Queen of the May 11/05/2012

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At this time of year hedgerows are splashed with the brilliant snowy-white, pink-tinged blossom of hawthorn, which has a special place in English history and folklore. In pre-Christian times this stunning display was believed to herald the coming of summer and the season of abundance and, after the seemingly endless dreary weather of recent weeks, as it shines brightly in the sudden sunshine it is possible to believe that there was something to be had in this old belief.

Due to its impenetrability, robustness and adaptability to almost any condition, even the poorest, it was the hedging plant of choice used in thousands of miles of hedgerows initiated by the Enclosure Acts of 1700s linked to the prosperity of the wool trade. The prefix haw- comes from the Old English haga meaning hedge. Indeed, there are many hedges still in existence that stand as a mark of where villagers were turned off common land. It is strange to think that something we take to epitomise the English countryside had its beginnings in land grabbing and an abuse of commoners’ rights.

It is also etched into folklore and the faerie world and fairies are said to live beneath solitary hawthorn trees that were believed to be the entrances to the Celtic Underworld. Indeed, few trees are as deeply enshrined in rural tradition as the hawthorn, which has become enriched with tales of magic and mystery. It was burned in the wheat field to protect the future crop from evil spirits and disease. Also known as ‘May’ because of the time of the year it comes into blossom, branches were used to decorate houses on May Day and its old country name is Queen of the May. Although rarely in blossom in time for our current celebrations and the crowning of the May Queen, this owes more to the mid-eighteenth century change of calendar and the resulting loss of 11 days, which would otherwise have seen the celebrations taking place nearer the middle of the month. A branch would be set in the ground beside a door to bring good luck and to ward off witches. However, in direct contradiction, the blossom was widely dreaded - it was thought to retain the stench of the Great Plague, possibly because it contains a chemical produced in the early stages of decaying flesh, giving it its sickly sweet fragrance - and it was believed that bringing it indoors would result in major bad luck and would even lead to a death in the family.

However, the nectar-laden flowers provide a valuable source of food for bees, flies, beetles and moths that are active at this time.

And it wasn’t just insects that were attracted to this food source. Another common name is Bread and Cheese and children would at one time nibble on the young leaves which are said to have a slightly nutty flavour.

Of one thing I am certain, our countryside would be much the poorer without hawthorn’s brilliant spring display. As H E Bates wrote in The Green Hedges: “Hawthorn bloom rose on the four sides of every field, making the air over-faint with scent. Nothing else could have created so happily the first rich drowsy feeling of summer.”

 

Bluebell Wood 25/04/2012

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The spectacular display of bluebells, this most quintessentially English of plants and indicator of ancient woodland, starts immediately upon entering the wood and, following weeks of expectation, it does not disappoint.

The blue against the green of the woodland floor is one of English nature’s greatest shows, something that no-one, given the chance, should miss out on. The plants beside the path are individually discernable, with their delicate bell flowers hanging from one side of the stalk, causing the distinctive curve, as though suggesting humility and diffidence – the invading Spanish bluebell, which sadly is crossing with the native plant, is discernable by its more robust flowers and erect stalk, caused by the flowers being more evenly distributed. Happily, the bluebells here are entirely unsullied.

The native bluebell with its delicate flowers and distinctive curve.

The Spanish bluebell with its more robust flowers and erect stalk.

As I look up it becomes harder to identify individual plants, until it is impossible for the eye to separate one from another, and it is just a gently shifting mass of sun-drenched blue, becoming a misty blue haze, something more experienced than seen, for the eye and brain cannot cope with the sensory overload. The blue continues beneath the trees, washing against the trunks and fallen logs until it is lost from view. The fragrance is carried on the breeze, heady and at the same time as delicate as the flower itself.

Unfortunately, the display will be all too brief, but it is all the more magnificent for its fleeting appearance. And the sight of bluebells in dappled sunlight has the effect of lifting the spirits and encouraging one to believe that the approaching summer will be one of long sunny days and balmy evenings.

Bluebells also feature quite prominently in English folklore and it is believed that to step on these delicate flowers growing beneath an oak tree is to risk the wrath of the woodland fairies, who’s revenge will be to cause the perpetrator to become enchanted and die soon after. It was also believed that the bells rang out to summon fairies to gatherings and that any human hearing the bell ring would also die. In some parts of the country it is thought unlucky to take bluebells into the house, although it is actually illegal to pick wildflowers. However, not everything associated with this beautiful wildflower is quite so forbidding; in the language of flowers, the bluebell stands for constancy.

