Category Archives: school

What am I doing with my (professional) life?

Last week I sat on an interview panel and discovered that, these days, job candidates research their potential colleagues just as much as their potential colleagues research them. Unfortunately for me, our candidates had not looked at my personal webpage or my Twitter feed or my blogs–all current and (fairly) lively and more or less accurate representations of me–but at, of all things, my horribly neglected LinkedIn page.

I only created a LinkedIn account because, a few years ago, I taught a “key skills” module in which I had to encourage the students to set up their own professional profile there, and I couldn’t very well  preach something that I wasn’t practicing. I log in maybe once every couple of months in order to accept networking requests, and until a couple of days ago I still hadn’t edited my profile to reflect the job that I’ve been doing for the past seven months. Armed with the knowledge that important people might occasionally look me up on there,  I forced myself to spend some time polishing up my profile and making an accurate representation of my current vocation.

Down at the bottom of the page, there is a section where you enter your “top skills”, which, in my case, were woefully out of date because they reflected none of the tasks I’ve been doing on a daily basis since 2014, when I decided once and for all that the life of an academic was not for me. My previous skills included items such as “bird banding”, “mist-netting”, “vegetation surveys”, and “paternity analyses”; my new skills include things like “marketing strategy”, “stakeholder engagement”, and “digital media”. You can only list 50 skills total, and for me to accurately represent Current Caitlin, I needed to delete Former Caitlin. The philosophical relevance of that act was not lost on me.

I am not going to lie: Even though it’s been seven years since I last touched a mist net, and I never really entertained the idea that I might ever use one again, it felt very poignant and weighty to actually remove that task from LinkedIn. Likewise, areas of expertise such as “Animal Behaviour”, “Evolution”, and “Conservation”. No matter what skills and knowledge are suggested by educational background and job history, Current Caitlin is very obviously not a scientist.

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Former Caitlin, circa 2007

To be honest, I’m not sure that Former Caitlin was really ever a scientist, either. Nor was she a lecturer or a researcher or a science writer. Or, to be more accurate, she was at least moderately successful at temporarily being all of those things to varying extents, but never felt entirely at home in those roles. Former Caitlin was just waiting to figure out what in the world she wanted to do with her professional life.

The very first job I can remember aspiring to, back in my single-digit years, was Egyptologist. I was quite concerned that all the tombs and treasures would be discovered by the time I was able to join in the fun, which I’m pleased to say is not actually the case–though, of course, large portions of Egypt are way too dangerous to travel in right now, so I think perhaps I dodged a bullet there (perhaps literally).

Egyptian tomb section
I took this photo recently at the Louvre, where I made a beeline to the Egyptian section because I’m still a bit obsessed.

I don’t know what other specific careers I pondered as a child, but I do know that my obsession with birds emerged pretty early on; I was enchanted by one of my great grandmothers’ backyard bird identification books and then felt something click when I learned my first bird song. For a long time, I suppose I thought I’d end up being a professional bird wrangler. I didn’t really know what a professional wrangler would do; I just wanted to hold a wild bird in my hands and spend my days strolling through the forest, communing with nature. I thought it might look something like this:

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Wrangling a bobwhite in Madison, Indiana, during my first field job (2001)

I had to start properly thinking about career trajectories when I began doing college applications in high school, but I felt completely unequipped to definitively declare what I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing. (What 16-year-old is capable of that?) I knew I liked birds, and animals in general, and that I cared about conservation and the outdoors. So, a biology degree seemed like a good idea. However, my biological education to date had been uninformative and uninspiring, and I had no idea whether I really had any aptitude in the topic or even enough of an interest in the field to want to make my livelihood in it. At the same time, I had a natural proficiency in writing and enjoyed producing both fiction and non-fiction (with occasional forays into poetry and even playwriting, heaven help me). Therefore, an English major also seemed a pretty safe bet, if not one that I found particularly inspiring.

I eventually had the bright idea that I could, perhaps, combine these two areas and do something interdisciplinary: I could be a science journalist and translate science to the masses so that they would love nature as I loved nature, and be inspired to support conservation, and vote logically because they would be educated about public policy. Basically, I would save the world through words.

