My goodness, what a day it has turned out to be! One of those days when you start off with no particular expectations and return home having discovered something new, achieved something useful and enjoyed one of the oldest pleasures known to mankind. It was a day that began among the market stalls of Midsomer Norton and ended with us sitting in the gathering darkness, contemplating the glowing embers of a bonfire.
We started with a visit to the monthly farmers’ market, held on the first Saturday of each month in the centre of Midsomer Norton. It is a pleasant occasion, usually accompanied by music of one sort or another, and provides an opportunity to meet people, browse the stalls and generally remind ourselves that there is still such a thing as a local community. Françoise, entirely predictably, gravitated towards the cheese stall, while I found myself drawn towards anything displaying cakes. We all have our weaknesses. I did eventually yield to temptation, although I have become increasingly cautious about anything containing excessive quantities of sugar. I describe such products as sugar bombs, and my body has developed a rather efficient system of informing me when I have made a poor choice. There is a difference between enjoying a little sweetness and subjecting one’s digestive system to a full-scale assault.
While wandering around the market area, my attention was drawn once again to a shop I had noticed on previous occasions but never properly investigated. It was called The Nest – Games and Collectables, and from the outside it appeared to be bursting at the seams with objects of every conceivable description. Was it a shop, a museum, a games centre or simply a place where somebody had collected rather more things than they knew what to do with? I couldn’t decide. There seemed to be shelves of games, figures, DVDs, electronic equipment, collectables and all manner of intriguing objects competing for the available space. It was certainly not the sort of establishment where a minimalist would feel entirely at home.
Please note that this was inspired by my visit and the information I was given at the time. The Nest have not approved it. If they don’t like it, I will design another one
Curiosity eventually overcame me, and I went inside. What a discovery! Far from being merely a shop selling games and collectables, The Nest turned out to be something much more interesting: a community meeting place where people could gather around shared interests and activities.
Among the various things taking place was a men’s group meeting every Tuesday evening between 6 pm and 8 pm. This immediately caught my attention, because one of the central purposes of my forthcoming book, Come and Join Us, is to bring precisely these sorts of opportunities to the attention of people who might otherwise never hear about them.
The people running The Nest are Corey, Kelly and Kyle, and I found them enthusiastic and welcoming. When I explained that I was compiling a book about local organisations and activities, and that I would be delighted to include their venture, they responded with genuine interest. I think it was Kelly who scribbled the essential details on a Post-it note. There is something rather pleasing about the contrast between our increasingly complicated technological world and the humble Post-it note, which continues to perform its duties with admirable reliability. No passwords, no updates, no subscription charges and very little chance of the system crashing.
I explained that my aim was to help people discover what was happening on their own doorstep, particularly those who might be new to the area or looking for opportunities to meet others. The Nest seemed to fit the bill perfectly. There are many people who would never dream of joining a conventional club or attending a formal meeting but who might happily walk into a games shop, strike up a conversation and gradually find themselves becoming part of a community. Sometimes the most effective way of bringing people together is not to announce that you are doing so, but simply to provide an environment in which it happens naturally.
I returned home and, while the conversation was still fresh in my mind, set about designing an A5 publicity leaflet (above) and a business card for them. With the assistance of modern technology, I was able to produce something colourful and attractive remarkably quickly. Within an hour of my visit, I had emailed the results to The Nest. I still find this ability to turn an idea into a finished piece of publicity almost immediately rather extraordinary. Not so many years ago, the same exercise might have involved a graphic designer, several telephone calls, proofs going backwards and forwards and a bill at the end of it. Now, with a little imagination and the appropriate tools, it can be accomplished before the kettle has boiled twice.
I shall certainly return to The Nest, partly to discover more about its activities and partly to understand the thinking behind it. I am increasingly convinced that the most valuable community initiatives are often the ones that arise naturally from people’s interests rather than from committees, strategies and carefully worded mission statements. Someone has an idea, finds a space, gathers a few like-minded people and gradually something develops that becomes valuable to others. It may not look particularly impressive on paper, but its human consequences can be considerable.
Later in the afternoon, Françoise and I set off for our new allotment, where I had decided that the time had come for a bonfire. I have always enjoyed bonfires, not merely as a convenient means of disposing of unwanted vegetation but as an activity in their own right. When I was chairman of the allotment association some years ago, I used to organise communal bonfires, inviting plot holders to bring along suitable garden waste. These were held in the car park and could become quite substantial affairs. There was something satisfying about seeing everyone’s unwanted material gathered together and transformed into heat, flame and finally a modest quantity of ash.