The bluebell stands for constancy.

‘Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there…’ Robert Browning’s (1812-1889) evocative opening lines from his poem ‘Home Thoughts From Abroad’ come floating into my mind on a blue haze. They so wonderfully capture the longing of a weary traveller for his homeland with the coming of spring, with the birds singing and the flowers blooming. The English countryside of Browning’s day may have been very different to that of today but whom, upon seeing a bluebell wood, a haze of misted blue in dappled sunlight, could fail to be moved by his sentiment.

‘Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there…’

 

Volunteer Guidelines 17/04/2012

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After a few years of volunteering here are the significant lessons I have learnt that make volunteering a happy, productive and worthwhile experience and which ensure the day passes with the minimum of casualties.

1: Never Become Separated From Your Lunch

If volunteering outdoors teaches you one important lesson it is that leaving your lunch in the ‘alleged’ safety of the task vehicle is to play straight into fate’s fickle hands. Never assume that the vehicle is going to be there when you want it.  And it is no good blaming someone else for your misfortune should you have left your lunch in the car, which is now somewhere in the far distance, on the mistaken belief that you would be returning to it before the end of the day. You have been warned.

2: Safety! Safety! Safety!

As we all know safety at work should be of the highest priority and falls into three categories: safety of self, safety of work colleagues and safety of members of the public who inadvertently come within range. 

Always be wary of hazards and other people, who will often do what you least expect when you least expect it.

Always look before acting, and keep looking. Just because the area around you was clear when you started felling that tree, does not mean that it will still be clear when that same tree comes crashing down.

Mentally access the risks and never act without thinking, and bear in mind that as people get tired towards the end of the day that is when accidents are most likely to happen.

More importantly, the experienced volunteer will assess their colleagues to determine which ones are best avoided, especially those in a position to fell something large and heavy into a space you already inhabit.

Enjoy yourself, but above all be safe.

Despite repeated instruction some people will always find novel ways to bring a tree down. Just make sure that you are nowhere nearby at the time!

3: You Cut It You Drag It

You may have been macho enough to bring down the large tree everyone else was avoiding but remember that sending it crashing to the ground is not the end of the job. It still has to be cut-up and dragged to where it can either be disposed of or stacked neatly out of the way. Your colleagues will not take too kindly to this part being left to them whilst you eye-up your next victim.

Remember that successfully felling that enormous tree is not the end of the job.

4: Never Assume

When you don’t know what you are supposed to be doing never assume that anyone else is any the wiser. If in doubt ask the task leader for guidance – that way you will always be able to blame someone in authority when it goes horribly wrong. Four additional rules apply here:
4.1: With age does not necessarily come wisdom.
4.2: Despite its name commonsense is not always common
4.3: Often there will be at least as many suggestions on how to proceed as there are volunteers employed in the task.
4.4: It is not wise to assume that any of these suggestions in 4.3 is correct.

5: You Have The Right To Choose

This as a contentious rule and I do know of some who believe that it is a myth thought up by volunteers just to be awkward. However, as a volunteer (i.e. someone who offers their self or their services for an undertaking by choice and without request or obligation) you do have the right to choose which tasks you wish to involve yourself in, which sites you wish to visit (or not) and when you wish to do so. Hopefully, a sense of team-spirit and fair-play will ensure that you don’t always leave the worst tasks to your colleagues. At least, that’s what they’re hoping.

After seemingly endless days/weeks of pulling ragwort you most definitely have the option to decide that enough is enough.

6: The Law Of Holes

You will at some point be involved in digging a hole, either for installing signposts, fence posts, gate posts, benches, information boards or width restrictions. These holes will vary in depth and size and will rarely be easy. There are three basic laws relating to the digging of holes:

1: No matter how many times and by what method you measure the exact position of a hole it will always end up in the wrong place.

2: The last hole of the day will always be the hardest to dig, regardless of the evidence provided by the preceding ones.

3: Wherever a hole has to be dug will be the exact location of:
- The largest collection of flint on the site, if not the county.
- A block of concrete so large that it defies all attempts to determine its dimension, purpose or how it came to be there.
- A utility pipe, the position of which defies logic as it does not appear to run between two obvious points.
- A power cable, despite the fact that you are in a large open field.
- All of the above.

