes, duct taping, and other assorted prep, before it was time to go home. With only two weeks left before the start of the new term, I promised to help paint the classroom the following week - hopefully, it’ll be finished in time for the new term!

Posted by Jessica ( 3:52 PM )
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Wednesday Aug 19, 2009

"How Do You Dig?"

Halleluiah! My second attempt at being a seven-hour archaeologist, and it came to pass that it was partly cloudy with the possibility of light precipitation in the evening (humidity at 83%).

When I arrived, I was dismayed to find I'd misjudged the "wear old clothes" advice, as everyone else seemed to have a custom-made archaeology outfit (work boots, waterproofs) while I'd just dressed in items taken from the 'okay-for-knocking-about-the-house-in' end my wardrobe. Still, mud washes off (thanks, Mum!) and so I dived straight in, determined to give the washing machine a work out (thanks, Mum!) and make some earth-shattering archaeological discovery in the process. But then it occurred to me - how was I supposed to dig? After all, it wasn't like I was digging up something in the back garden. I was poised at the edge of a half-uncovered wall, and suddenly I wasn't quite sure if there was a special knack to this digging business.

Thankfully, asking "how do you dig?" whilst sat in a hole, holding a shovel, didn't elicit the laughter I was expecting, as a very nice lady talked me through the shovel-and-bucket basics of archaeology. The point of the exercise wasn't to see how deep I could dig, but to start at the edge of the partially uncovered wall and chip away at the surrounding dirt, so the brickwork stood out more prominently. When I had a pile of loosened earth, I was to scoop it up with my hands and drop it into a bucket. Once I had a full bucket, I was to take it to the pile of discarded earth and sift through it, just to make sure nothing interesting had found its way into my bucket. I was to work my way backwards from the outer perimeter, sharpening the edges and outlines of the exposed brickwork, rather than 'digging,' as such. I was allowed to remove a few smaller stones if it would clarify the structure's outline, but was to avoid loosening the bigger bricks.

Freshly versed in how to dig, I set to work. Soon, scraps of wallpaper started turning up in the soil I was churning through, and I proudly placed these in my finds tray. It was strange to think that even after the house had been demolished, turned into a farm, and trampled all over by Elvis, bits of wallpaper were still floating around in the soil. I remembered watching a documentary on sustainable living a while back, and how it had pointed out that when you throw something away, it doesn't just disappear, because good old planet Earth is a closed system. If a crack team of a demolition crew, builders, the passage of time, and a goat, couldn't completely eradicate a bit of wallpaper, then what about the gazillions of plastic water bottles, carrier bags and pre-packaged sandwich wrappers we throw away every day? It's a bit scary, to think your rubbish could very well be picked through (and blogged about) when you're no longer around to hear about it.

My interest duly piqued, I started asking the project leaders about the site, and whether they knew anything about the people who used to live there. Apparently, a few members of the public had dropped by to share anecdotes about the street, but most were uncomfortable at the thought of something they remembered, being classed as 'archaeology.' I could completely understand.

Sadly, the day drew to a close without me making any archaeological breakthroughs (although I did end up with quite a collection of wallpaper fragments, and a shiny piece of glass to boot!) but by the end of the day I had cleaned and defined quite a stretch of the exterior wall. I could sit back and see where I'd made an impression, and that made me feel proud of what I'd achieved - even if my poor clothes will never be the same again!

Posted by Jessica ( 2:25 PM )
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Sunday Aug 09, 2009

Not All Archaeologists Dig Up Dinosaurs - Some Dig Up 1960s Maltesers Packets and Bad Wallpaper

The day of the dig rolled around and I arrived at the farm all prepared, with tatty old trainers and my facebook status duly updated to 'Jessica Thornsby is off to help out on an archaeological dig! Yey!' I was ready and raring to go. And then the inevitable happened: it poured it down.

I nurtured a tiny hope that the team had laughed off the rain and the distant rumblings of thunder, and I'd find them valiantly sloshing around in the mud, just waiting for me to join them. Of course, they weren't. The field was deserted, although they'd clearly been hard at work all week. The outer perimeter of the building had been uncovered, with a thick, curved slab of wall visible in the far left-hand corner. Thankfully, before I could grow too disheartened, a member of staff informed me that the dig had been relocated indoors, where they were washing the artefacts they'd uncovered during less hostile weather. That immediately caught my attention. If I wasn't going to get the opportunity to make my own discoveries, I could at least scrub the mud off someone else's!

