The Bumps

The three old men meet once a year for a very specific purpose.

John brings the rope,  Geoff carries the poles and Ian operates the machine.

It's a worrying business,  but they all take a light-hearted view;  almost as though they didn't take their work seriously.   Yet,  deep down,  they know it's important.   Without old men like these three the world might grind to a halt.

The Bumps started yesterday,  and will reach a climax on Saturday.   Proud parents from all over the world will converge on the village.   Brash Northern business men in vulgar offroaders;  arrogant Home Counties marketing men in beamers;  effusive Antipodeans in hired cars;  elaborately polite American airmen in impossibly large sedans;  they'll all bring their wives,  of course,  and the lesser siblings of the competitors.

The competition is fierce,  as befits the relations of the best brains in the country at one of the elite Universities,  but unless you do exactly as Margaret,  or Sara,  or Hilary tells you,  you won't get a parking space.   Competition on the river is fierce too (probably).   Pride amongst the parents is fierce:  never mind whether Jeremy expects to get a First:  did he win his heat?   This is the Henley of the East of England,  and frocks and suits and hats rival those near the Thames.   Corporate champagne flows at Osier Holt;  college bubbly is poured at Ditton Meadows;  Pimms is available at the banking marquee;  and those without formal invitations bring hamper and rugs,  and look for somewhere to sit and watch.   Caroline and Ray will open The Gate and let a few nice people in to watch from their field.

The village is old,  and narrow,  and crowded.   Plough Hill and Green End (the names say it all),  down to the river,  are no more than paved lanes lined with cottages and honeysuckle and roses.   There are no passing places and there is no turning circle at the end.   David is building a new house,  with its attendant lorries and machinery,  on the corner.

In an effort to ease the chaos (it can't be eliminated) the Recreation Ground is opened for parking,  for a donation of £5 per car.   Payment is made at the gate,  with more grace the smaller the car (except the American airmen,  of course,  who won't accept change for £20 notes,  despite having scraped their bottoms over the path at the entrance).   The gate is manned (?) by a coordinated rota of charming ladies and gentlemen who will morph into dragons at the slightest recalcitrance.   They'll work their socks off to make the visitors happy,  provided they do as they're told.

By Sunday it's all over.   The parents are happy (not knowing the rules,  and having seen only 100m of the river,  they have no idea whether their darlings won or lost,  but they had a lovely day out).   One college is ecstatic and jubilant (to the extent of hanging upside down from the bypass bridge to paint their name on the concrete):  the others are morose and making excuses.   The village is £1500 better off,  and the villagers are exhausted.

The three old men are happy,  too.

They worked from 10 until 1130 on Thursday morning,  and they'll do it all again next year,  deo volente.

They painted the white parking lines on the recreation ground.

Why Compost?

Why do it?  and why use it?

Compost is plant (and often animal) remains which have been eaten and digested by a range of small creatures,  such as slugs,  snails,  woodlice,  worms,  moulds and bacteria,  and then passed out as "droppings".

"Decayed",  or "rotted" means that bacteria and fungi have "eaten" the remains of the plants and left behind the undigested bits,  their droppings and their own bodies.

While these beasts are eating,  digesting and leaving their wastes,  very little is lost from your compost heap.   A little Nitrogen,  perhaps,  becomes a gas or two and escapes.   Some of the Carbon becomes Carbon Dioxide and escapes.   But most of the elements in the plant (and animal) bodies simply get formed into another compound,  and another,  and another . .

Plants need Nitrogen,  Phosphorus and Potassium (NPK) (K is the chemical symbol for Potassium),  along with many other elements,  in order to grow.   They absorb these elements,  dissolved in water,  through their roots.   Most of these elements are present in compost in forms which dissolve slowly in water.

So compost is a slow-release fertilizer.

Some of your compost is humus,  that dark jelly which glues particles of sand and clay together to make friable granules of soil;  that mysterious colloid which absorbs water like a sponge and releases it when your plants need it;  that active group of cation exchange complexes which loosely bind and release the elements which your plants need for growth;  that magical mix of macromolecules which seems to protect your plants against diseases;  that indigestible synthesis of lignins and quinoles which is stable for decades and centuries.

That very basis of a fertile soil.

But why compost?

Why not just mix the wilted weeds and waste plants into the soil of your veg patch and let them get on with it?

Why?   Because they'd suck the life (actually the Nitrogen) out of your soil,  that's why.

The dead vegetables have a Carbon to Nitrogen ratio of between 11:1 and 30:1.   The bacteria which digest (rot) them have a Carbon to Nitrogen ratio of 5:1,  so they need more Nitrogen than their food can provide.   They draw the extra from the soil around them and so,  for a while,  deplete the soil of Nitrogen.   If this happens in your veg plot,  your plants will starve.   If it happens in your compost heap,  then the rate of decay will slow down for a while.

Eventually,  of course,  the Nitrobacter and Azotobacter will get together and use Nitrogen from the air to make up the deficiency.

A compost heap is a temporal buffer to get the decay process past the short-term shortage of Nitrogen.