Wherever a hole has to be dug will be the exact location of the largest collection of flint on the site.

7: Engage Passers-by In Conversation At Your Peril

At some point during the day you are likely to become engaged in conversation by a member of the public. Passing members of the public will generally fall into one of 4 categories:

1: They will assume that anyone working in pouring rain or intense heat must be serving a community service order for some unspeakable affront to society and will treat you with a combination of loathing, contemp and deep suspicion.

2: They will approach you only to berate you for destroying 'their' beautiful countryside, on the grounds that only they know what’s best for the natural environment.

3: They will engage you in their life story, defying you to get away without resorting to extreme violence or suicide.

4: Just occasionally someone will go out of their way to thank you for the difference you are making, and these are the people who help to make everything you do worthwhile.

Passers-by should also note that the converse is also true and engaging the ‘wrong’ volunteer may result in many an hour spent with someone whose enthusiasm far outweighs their actual knowledge.

8: The Weather Forecast Is For Entertainment Only

As any experienced outdoor volunteer knows, the weather forecast is a work of fiction devised purely for entertainment and to fill time in otherwise dull news programmes. Regardless of what the weather girl with her lip gloss and you-can-trust-me smile assures you, the seasoned volunteer will know to pack for every possible eventuality, from heat-wave, to snow, to hurricane winds, to rain of biblical proportions, all of which could be experienced in a single day.

Weather-wise, the experienced volunteer knows that it pays to be prepared for every eventuality.

9: Look After Your Tools

After a good day’s use tools should always be checked and where necessary dried, cleaned and oiled, sharpened and set and any damaged parts replaced. They should then be stored safely and securely. It is often said that a bad workman blames his tools, but the true sign of a bad workman is someone who does not adequately care for his tools - a clean saw takes less effort to use than a dirty or rusty one.
If you are selecting your tools from a pool always take the time to find a good one and then never let it out of your sight.
Better still, use your own, the one way you can ensure it is properly looked after and that it doesn’t go missing the moment your back is turned.

My Silky saw, my favourite tool for coppicing as it is perfect for getting between the close-growing stems.

10: Never Forget The Alternatives

Accept that there will always be occasions when you feel fed up with your lot. To overcome this it is always worth taking time out to remember how privileged you are to enjoy the beauty of the countryside and the changing of the seasons. How much worse it would be to be sitting in an office, subjected to artificial lighting and recycled air, with no view of the outside world, trying to deal with an email in-box that fills faster than you can empty it and having to decipher the latest corporate doublespeak. My advice is to abandon ‘working smarter, not harder,’ ‘singing from the same hymn sheet,’ ‘getting with the programme’ and ‘getting all your ducks in a line’ and to get out with your local group, preferably prior to the day they find you at your desk babbling incoherently and dribbling into your overpriced, skinny, double-shot, macchiato.

There are far better places to be than stuck in an office.

 

Woodland Spring 09/04/2012

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According to the calendar the first day of spring arrives on a precise date but the woodland is not governed nor influenced by man’s need to regiment and record time in order to impose some sort of arbitrary control. Instead, it arrives when it will and how it will, affected mainly by the ground temperature and amount of sunlight. In some years it seems as though it will never arrive, only to suddenly burst forth, buds exploding, plants flowering and birds claiming their territories with song. In other years it appears to happen in slow motion over a period of time. However it comes, one thing is certain, spring will come to the woodland, bringing with it a flush of new life.

Early spring is the time for woodland flowers as they take advantage of sunlight and warmth coming through the still open canopy.

The gradual rise in temperature and the lengthening of the day triggers a great deal of activity, with the first, most noticeable change being in the form of the groundcover, as a host of plants force their way through the leaf litter to greet the new season. Many of these plants have been dormant through the winter, whilst others may have been dormant for years, now taking advantage of the opening up of the woodland canopy after the impact of the winter storms and snowfall upon the weak and elderly.

Lesser Celandine - one of the earliest woodland flowers to appear at the very beginning of spring and therefore an important foodsource for early insects.

Primroses - another early woodland flower that gladdens the heart with the promise of the approaching spring.