They'd set aside a side room for the task. True, it didn't look very Jurassic Park, with plastic washing up bowls full of muddy water, and even muddier toothbrushes apparently serving as the main tools of the archaeological trade, but as soon as I started rummaging through the 'finds' trays, I was hooked. I found a faded pink Maltesers packet with a 2p price tag, and a creased and ancient-looking crisp packet (chicken flavour) that was running a promotion where crisp-munchers could collect tokens and send off for animal badges. Apparently, some things never changed. These finds didn't take much washing, but there were plenty of bits of pottery to be washed, which proved to be just as fascinating as rifling through old junk-food wrappers.

So, I sat down, scooped up a selection of pottery, and began scrubbing away with my dirty old toothbrush. My prized discovery was a 'Made in England' stamp on the bottom of a piece of china with that classic, flowery blue pattern you always see on the Antiques Roadshow, and a bit of mug that had been broken so you could see the shape it would have originally been. I also uncovered scraps of wallpaper, and a nail that was so deformed with rust, it was almost unrecognisable.

As I enthused about my wallpaper, nail and mug discoveries, one of the archaeologists directed me to a shelf cluttered with beautiful, brightly-coloured glass bottles. Apparently, they'd been uncovered when they'd extended the farm. My mug-chip and scrap of bad-taste wallpaper suddenly didn't look quite so spectacular, and I cursed the awful weather for robbing me of the opportunity to dig up my own glass bottle to add to the Heeley farm collection.

As we continued washing the finds, I took the opportunity to talk to some of the professional archaeologists. One of the best things about volunteering, for me, is the people you meet. They always seem to be enthusiastic and passionate about something, and I have nothing but respect for people who are willing to give up their free time to help others, in one way or another. I learned that one of the professional archaeologists volunteering on the dig, had booked this week off work with the vision of going on holiday, but when she'd found out about the Heeley farm dig, had decided that the perfect way to spend her week away from paid archaeology, was doing unpaid archaeology. I couldn't help but envy her. She loved her job so much, that she'd happily do it for free - was doing it for free. Surely that's everyone's dream? I told her she was lucky. "Maybe," she replied "or maybe I'm just a bit sad."

I'd never spoken to an archaeologist before, and I doubted I'd ever get the chance again, so I took the opportunity to ask her everything I could think of about her job. I learnt that no, she didn't dig up dinosaur bones, and that the favourite thing she'd ever uncovered, had been a prehistoric spearhead at a seaside resort down South.

While I was disappointed I hadn't been able to take part in the actual dig, it was on for another week, so I'd get a second shot at being an archaeologist for a day. Besides, I'd felt rather professional, sat there scrubbing away at bits of Victorian pottery and chit-chatting with people who did this for a living. While it hadn't convinced me to jack in my dodgy old laptop, word processor and endless cups of tea, for a life of travel and uncovering prehistoric spearheads, the team's enthusiasm was infectious, and I wanted more than ever to get in the thick of it next week - fingers crossed the pesky British weather doesn't conspire against me!

Posted by Jessica ( 7:03 PM )
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Friday Jul 31, 2009

Elvis Gets An Eviction Notice And I Dig Up Lunch

Although it was my second trip to Heeley City farm, I still couldn’t get over the novelty of hopping off the train, wandering twenty minutes down the road, and finding myself smack-bang in the middle of sheep and pig pens. Today I was greeted by the sight of Elvis standing proudly on a single rock in the middle of his field, which struck me as rather surreal, as I’d only just turned off from a quiet residential street crowded with terrace houses.

My first half an hour was spent filling out forms, which wasn’t quite what I’d hoped, but it was a necessary evil. Thankfully, it was all up hill from there. After I’d finished signing my life away on health and safety forms, I was taken to the herb garden, where I helped shift barrow loads of mint and thyme around the farm. As lunch time approached, I got drafted into digging up potatoes which had been planted some months ago in the organic vegetable patch, and were now ready to be eaten. At twelve thirty we all congregated in the farm kitchen, to enjoy platefuls of the potatoes we’d dug up earlier in the morning, cooked with herbs from the herb garden, and a leafy salad, also freshly plucked from the farm garden. It was delicious - and how often do you sit down to a meal that’s been out of the ground for less than an hour?

After wolfing down a helping of potatoes and salad, in addition to the packed lunch I’d brought with me (I’d been working hard!!!) I was pointed in the direction of the South Yorkshire Energy Centre, where I was assured they’d have “something” for me to do. That “something” turned out to be sampling the fresh berry smoothies they were planning on selling in the farm café the next day. That’s the sort of “something” I like! But, potato-eating and smoothie-drinking fun and games over, I was charged with designing posters for the proposed smoothie-sale, before laminating and cutting out arrows for an ‘archaeological dig.’