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Saving the world, one family of pink birds at a time

Unfortunately, this plan was totally flawed–and not just because of the idealism. The problem was that even though I am good at both science and writing, I do not actually have the temperament to be a professional science writer. I don’t want to interview people, or pump out multiple articles per week, or work to tight deadlines, or worry about the fact that people now have a two-second attention span, or stress over the feedback that you get from trolls in online comments sections. I love translating science into something that is accessible to the masses, but I enjoy it as a hobby that I can dabble in when I’m in the mood, rather than as a day job. I only realised this when I published my first article. I was proud of that achievement and definitely knew I wanted to replicate it, but I also knew that doing it full-time would suck the enjoyment out of it for me. This was a worrying revelation because that meant I needed a Plan B.

Luckily, I was in the process of doing Masters research at the time, and because it was going well, my adviser, much to my surprise, was interested in keeping me on for a PhD. I figured I’d give it a go because I liked the idea of ticking that achievement off my bucket list and I assumed that the additional qualification would open some extra doors into the realm of saving the world. By that point, I had shifted my focus to applied jobs, such as those at national parks, wildlife refuges, visitor centres, and museums, where I could either work in conservation and habitat management or develop educational outreach programmes associated with local wildlife. (I have since learned that, counterintuitively, having a PhD often renders you over-qualified for many of these jobs, and thus highly undesirable as a job candidate.)

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Dr-Caitlin-in-training, checking a bluebird nest box (circa 2005)

During the penultimate year of my degree, for the sake of getting practice with job interviews and investigating whether my credentials had any real-world value, I applied for a position that was pretty much my historical idea of my dream job in science outreach. I was invited for an interview and spent the entire seven-hour car journey pondering what I would do if I were offered the position. Even if I could find a way to complete my PhD part-time while doing the new job, accepting would mean definitively turning my back on science.

By that point, I had invested nearly a decade of my life in scientific training, and I was at peak immersion in the world of science–and academia. When you’re in that world, you begin to have this feeling that anything not in that world is just not quite as important or meaningful. You feel special that you have been selected for that rarefied environment, and that you are managing to persevere within it. You feel excited by all the mental stimulation, and you feel a nervous anticipation about what thrilling results wait just around the bend. You feel that a life in this world could contain endless wonderful possibilities.

Even before I arrived at my destination, I knew in my heart of hearts that it didn’t matter how my interview went, because there was no way I could accept the job. I realised that I had long since passed the fork in the road where I might head off down the path of full-time professional outreach. I knew I needed to finish that PhD and try my hand at scientific research. I have mentally relived this journey of epiphany many times in subsequent years, with the added benefit of hindsight and the knowledge that I was, in fact, offered the job, and I can categorically state that I made the right decision and have absolutely no regrets. However, within just a few months, I had yet another illuminating experience that showed me I still hadn’t quite gotten myself on the right professional track.

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At my first scientific conference, Snowbird, Utah, 2005

Conferences are a critical aspect of an academic’s life, and most people love them. You reconnect with old friends, you meet new potential collaborators, you dissect all the latest research, you show off what you’ve been doing, and you generally revel in a shared love of your topic of expertise. I have always felt extremely uncomfortable at conferences, however, because I don’t like talking to people I don’t know, I hate the way that “conversations” and “questions” are often more like “challenges”, and I am frustrated by how people can focus so narrowly on one tiny topic and almost wilfully refuse to acknowledge the existence of other concepts. Basically, conferences combine and amplify all the things I most dislike about academia.

In the summer after my quietly life-changing job interview, I attended a conference at which I was presenting some preliminary results that made absolutely no sense. It’s not my fault they made no sense–that’s just the way the data were–but I took it very hard. I felt like a failure for being unable to think of a logical explanation for the patterns I’d observed, and also for being incapable of figuring out how I could present my findings in a way that, if nothing else, at least started an interesting dialogue about these weird patterns.