Cascades of silver birch leaves flutter like limp flags above the hedgerow, beneath which yellow dandelions, the early purple flowers of trailing ivy – not at its best for another month - and the fleshy, hooded spikes of lords and ladies abound. Mustard garlic, commonly known as Jack-by-the-hedge, display clusters of small white flowers. The leaves release a faint aroma of garlic when crushed between thumb and forefinger.

Mustard Garlic.

Soft papery leaves of a Sycamore.

At the end of the hedgerow a large horse chestnut, bare a few weeks ago, is in full leaf, conical spikes of blossom standing upright from the green tips of its branches, like candles decorating a Victorian Christmas tree. The new leaves of a sycamore are soft and papery, having not yet obtained the hardened roughness of summer, while fresh green sweet chestnut leaves are straining to burst forth from their sticky translucent red casings. The gnarled frame of an aged hawthorn contrasts with the fresh green of new growth with which it is adorned, leaf buds opening ahead of the blossom that will truly herald the coming of spring. Dark green ivy abounds, winding around trunks and enveloping branches overhanging the path, upon which deep tracks tell of passing riders, both horse and mountain bike. Leaves are also appearing on the hazel stems and the trailing wild clematis. A blackthorn hangs on to the last of its blossom, now discoloured and lacking the brilliance of its short-lived glory. Meanwhile, the sooty ash buds, despite being surrounded by signs of new life, show no signs of wanting to join in. Saplings, especially ash, appear everywhere, showing just how quickly they can colonise an area. To follow the path along the hedgerow and into the wood is to be met by the obvious signs of spring replacing winter.

Conical spike of Horse Chestnut blossom.

Yellow archangel, a lover of lime-rich soil and shady spots and one of the most attractive woodland plants, with its short stalks of pale-yellow hooded flowers, is growing alongside a wooden fence. It is well-worth taking the time for a closer look at the brownish streaks that decorate the lower lip of each flower and the fine white hairs that fringe the lip of the hood like a row of delicate pale eyelashes. It is a flower often found in the company of ramsons, wild garlic, a lover of damp woodland sites, and almost immediately there is a distinctive waft of garlic. I pick a leaf from a dense patch beside a field gate. Unlike the subtle smell of mustard garlic, this is bursting with a pungent, earthy aroma. On the other side of the woodland path are the pink, streaked flowers of herb Robert, another aromatic plant and lover of shady places.

The attractive Yellow Archangel.

Wild Garlic adds its distinctive aroma to the woodland.

The last time I was here the woodland was deep in snow; now the floor is a lush green, carpeted in fresh new growth. Dog’s mercury that has the major foothold here, rippling like green waves, stretching away under the trees, as far into the wood as one can see, beneath the twisted and gnarled trunks of trees that have seen the magical transformation of these woods through the seasons so many times before. To them this is nothing new, just a new awakening, as I awake each day. To me it is still something wondrous to behold.

Dog's Mercury.

A carpet of Dog's Mercury has the ability to transform everyday objects.

Ground ivy creeps along the floor; nettles, young and fresh, grow in dense patches, and yellow primroses, with their quilted leaves, and pale purple wood-violets, pepper the edge of the path, adding to the colour. The bright yellow petals of lesser celandine, another lover of damp woodland and one of the first flowers to appear at the end of winter, carpet the side of the path and adjoining bank. Alongside the nettles grow dock leaves, the juice of which will take away the sharp burning sting of its neighbour, should anyone be so unwary as to venture amongst it unprepared.

Patches of Lesser Celandine shine brightly in the early spring sunshine.

Violets, another early woodland flower.

Now that the plants have brought spring into the woods, myriad insects have emerged from hibernation over the past weeks to feed upon them. And this dramatic increase in the insect population has encouraged the birds to begin their breeding cycle and resident birds that have endured the harshest winter for years are joined by migrants that have travelled hundreds of miles to nest in these woods.

To my left I barely glimpse a sudden movement, however the first I see of the roe deer is as it gracefully skips away, gliding over the fallen branches with effortless ease to disappear into the dense woodland. Only a few steps on and another one, this time to my right, springs away, the white tuft of its rear the only part visible through the scrub and vegetation. A rustling amongst the trees indicates a possible third but it is difficult to see, so well is it camouflaged.

