Pigeon stew and cramp balls

I've just returned from a bushcraft course that I set up with my friend Andy Noble of Nature's Craft http://www.naturescraft.co.uk that turned out to be one of those special weekends that only come along every now and then.

Andy's the expert, I just brokered the experience for an interesting mix of artists and environmentalists, and did my best to make sure that everyone had a good time. The latter turned out to be a pretty easy job - the group got on famously, and Andy and his brother Paul kept everyone happily busy with lots of entertaining bushcrafty challenges.

Over 2 nights and 2 days, we lit fire by friction (well, some of us did), made debris shelters, learned how to use our knifes (proudly worn by all), made string from nettles, carved spoons, butchered a pigeon each (nearly all of us, including one vegan) and slept out in the woods in our tents, under tarps or in the debris shelters we'd built. Probably my last sleep-out of the year without a tent.

I did my culture bit on Saturday night by playing a few songs round the campfire, before the baton passed to the multi-talented and very funny Duncan McAfee for some poetry and more music, until eventually we all ran out of tunes and alcohol. Paul Noble said it was the best night out on a camp he'd had in ages.

On Sunday, a few people found cramp balls growing on dead wood - also known as king alfred cakes, these black fungi are wicked for fire-lighting. Once dried, they catch easily and burn slowly, so they're good as coal extenders, transferring fire from tinder to kindling. They smell divine when they burn, but why are they called cramp balls? Puts you off eating them - like death caps, I wonder whether there's a clue in the name.

Preparing the pigeon was easier than I expected as a squeamish veggie. Less slimy than the trout I dealt with last time I was in these woods (see July's post), my bird was fluffy and heavier in the hands than I thought it would be. A small incision under the breast bone and the skin and feathers just peel away, leaving the breast eaily cut out with hardly a drop of blood. Rosy got well into it - she was looking for the girl-guide within but I think she found a full-on cavewoman instead.

For some reason I don't mind eating animals I've cut up myself, and I seem to have developed a meat habit when bushcrafting. My wife thinks I'm weird. Maybe it's like this bloke I know who only smokes in pub gardens. I tried a drag on a cigarette the other day, after not smoking for 7 years, out of curiosity. It was awful - really obviously poisonous. Bushcraft is much more addictive.

Climbing into a real bed on Sunday night felt a bit odd - other people on the course said the same thing. Houses really over-do the shelter thing most of the time. Back in the woods, I was cosy and warm and at home on the forest floor. Does this imply a fickleness in our sense of home, or a timelessness?