Even though I kind of knew I was overreacting, I also knew that there was some fundamental validity to my inkling of scientific inadequacy, which I had vaguely felt before but then shoved aside and buried away. Lots of people talk about “imposter syndrome“, but this is not what I was experiencing. I knew I was definitely a genuine scientist, but I also felt–and still feel, with certainty–that there was a ceiling to my proficiency in that area. I was only ever destined to be, on average, a mediocre researcher. I might periodically have good ideas, and perhaps I’d even have a great idea here or there, but I wouldn’t ever consistently be brilliant or cutting-edge or ground-breaking or world-changing. I was not, and would never be, in the upper echelon of my field. I did not want to settle for being average at my chosen career–there would be no long-term satisfaction or fulfilment in that–so I knew I needed to look elsewhere.

Leaving the world of academia is a pretty definitive thing; thanks to the way scientists are evaluated (publication of research papers and acquisition of grants), even a short time out can be sufficient to close that door forever. Before I took that step, I wanted to feel certain that I hadn’t simply gotten burned out from spending too long at one institution or on one research project, so I applied for a postdoctoral position that would allow me to experiment with a change of scenery.

To make ends meet until the position began, I found work with Editage, a company that helps non-English-proficient researchers get their manuscripts up to speed before submitting them for publication in academic journals. Gruelling though this work often was, it was probably the most satisfying employment I have ever had. By comparing my final drafts with the original ones I’d been sent, I could see the positive impacts of my labours; I also learned a lot of interesting tidbits from scientific fields far removed from my own. I thought perhaps that editing might be the way forward for me, but there were two problems: First, it’s almost impossible to find full-time editorial work anywhere but in large cities such as London and New York; second, the freelance option is not very well-paid and requires pretty much round-the-clock work to yield a decent paycheck.

This is a good opportunity to mention some fundamental feelings I have about employment in general. I don’t really care how much money I earn, but I would definitely prefer to make enough that I don’t have to constantly worry about paying bills and being able to afford essential purchases such as food and medication; I had my fill of that stressful lifestyle during my graduate school days and would rather not return to it. Rather than obsessing over size of paycheck, I have always been more interested in experiencing variety and feeling mentally stimulated. I would also hope that my endeavours are making someone else’s life better and/or are contributing to society in general. Finally, I’d like to have a good work-life balance, such that I can choose where I live and have the opportunity to enjoy it on evenings and weekends rather than working around-the-clock.

Those criteria leave quite a few options as far as job choice goes, and because I find so many things interesting, I have long had difficulty narrowing my options. In addition to my obsession with birds and books, I also love, among other things, technology, art, exercise, cooking, and horticulture. I have spent significant portions of my time devoted to various endeavours in these areas (sometimes professionally), have enjoyed myself while doing so, and have shown some amount of aptitude at these tasks. For example:

I enjoy doing crafts. Lots of people like me make a living selling their crafts on Etsy. Should I try that?
I like to bake and cook; I also love tea. Might I think about opening a cafe–perhaps one that caters especially to crafty types?
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I love photography. Some of my work has been shortlisted in contests and used by companies in professional projects. Could I make a living in this field?
Making scones
What about combining my love of food and photography in some way? Some food bloggers have successfully monetised their online activity…
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Pet whispering in the early ’90s. A petsitter-in-training since childhood?
Caitlin in Senior Follies
I can even sing! Am I the next Christina Aguilera?

Okay, so I never actually wanted to be a professional singer. But I have legitimately thought about whether those other interests and skills might be the basis for a potential career. Some of them, such as becoming a personal trainer, for example, would require more education–if not a full degree then at least some classes leading to additional qualifications to flesh out my CV a little. I could handle that if it felt like a good investment of my time, but I have always had the sense that those areas are enjoyable to me now specifically because they are not my full-time job; as much as I love them, none of them really has the feel of something I’d want to do for eight hours a day plus some occasional evenings and weekends. (Petsitting comes closest, but encounters with incontinent cats, dogs with diarrhoea, and unexpected euthanasia requirements do tend to take the shine off things.)