A mighty beech is covered in splitting buds and there is just a smattering of young leaves, appearing in clusters. The wood is noticeably greener and denser and the floor more dappled than a few weeks ago, although the canopy has still a way to go before its takes on the fullness of summer, when its shade from the heat of the day comes as a welcome relief. It is this lack of a full covering that makes spring the best time of year to see woodland flowers, when they provide a valuable food source for insects, bees and butterflies. As each creature and plant takes advantage of the change in conditions, they cannot help affecting the other life that surrounds them. Whether it is a caterpillar feeding on a leaf, a woodpecker drilling a hole in a tree or the canopy of leaves blocking out light from the ground plants, everything has its part to play in the complex inter-dependencies of a healthy, thriving bio-diverse environment, each striving to survive and reproduce, each needing the other. And this is never more apparent as it is during a woodland spring. By late spring, merging into early summer, with the coming of deeper shade, the woodland floor reverts to mainly green, as the plants set seed to await the warmth and sunlight of the next spring. However, today, the bright sun still pours through the open canopy to bathe the woodland floor, picking out the mosses and fresh growth and the wonderful flowers, such as the brilliant white of wood anemones and woodruff that lines the edge of the path.

Wood Anemone.

Sweet Woodruff.

The air is filled with early morning birdsong, each bird competing with all the others to be heard. A robin perches on a high branch filling the wood with its melodic call. Meanwhile, a pair of male blackbirds are too busy squabbling to worry about my approach, unlike a startled wood pigeon that flies low across the path, expertly weaving between the trees, before disappearing. A gentle tapping comes from the rotting cavern in the side of an elderly beech, possibly a greater spotted woodpecker searching for insects. In the top of a nearby tree a crow is busy, perhaps building a nest. Unlike the other birds, it goes about its business in silence.

The path twists and climbs slowly, becoming completely shaded by the overhanging vegetation, which forms a long green tunnel, at the end of which is the brightness of the sky. It passes beside trees and giant limbs that have fallen during the winter, including a huge beech, and that have been left to provide a habitat for numerous fungi, bugs and insects that will in turn support the woodland birds and small mammals. Their demise has also opened up a large area of woodland floor, allowing life-giving sunshine and warmth to encourage dormant wildflowers. It will be well-worth returning next spring to see what difference it has made to the flower population. A pile of jumbled branches, crushed by the weight of the giant tree as it fell, lie like a collection of bleached bones. A weighty limb, torn but still attached to its ravaged trunk, hangs down to the ground, trailing like a broken arm, its fingers splayed to grip the earth. Another tree has snapped near its base, its upper trunk and branches bent to the ground as though the tree is kneeling in supplication. Fallen trunks and limbs litter the floor in various stages of decomposition, some so covered with moss that they are virtually indistinguishable from the green of the woodland floor. Some are reaching the end of their cycle of absorption into their surroundings and crumble to little more than dust beneath my boot. The moss is like a smooth continuous emerald carpet, but closer inspection reveals a network of delicate fronds, whose mass formation gives a lusciously soft, springy layer, a layer that smoothes sharp edges and jagged tears, that hides gaping wounds and imperfections from the casual glance.

Carpet of Bluebell shoots.

The path passes though the green shoots of what will be a fantastic display of bluebells. There are also patches of white wood anemone, both plants of ancient woodland. The separation between bluebells and dog’s mercury can clearly be seen, as though a strict demarcation line has been drawn between the two territories that each could approach but neither dare cross, as there is no common ground where the two species mix. Only the lesser celandine seems to have been given a free range to mix with both, although it is noticeable that its foothold is not so strong amongst the bluebells, possibly because the removal of the canopy has deprived them of the damp woodland they prefer.

Bluebells starting to emerge.

And it is with the promise of the bluebell display to come that I exit the woodland. I used to think that walking was about just that, walking. However, I now realise that it is just as much about stopping, taking time to enjoy my surroundings, taking time to actually see and experience, rather than rushing on by. Do people obsessed with the modern phenomenon of ‘power-walking’ everywhere realise that they are missing out on experiencing the delicate beauty of the world around them? Their bodies may be the fitter for it but can the same be said of their spirit?