This time I decided upon something rather more intimate, a bonfire on our own plot, which happens to be number 13. Some people regard thirteen as unlucky, while others consider it a fortunate number. I have never been particularly troubled by such associations. If anything, I rather enjoy occupying a plot with a number that causes other people to raise an eyebrow. It gives the place a little character before anything has even been planted.
There is a definite art to making a successful bonfire, and I take the business quite seriously. It is no good piling a great quantity of damp wood and weeds together, applying a match and expecting nature to do the rest.
A fire requires careful preparation, particularly during its first few minutes. I began with a small piece of firelighter, surrounded by tiny pieces of dry wood, and gradually added larger material as the flames established themselves. The secret is to build the temperature steadily rather than smother the infant fire with more fuel than it can manage.
I reckon that the first five minutes of a bonfire’s life largely determine its future. Get those right, and you have a cooperative fire that will steadily consume the material offered to it. Get them wrong and you spend the next half-hour producing smoke, frustration and an occasional pathetic flicker of flame. A fire, like a human relationship, needs the right conditions at the beginning if it is to develop satisfactorily.
Once the flames were properly established, I went foraging around the plot for additional material. There were rotten pieces of wood, old planks and small piles of weeds waiting to be disposed of. These were gathered together and brought to meet their maker. I find it immensely satisfying to watch something that has outlived its usefulness being reduced to its basic elements. A good hot fire can deal with a surprising amount of suitable dry garden material, although damp weeds require patience and it is important not to create unnecessary smoke for neighbouring plot holders.
There is also something rather elemental about the whole process. We live in an age in which almost everything is mediated by machinery, electronics and complicated systems. Yet here was I, on a small patch of Somerset soil, using essentially the same principles that human beings have understood for thousands of years. Fuel, oxygen, heat and a little judgement. No instruction manual, no computer and no customer service department to telephone if things went wrong.
As the afternoon progressed, the fire settled into a steady rhythm. The more substantial pieces of wood gradually collapsed into glowing embers, occasionally sending up a brief shower of sparks as another section surrendered to the heat. The air was cool but not unpleasant, and the warmth from the fire became increasingly welcome as daylight began to fade.
By five o’clock, Françoise and I found ourselves sitting quietly, watching the last of the flames and the deep red glow beneath them. There was no particular reason to hurry away. The day’s work was done, and the fire was gradually completing its own business. I find this stage of a bonfire extraordinarily soothing. The dramatic flames have largely disappeared, leaving something deeper and almost hypnotic.
I can sit looking into glowing embers for a very long time. There is something about fire that seems to exist outside ordinary time. One moment you are watching a particular piece of wood slowly change shape, and the next you realise that ten minutes have passed without your having thought about anything in particular. It is a form of meditation requiring no special technique, no background music and certainly no expensive course. You simply sit, observe and allow the mind to become still.
Perhaps our fascination with fire is buried somewhere deep within the human psyche. For countless generations, people gathered around flames for warmth, protection, cooking, conversation and companionship. Before television, before the internet and before anyone had invented the expression quality time, there was the fire. It provided a natural centre around which human life could organise itself.
I sometimes wonder whether our modern lives have become unnecessarily complicated because we have lost touch with such simple experiences. We spend enormous amounts of money trying to relax, yet here was a perfectly satisfactory form of relaxation produced by a few pieces of unwanted wood and an afternoon’s gardening.
Reflecting on the day, I was struck by the contrast between its two principal activities. In the morning, I had discovered The Nest, a modern community venture built around games, collectables and the human need for companionship. In the afternoon, I had returned to something almost prehistoric, sitting beside a fire and allowing its warmth and movement to quieten my mind.
Yet perhaps the two experiences were not so different after all. Both were about creating a space in which people could feel comfortable. Both involved stepping away from the demands of ordinary life, and both reminded me that some of our deepest satisfactions are remarkably simple.
A shared interest, a welcoming room, a conversation with a stranger, a little warmth on a cold afternoon. None of these things sounds particularly grand, but together they constitute much of what makes life worth living.
And so we returned home, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, with the satisfaction of having made progress on our allotment and having discovered another small but valuable piece of the local community.
Not a bad day’s work, considering that it had begun with nothing more ambitious than a visit to the market and the possibility of buying a cake.
