Two summer's ago, I participated in a community service program in the UK that focused on the significance of both the Slow Food Movement and Organic Farmingcc (as mentioned
here.) Part of the program consisted of living on an organic meat farm on the Welsh coast. During this time, I met Peter Seger, owner of nearby
Blaencamel Farm (and one of the first organic farms in the UK) who later became the principle subject in one of my college essay options, and then, just now, appeared on my computer screen as a result of my
StumbleUpon-ing.
Below you will find my snippet of writing on the inspirational green thumb, as well as a video of his speech on soil and the benefits of treating it equal to human.
The Joys of Rain
It was raining the day I met Peter Segger. This I remember, for it was because of the rain that he presented a smile he claimed was “just an inch wider” than his smile on the days where it’s nor raining or sunny.
“This is the weather we depend on,” he continued, as he placed a lit cigarette in his mouth, brushed his wrinkled hand through his white hair and delicately pulled on a leaf from the plant stem beside him. I forced a chuckle in response, my eyes fixated on the grey sky, and my mind fixated on the absurd notion of being excited by cold and wet weather.
“If Wales had just a slightly increased probability of sunny days throughout the year, I might consider moving here,” I thought.
The group and I followed Peter throughout his haven; a swarming collection of green with an every-so-often burst of red, purple, orange or yellow. The greenhouse, structured with plastic wrapping and metal poles, was a spacious sanctuary that played host to, quite literally, the fruits (and vegetables) of his labor. The humid area was divided into rows of families. The tomatoes’ inhabited the far left, while the cauliflower occupied the far right. The potatoes, peppers and aubergines, or what American’s recognize as “eggplant”, seized the space in-between, making a perfectly established niche for a farmer.
We were lead outside, where, again, a pattern of-sorts was developed on the saturated land. Wide lines of compost lay adjacent to one another, stretching from our feet to the far end of the pasture. Peter spoke again, and here I recognized the deep and almost fulfilled tone of his accented voice: “Now, this is the basis for this farm. Other than the sun and rain, this fertilizer is the key component to organic farming.”
I sprung my hands out in front of me as we continued on to our last destination, hoping to avoid the possibility of slipping on the sticky mud below my Wellies. We eventually reached a clearing that, from standing in the wood we had come from, temporarily made the day look bright rather than overcast. Among the clearing was a sea of vegetation; a vast supply of jade colored blossoms bigger than an average person’s head.
“And this is our field of lettuce; our glory field, if you will,” Peter said. The ground extended to the point where the lettuce became blurry, making it a mystery to all of as to when the foliage stopped growing. A common “awe” was shared among the group as we simply stared at Peter’s glory field.
“This very land here constantly reminds me why I do what I do,” he slowly inhaled his cigarette. “Organic farming is so much more than the production of generally healthy, chemical-free food. It doesn’t emit the amount of fossil fuels conventional farming does, and it doesn’t require the use and waste of both pesticides and synthetic fertilizers,” Again, he placed his cigarette to his lips. “It was my generation who brought the issues of global warming upon your generation due to selfishness and resistance to facing the truth. This is my way of giving back to you.” Peter inhaled his cigarette one last time, gazing carefully across the field while softly nodding. I looked up at the grey sky, and smiled.