Options like these were frequently on my mind as I edited, and then as I slogged my way through two years of postdoctoral research. While my interest in birds and science never waned over that period, my patience with academia most definitely did. Our perverse system expects way too much of academics. They are supposed to crank out paper after paper based on complex and time-consuming research while also mentoring junior researchers, teaching, grading, reading the literature to stay up to speed on others’  work, performing administrative duties, reviewing journal manuscripts, serving on journal editorial boards, talking to the public about their work, attending conferences, liaising with potential collaborators and funders, and writing grants to fund the next round of studies. It’s obscene, and would have felt especially onerous to me given my sense that I would be putting all that time and effort into the academic life only to generate findings that were never particularly impactful.

I dabbled briefly in the life of a non-research lecturer in the interests of trying out every single available option before really and truly calling it quits. I very much enjoyed teaching on field courses in amazing locations such as Kenya, the Isles of Scilly, and California, but even those incredible experiences couldn’t change my mind. It’s one thing to love public speaking about interesting topics, and another to be good at interacting with and engaging students in order to teach them to think for themselves. They deserve better than an introvert like me who tries to slink out of the lecture theatre as quickly as possible after class, and I deserve better than a job that requires me to wrestle with my own personality all day.

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This view almost convinced me to continue being a lecturer forever, as long as it meant annual migrations to beautiful places for educational purposes.

So it was that I found myself entering the world of “professional services”, the label that the University of Exeter applies to non-academic staff roles that support the university’s education and research activities. I started out as an education administrator, which suited me surprisingly well. It involved a lot of systems and rules and processes and strict deadlines, which is perfect for an anal-retentive person like me. I enjoy things that require organisation and discipline and routines, because those things are comforting and pleasing. The main problem with education admin is that there is variety within an academic year, but not so much between one year and the next; it’s a good job for picking up and honing a range of useful professional skills, but it’s probably not something that most people would want to do forever.

Luckily for me, after only one year I had an opportunity to become a communications and marketing manager–an interesting prospect for someone who knew quite a bit about a few very specific types of communication, and pretty much nothing at all about marketing. The person who hired me pointed that fact out at my interview, but then laughed and said I would learn.

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The Science of Christmas — a science outreach event that I created as a nod to the annual Christmas lecture initiated by Faraday in 1825

And I have learned, though less from taking courses and reading books and more from observing colleagues and diving right in to do things first-hand. Although I rail against the jargon, it has been fascinating to find out about “customer journeys” and “collateral” and the difference between a “strategy” and a “plan”. It turns out that marketing is both scientific and artistic; it involves careful research and analysis and data-based decision making, but also the creativity associated with eloquent expression, eye-catching design, and the crafting of compelling narratives. It requires a mixture of facts and intuition, collaboration and independence, diplomacy and going rogue. It’s engaging and fun. To my surprise, I like it.

I’m not saying that I would like marketing in any situation. There’s no way I could ignore my ethics so as to help sell something dangerous or substandard or otherwise morally objectionable–no cigarettes or fast food or $500 epi-pens for me. But it feels good to know about an excellent, life-changing thing and help connect people to it. That was always how I envisioned the process of science communication, and it’s how I envision my current job. I help academics figure out how to turn their expertise into viable classes and degree programmes, and then I help potential students figure out if those programmes will help them achieve their life goals. I find ways to make scientific results more accessible and understandable to a wider range of people. I create and promote opportunities to inspire young people to pursue STEM careers. I facilitate conversations that lead to research collaborations, student placements, and maybe even scholarship opportunities. How cool is that?

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Our inaugural stand at the Royal Cornwall Show. I nearly had a mental breakdown organising this event, but it was quite the learning experience! Photo courtesy of James Ram.

I’ve indulged in this incredibly long-winded retrospective not because I think my own personal history is so fascinating but because, every year, at least half a dozen students approach me with questions about some aspect of my professional trajectory. How does one get published as a freelancer? How does one find editing opportunities? Is it difficult to become a communicator or go into marketing if your undergrad degree isn’t specifically focused on those areas? Are there any full-time jobs in science communication or is it all volunteer work? Is it desirable to pursue a PhD if you don’t actually want to become an academic? Am I a failure if I leave science? How do you find a job doing what you love?