 

Reconnect With Nature 02/04/2012

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The past few decades could arguably be labelled the decades of consumerism and excess, where advertising executives in expensive suits have spent £millions to convince the rest of us that the only way to a happier, more rewarding life is to buy into the ‘consumer myth’: i.e. the more we own the happier we’ll be. So we go out and buy a bigger house, maybe with a bit of land that we don’t have time to enjoy because the mortgage dictates that we work all the hours we can to pay for it. Still, the children will enjoy the freedom to run around in safety, except that they are almost permanently plugged into the latest computer-based entertainment, which has taught them to communicate in a series of monosyllabic grunts. But still, we can always buy a flashier car or the latest gadget (and there is a bewildering array to choose from, from a massive plasma screen that necessitates the bigger house so that you have a wall big enough to hang it upon, to the latest phone that does all the things you never realised you had ever wanted to do but now can’t live without). They used to say that ‘necessity’ was the ‘mother of invention’, but no more; we live in an era where it’s the ‘invention’ that drives the ‘necessity’. Still, it all looks very impressive when showing friends and family just how successful you have become.

But guess what? We aren’t any happier or less stressed, in fact we’re probably more stressed, fretting over why we aren’t any happier. So we go out and buy even more ‘stuff’ that we never knew we needed, which requires us to work longer hours to be able to afford to make ourselves happy. And so the endless circle of avarice, need, want and insecurity continues. All that has happened is that the executives in their expensive suits have gotten richer and richer as we buy-in to their snake-oil solution. ‘Roll up, roll up for this once-in-a-lifetime cure for all ills and a sure quick-fire path to extreme happiness.’

It all reminds me of the story of the management consultant who visits a small Greek fishing village, where he sees a fisherman sitting outside a café, sipping a glass of wine and enjoying his grandchildren playing around him. He approaches the fisherman and asks him why he isn’t out fishing on such a beautiful day with the clear sky and the calm sea. The fisherman explains that he has caught and sold enough fish to see him through to his next trip out. This relaxed attitude to life is something of a shock to the consultant who suggests that if he were to fish longer he could make more money and would eventually be able to buy a bigger boat, thereby enabling himself to catch more fish and make even more money. Warming to his theme, he then explains that with the additional revenue the fisherman could possibly buy a second boat, catch more fish and make even more money. The fisherman agrees that if he worked harder and longer he could indeed earn enough to buy another boat, catch even more fish and make even more money. In fact, he could see himself skippering a small fleet of fishing boats. He then enquires what the benefit would be of all this hard work and the headaches and pressure that come with the increased workload and responsibility. The consultant is in his element and explains that eventually, after a few years of hard work, the fisherman would earn enough to be able to spend his days, sipping wine outside his favourite café and enjoying the sight of his grandchildren playing around him.

Maybe there’s something to be said for the simpler life after all and that maybe we sometimes need to take a step back to realise and appreciate what we have already. I once read what I thought was a great quote; a possible antidote to all this rampant consumerism and modern-day worship of fake celebrity: ‘Concentrate on things worth being rather than things worth having’.

Nowadays, there is a whole industry surrounding the pursuit of the elusive happiness, from the snake-oil peddlers to the gaming and leisure industry (no pain, no gain), psychologists and life coaches, even economists and political scientists, all either asking us or telling us the answer to what makes our lives worth living. However, recent research suggests that well-being consists of five factors: good relationships; physical activity, particularly outdoors; appreciation of the surrounding world; continued learning and altruism, doing something for someone else without seeking personal recompense. To this worthy list I would add a sixth: knowing that you are making a difference.

Maybe this is why volunteers always seem hard-working, enthusiastic and happy with life, while others cannot even begin to comprehend why someone would work for nothing. It’s not about the material reward; it’s about knowing that you are making a difference.

At the same time there is increasing evidence that a simple walk in the countryside can do wonders for lowering the stress-levels associated with our modern lives. Even the Romans recognised that going for a walk can clear the head of all the clutter, enabling us to think with more clarity. Unfortunately, we have lost the ability to do this, as we run faster and faster around the wheel.

So here’s a radical idea: the next time you are feeling stressed, leave the credit card at home and go for a walk in your local countryside or nature reserve or green space. Take time to look at the trees and plants and wildlife, to hear the birdsong or the babbling stream or the rustling leaves, to feel the breeze on your face, to smell the flowers or the new-mown grass or the pungent earthiness of the woodland floor. Experience the endless cycle of the seasons, from bud to leaf to flower to fruit to decay. Reconnect with the natural world, instead of being separate from it. Remember what it was like to run and play as a child in the woods, where your imagination had no bounds and every insect, bug and unfurling flower was to be marvelled at, where to stand beneath a tree was to be overwhelmed by its enormity, where every stick took on a life of its own and where you could see the things that the adults had long since become blind to.