Now, those were two words that required an explanation. Halfway through laminating my seventy-fifth arrow, I collared one member of staff and inquired as to what this archaeological dig was. Apparently, it was happening in Elvis’ field the following week. The plot where Heeley farm stood, used to be a row of Victorian terrace houses, which had been demolished to make way for a bypass. The residents were non too pleased about a bypass running past their back gardens and duly protested. The council eventually gave in, but the houses had already been demolished, and the land became Heeley city farm. Now, poor Elvis, standing all unsuspecting out there on his rock, was about to be temporarily ousted while archaeologists from Sheffield university, volunteers, and any passers-by who could be dragged into the fray, mucked in to dig out No. 57.

I realised this was something I’d like to get involved in. After all, how often do you get the chance to excavate a half-demolished Victorian terrace house, in a farm, in the centre of Sheffield? The Energy Centre staff kindly gave me a flier about the dig, and said they’d be happy for me to lend a hand the following week.

So, my first full day at the farm complete, and with new skills acquired in potato-digging, herb-shifting, arrow-snipping and smoothie-tasting, I headed back to the train station, hoping that, the following week, I’d be down in a trench, helping archaeologists excavate a Victorian terrace house.

Posted by Jessica ( 12:56 PM )
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Tuesday Jul 21, 2009

Bronze Age Sheep, Pineapple Mint and Elvis the Goat

A quick perusal of the do-it.org database revealed a wealth of opportunities, but one in particular leapt out at me, and that was Heeley City farm. If I'm honest, my first thoughts were of ace reality TV programme The Secret Millionaire, which had featured community and city farms on a number of occasions. I'd always thought it a stroke of genius, helping those in inner-city areas to get in touch with Mother Nature. "Why isn't there anything like that around here?" I'd wondered. Well, apparently there was all long.

My main reason for wanting to get involved, was that Heeley farm makes a point of bringing together volunteers from a range of backgrounds and cultures. Growing up in a small, self-contained village, I can appreciate how invaluable it is to get out of your bubble and meet different people.

So, three days later I was booked in for an informal interview and a nosey around. I wasn't disappointed. The sheer randomness of the place was impressive. There were animals ranging from your typical farm fare - sheep, pigs and horses - to rare breeds - a primitive species of sheep that has no flocking instinct, and looks like a cross between a goat and a deer - and the biggest and hairiest goat I'd ever seen, whom everyone called Elvis.

There were also herb gardens - boasting everything from garlic chives, to pineapple mint - and organic vegetable gardens, onsite historical projects where I could really get my hands dirty, and a whole building dedicated to promoting sustainability and renewable energy, causes rather dear to my heart.

I had a chat with a few staff members, who asked me what areas I'd be interested in working in, to which I replied "everything!" I was duly assured I would get the chance to try everything.

My first visit left me convinced that the farm's aims and ethos were in tune with my own, and I couldn't wait to start volunteering proper, the very next week.

Posted by Jessica ( 8:42 PM )
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Monday Jul 20, 2009

Haikus, hospitals and now volunteering

Hello, this is Jessica, and welcome to my Blog! I'm 22 and finished a BA in Creative Writing at Bolton University a year ago, which was lots of fun, even though being able to knock out a haiku in ten seconds flat, isn't a skill most employers look for.

So, I spend my days alternating between writing for various websites/newspapers/magazines/whoever will have me, whilst working as a Catering Assistant at my local hospital and spending approximately twenty hours a week on job websites. All in all, it's not a bad set-up, I have some pennies to go to the pub with at weekends, my various writing commitments stop my brain from dissolving, and a more exciting 9-5 will come around the corner soon (fingers crossed!)

However, recently I began to see a pattern emerging, and that pattern went: home-work-pub, repeat, and it's never a good thing to have three main ports of call at the tender age of 22. So, I decided to do something about it, and since no-one seemed about to ask me to move to London to run their international business empire single handedly, I decided to try out some volunteering.

Volunteering is something I've always been interested in, especially anything to do with animals. I'm a vegetarian (with several ill-fated but well-meaning attempts at veganism under my belt) and while at university I volunteered with a fantastic conservation group that had me chopping down saplings and small trees and weaving them into hedgerows on the very first day - which isn't your usual Monday morning activity! Although, spending my first session in the middle of an abandoned parkland with a bunch of axe and chainsaw-wielding strangers, did put me slightly on edge!

So, I set out to get out of my rut and hopefully contribute something to society in the process. Hopefully something that involved animals and conservation, without any chainsaws and axes this time.

Posted by Jessica ( 10:24 AM )
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