As my career path shows, you can do a fair bit of meandering and still wind up at a pleasant destination. Just because it isn’t the destination you’d set off for doesn’t mean it’s a bad place to wind up. You can have lots of interests that are great for pursuing in your free time but aren’t necessarily what you would be happy doing professionally. What you think you want to devote your life to may involve lots of behind-the-scenes stuff you don’t enjoy. Your personality may not be suited to the job thought you wanted. The career options you’re aware of at any given time probably only represent a tiny fraction of all available possibilities, so your dream job may be something you don’t even know exists.

These days, the average worker will have something like twelve different jobs over the course of his/her career. That gives a person plenty of time to experiment. Yes, that may require a lot of CV updating and application submission and interview stressing and moving around, but those are small prices to pay for the ultimate goal of doing something satisfying. Meanwhile, you pick up all sorts of skills that you’ll be grateful for one day; those quirky little things are often what make you stand out from the crowd.

I don’t know that I’ve found my final professional home in the world of marketing, but I do finally feel that I (mostly) know what I’m doing and am able to make a useful contribution. I feel comfortable the way I felt comfortable as a petsitter and an editor, only my current job has less repetition and more creativity. I don’t regret a single step of the journey, even though it has been a circuitous one, and I’m also no longer phased by the idea there may still be some twists and turns to come. I may not be 100% certain that I know what I’m doing with my (professional) life, but at least I feel like I’m on the right track. And whatever I don’t already know…I’ll learn.

 

Pomp and circumstance

In theory, I understand why students (and their friends/family) get excited about attending a graduation ceremony: They’ve spent years working towards their degree and they finally get someone–a whole big crowd of someones, in fact–to both recognize their sacrifices and help celebrate their achievements.  That all sounds well and good on paper, but in reality (assuming we’re not discussing ceremonies for one-room schoolhouses in tiny towns) they are rather long and drawn-out affairs that involve a tedious run-down of dozens upon dozens of names, some inevitably belonging to people you swear you never saw at any point during the entire degree program.

Or, at least, that was how I felt about the ceremonies that I attended when I received my high school, Bachelor’s, and Master’s diplomas (I skipped my PhD ceremony because I just couldn’t bear another). Perhaps those were not fully representative examples of what a graduation celebration can be; all I know is that the University of Exeter ceremony this summer was nothing like what I’d previously experienced.

cait robes

For one thing, to start on a totally vapid and shallow note, my robes were much more impressive. Like the ones I wore in previously, this year’s were merely rented–thank heavens, because it costs hundreds of pounds to purchase them. However, these were made of thick, heavy, high-quality fabric rather than cheap polyester; I almost felt as though I were wearing repurposed curtains. Whereas I’d formerly felt as though I was dressing up in a disposable Halloween costume purchased from Walmart, this year’s robes gave me the sense of being a true scholar who had just emerged from Hogwarts or Cambridge or some other ancient and worthy institution of higher learning.

That said, I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed not to receive the actual robes to which I was entitled as a doctoral graduate of the College of William and Mary. They would have looked like this:

doctoralregalia

I don’t think that any of the other academics at this year’s ceremony wore green, so I would definitely have stood out from the crowd. This outfit also has the advantage of being hoodless, which would have spared me the torture of spending my afternoon being choked by my own clothing (I nearly developed a repetitive strain injury from adjusting the hood every 30 seconds or so). One thing I did insist on was upholding the WM tradition of spurning a hat; there was no way I was going to assault my ‘do with a mortarboard or any of the bizarre forms of headgear worn by European scholars (for examples, see video below).

The venue was also quite a bit more exciting than those to which I’ve been invited in the past:

cathedral

The Truro Cathedral may not be as venerable as some of the hallowed graduation facilities doubtless used by institutions such as Cambridge and Oxford, but it is still darn impressive–and is certainly much more scenic than the gymnasium in which I attended my high school ceremony, or the banquet room where I received my Master’s diploma. Flying buttresses, rose windows, and stained glass do have a way of making an occasion a bit more awe-inspiring. (All due respect, though, to Haverford College, which holds its ceremony outdoors on its beautiful campus; it is hard to compete with nature’s decorations.)

cathedral interior

The venue worked especially well with the British practice of processing. This is not just the entrance of hundreds of robed and bedecked graduands; it also involves the more fancifully attired faculty, the even more fancifully attired VIPs, a scepter, a staff, a mace, and lots of bowing. It was properly archaic, and I mean that as a compliment.