And while you open your senses, consider that maybe the true path to happiness does not come in a bottle of ‘snake-oil’ or via a credit card or from a self-help book or from political diktat or from anything you own or wish to own. Maybe the path you seek is the one already beneath your feet.

Or maybe you would like to work as a countryside volunteer, working with like-mided people, learning new skills, experiencing the natural work and reconnecting with nature, getting free exercise and giving something back and in return realising that you are making a difference. And how many people can say all that of their working day?

 

Burial Ground Restoration 16/03/2012

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Like a number of Victorian hospital complexes in the North-East Surrey area, St Lawrence's Hospital (opened in 1870 as the Metropolitan Asylum) was akin to a small self-contained town. Spread out over an area in excess of 70 acres it was built to accommodate 1,600 residents, split between male and female blocks, all mentally ill or mentally handicapped, poor and, deemed for whatever reason, needing to be shut away from the rest of the community. Today, like many of those other Victorian complexes, it is the site of a housing estate. All that remains of the original sprawling development is a single small building and the burial ground which now stands in the middle of a golf course, secluded behind a boundary of mature black pine and overgrown hedges. Amongst the barren greens and fairways it acts as a haven for wildlife.

Following the hospital’s closure and demolition in 1995 - the last of the patients having departed in the previous year - the burial site, opened in 1914 when the original hospital cemetery became full, fell into serious neglect. Local walkers used it as a place to discard their rubbish (a local school exercise initially removed 15 bags of litter) and it was even used as a site for people sleeping rough. Brambles were allowed to take over to the extent that it was almost impossible to tell that it was a place worthy of the respect that it was sadly lacking.  Only the rusty iron gates in one corner, installed in 1962 to replace the original wooden gates and posts, and a collection of broken memorial stones, collected and placed inside the entrance, indicated that there was once something of importance here. The vast majority of burials lie unmarked - mass burials were commonplace at the end of 1918 as the Spanish flu pandemic devastated Europe - lost somewhere beneath the grassy tussocks, ant hills and scrub that covered the slope upon which the site is located. By 1964, the site was becoming too costly and arrangements were made for burials and cremations to take place elsewhere.

One of the few recovered memorial stones. Click to enlarge.

Unearthed metal grave marker (marking a mass grave), dating from just after WW1 when metal markers replaced the wooden ones used during the war. Click to enlarge.

The wall foundations, just visible in the grass, are all that remain of the burial ground's small chapel.

The restoration and maintenance of the site, begun a couple of years ago by the local Parish Council, has taken a substantial effort by enthusiastic volunteers, a lengthy programme of works that continues today. The main aims of this work, however, is not just to restore the site but also to enrich the biodiversity by controlling the encroachment of the vegetation, whilst retaining enough to provide a haven for wildlife amidst the open spaces of the golf course. Another important aspect of the restoration has been to keep alive the memory of the patients buried here by clearing and replanting the memorial rose garden and installing an information board. There are numerous tasks to cater for all tastes and abilities and more than enough work to keep the workforce busy for some time to come.

Memorial rose garden. Click to enlarge.

Information board. Click to enlarge.

Some arm themselves with litter pickers and plastic sacks and set off in search of crisp packets and sweet wrappers, bottles and cans, paper and plastic, the detritus of a literally ‘throw-away’ society.  It is a search that provides a rich return. Some set to work clearing the vegetation and hawthorn scrub that has encroached from the perimeter, so much in contrast with the manicured greens outside. Others set to clearing the brambles enveloping the remnants of the memorials by the gate, revealing the names and ages of the long forgotten. Some are those of children – listing ages as 7, 9 and 15 - leaving us to wonder about their individual stories. If they were patients, what had they done at such tender ages to be removed from society? And if the families were desperately poor it is doubtful that these children would ever have been visited by them. Were they the offspring of long-term patients? What had caused them to die so young? There are only a handful of memorials which, given the thousands of people who would have passed through the institution’s doors, many never to return to the world outside, somehow lends to an air of them having been abandoned by the society they had left behind. For many, there were no families to mourn their passing, although a huge amount of work is being carried out to investigate the burial records to discover their stories.