The grand finale of the procession was the entrance of our chancellor–who holds a predominantly ceremonial, rather than executive, position. I say “predominantly” because, in our case, there was no doubt as to who was in charge of giving the day’s proceedings a simultaneous sense of weightiness, pizzazz, and meaning; the event may have been attended by our all-powerful vice chancellor and chief executive Sir Steve Smith, but its great success lay in the very capable hands of the formidable Baroness Floella Benjamin.

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Floella is probably best known as the former presenter of TV shows for children. Her showbiz pedigree was obvious from the moment she entered the nave, confidently swaggering along in the position of honor at the very tail of the procession, turquoise sequins flashing with every step. Uttered by anyone else, her welcome speech might have seemed a bit over the top, but coming from Floella it felt appropriate and inspiring. She went on to personally greet, shake hands with, hug, and/or kiss every single student receiving a diploma, leaving even the surliest and most reticent beaming with delight.

Speaking of diplomas, this is where the students came to receive them:

diploma desk

Not the most picturesque or exciting of destinations after standing on a dais in the center of a cathedral with a well-known celebrity. This was my station, since I was once of two people responsible for handing out diplomas to graduates from the College of Life and Environmental Sciences and the University of Exeter Medical School. Many students didn’t seem to realize that they would receive this paperwork en route to their seats, so my colleague and I frequently had to step out and intercept them as they tried to pass us by in their smiling, dream-like state. Many of them seemed dazed by the experience, which I suppose is understandable; they worked hard for three long years and then suddenly their moment in the spotlight was over in just a matter of seconds. Also, I suspect that may be a common side effect of encounters with Floella.

cathedral exterior

Once the paperwork was all handed out, the procession was repeated in reverse, allowing the faculty to exit and the students to parade around picturesquely in front of their parents one last time. They filed out into the square in front of the cathedral in order to mingle and take photographs. Eventually, they made their way to the rendezvous point where they could hop a bus back to campus in time for the college-specific reception–which involved a large number of these:

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To be honest, I was kind of dreading graduation day–partly because I was worried that I would make a mistake when handing out diplomas, and  partly because I thought it would be boring to sit and listen to 300 names being read off one by one. However, I both overestimated how difficult it would be to find and distribute the correct envelope to each student, and underestimated how invested I felt in the achievements of these students that I had been helping to educate over the past several years. As it turns out, despite my endless grumbling over the volume and content of e-mails I’ve been receiving while working as both a lecturer and administrator, I do actually care about the students who send them, and I was extremely pleased to see the looks of excitement, happiness, and pure relief that flooded their faces as they walked across the stage. I was a little bit like the Grinch experiencing his heart expansion on Christmas morning.

Alas, there was one small thing that kept me from completely and unabashedly enjoying the day’s celebrations:

typo

This brought to mind all the disastrous misspellings I’ve seen on the graduation cakes profiled on Cake Wrecks. This may not have been as egregious as some of those errors, but it was still pretty painful for someone as sensitive to typos as I am–after all, this sign was erected at an event celebrating education! Ah, the irony. Clearly, the text was not written by one of our graduates, whom I’m sure cease misspellings altogether once they receive a University of Exeter diploma.

In all seriousness, though, I’m pleased to report that it was a joyous and inspiring ceremony on a flawlessly beautiful Cornish day. The event organizers should be proud of how smoothly everything ran, the faculty and staff should be proud of how many graduands they ushered through their many difficult years of study, and the scholars should be proud of their achievements. Mortarboards off to the Class of 2014!

Where to eat in (or near) Falmouth: Potager Garden

As of this summer, I will have lived in Falmouth for five (!) years. Despite this, there are still nearby places that I’ve not had a chance to explore, and, in some cases, that I haven’t even heard of. Until recently, this was true of Potager Garden and Glasshouse Cafe, a venue located in Constantine, about six miles from my apartment. It only popped onto my radar after some of my closest friends held a farewell party there a couple months ago. Unfortunately, I had to miss the party because I was stranded in the Isles of Scilly. Luckily, however, I had a second chance to visit Potager last week during the geography department education away day.

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A view of the grounds, with the glasshouse cafe in the background

Potager is normally only open from Friday to Sunday, but they agreed to open just for us on a Monday. We had the entire place to ourselves, which was amazing. Judging from how many of my friends routinely visit Potager with their families (especially those including young children), I get the sense that the venue is usually pretty busy and probably filled with the sound of frolicking kiddies. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but for a group of people who had just wrapped up the most hectic week of the academic year, it was extremely pleasant to retreat to the countryside and enjoy the sounds of silence, punctuated only by an occasional bird vocalization.

Cranesbills growing outside the greenhouse
Cranesbills growing outside the greenhouse

Potager’s menu is all-vegetarian, and uses items sourced locally. In fact, there is a large chicken run in the front yard, as well as an extensive veggie patch, so I assume that eggs and at least some of the produce are obtained right next to the cafe. The restaurant is well known for its frittatas, hummus, salads, and elderflower cake–all of which were on offer for our crowd. I had spoken to the chef prior to our arrival and arranged for our academics to choose from one of two dining options: a mezze platter with granary bread, salads, hummus, and olives, or a frittata, also served with hummus and salad. I chose the latter and, as you can see, my serving was absolutely enormous:

lunch
When I ordered the fritatta, I was expecting something made predominantly of eggs; instead, I got a gigantic wedge of boiled potatoes, held together with egg. It tasted great, but was much more filling than I needed given all the other food on my plate! 

We’d been in the middle of a serious discussion when the food was delivered, but everyone quickly fell silent as they concentrated on the much more important task of eating delicious food.

picnic table edit
It’s hard work to make sure the University of Exeter’s geography department is so excellent. We couldn’t have achieved as much as we did without such excellent brain-fuel.

Prior to lunch, we’d held a group discussion at the picnic table out in front of the cafe, and we’d also split up into pairs or small groups and distributed ourselves in various picturesque locations throughout the garden. After our meal, we explored further seating options: the dangerously warm, and therefore somnolent, greenhouse–which was outfitted not just with plants but also with picnic tables, an art installation, and a ping-pong table–and also the outdoor table in between the two large greenhouses. Unfortunately, it began to rain while we were seated in the latter of these two locations, so we had to retreat indoors once again for the remainder of our meeting.

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One of the pieces of art sprinkled throughout the greenhouse

After we’d had a bit of time to digest our massive meals, we were served incredibly generous portions of dessert–the seasonally appropriate elderflower and almond cake, topped with a lovely lemony icing. I had absolutely no room for more food, but the Potager folks were kind enough to wrap up my slice so that I could take it home and eat it for breakfast the next day (I’m not sure that’s quite the timing they had in mind, but it worked for me).

All too soon, our meeting came to an end and we had to pile into our van to drive back to campus. This was when we encountered the only real drawback to Potager: the fact that it is located in a fairly remote location accessible only by narrow, windy Cornish lanes. I have to give credit to our director of education for avoiding making me carsick; however, he was assisted in this achievement by a farmer who pulled out in front of us on an incredibly slow tractor hauling a huge load of hay bales. We passed several places where the farmer could have pulled over and let us (and the growing line of traffic behind us) go past, but he opted not to. It was an excruciatingly slow journey, inspiring a cheer of relief when we arrived at a junction at which the farmer turned left, while we turned right.

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The Potager grounds feature not only a swing but also several hammocks–the perfect place to relax and digest a homemade vegetarian meal

Luckily, the traffic jam wasn’t quite enough to cast a shadow over our otherwise pleasant experience at Potager. It was a beautiful place with incredible food, and all at an unbelievable price (in a good way). Hopefully our amazing run of good weather will continue so that visitors can experience the delights of dining there al fresco; even if it rains, though, there is plenty of indoor seating available so that Potager can be enjoyed come rain or shine.