Remains of a pair of children's memorials. Click to enlarge.

The privet hedge at the bottom of the burial ground had 'exploded' and the path beside it had been lost beneath vegetation. Work with loppers, hedge trimmer and strimmer has made a huge difference to this neglected corner, with the hedge cut down to chest-height to encourage better and more manageable regrowth and the path has been restored. This, along with cutting the grass, will be one of the on-going maintenance jobs.

Hedge and path: before. Click to enlarge.

Hedge and path: after. Click to enlarge.

The overgrown trees and hedgerow to either side of the entrance gate – mostly hawthorn with a few sycamore and elder - were in very poor condition. Hopefully, by cutting them back and removing the dead and decaying wood, they will be encouraged to come back stronger. The entrance gates, installed in 1962 to replace the original wooden ones, have also been re-painted and given a new lease of life.  Apparently, the company that manufactured the gates is still in business - another lead worth following up.

Restored entrance gates. Click to enlarge.

The footpath crossing the site has been restored and the access to it from the bottom corner of the site has also been cleared of vegetation.

The most challenging work, however, has been getting to grips with restoring the neglected and overgrown hedgerows that enclose the site on two sides.  They were tall, bushy and tangled and full of dead wood that needed to be removed before we could see what we were left to work with. Unfortunately, whilst the row of tall black pines provides shelter, they also make it very hard for the hedgerow to compete, hence sections of it are in gappy and in very poor condition. By cutting it back down to approx 4ft, new growth will be encouraged to regenerate the hedge. Despite the daunting prospect, the hedgerows have begun to take shape and, as they have been reduced in height, the view across the golf course has become visible for the first time in many years. The hedgerows are no longer a tangled mess and now add to the impression given to visitors that this special site is being cared for.

Hedgerow: before. Click to enlarge.

Hedgerow: after. Click to enlarge.

A wonderful carved bench, with wildlife carvings, has been installed at the top of the burial ground, the magnificent animal carvings representing the importance of the site to wildlife. It is a great place just to sit and enjoy the peace of the site. It is a sobering thought that this small meadow is the final resting place of an estimated 5,000 former patients of the hospital.

A wonderful carved bench has been installed. Click to enlarge.

It is a great place to sit and enjoy the peace of the site. Click to enlarge.

Working at the burial ground brings with it a great deal of satisfaction. Hopefully the patients buried here approve.

Click to enlarge.

 

March Along The Downs 09/03/2012

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With Spring in the air and warmer weather in the offing, today is a wonderful day to get the boots on, grab the camera and get out for a walk along the ridge of the North Downs. Sometime it would be lovely, not to mention challenging to do the whole walk from the far west of Surrey, from the wonderfully named Hog’s Back, down to the Kent coast at Dover, taking in the rural beauty that can still be found in this crowded part of the country, crisscrossed with major roads and railway lines and dotted with suburban centres.  However, I think I'll concentrate on just one small section for today. Despite there being a bit of a chill in the air, especially in the stiff breeze, the blue sky, against which the hedgerow trees that line the ridge are silhouetted, is cheery after yesterday’s persistent rain and greyness and the sun feels wonderful against my face.

For much of the walk the muddy path, scattered with water-filled potholes, passes between thick hedgerows that are alive with birds - dunnocks, robins, blue tits, great tits and chaffinches - chattering as the hop along the hedge and sweep across the path from one side to the other. Occasionally, one will perch on top of a flailed branch to check my progress before diving into the thorny interior. In many ways the surroundings don’t look very different to how it looked when I last explored these tracks at the start of the year, except that the buds on the mixed hawthorn and hazel that make up the hedgerows are more numerous and appear plumper. The hazel catkins have served their purpose and are in dull decline, with a scattering of delicate red flowers hopefully having been pollinated. Despite having been flailed, the hedges have been left at head height and are thick and in good condition, and it is noticeable how well they act as a shelter from the breeze, one of the reasons that hedges were originally planted, to prevent soil erosion and to provide shelter for livestock, important considerations on a windswept ridge. Here it is possible to just enjoy the warming sun.

The path soon narrows and here the hedgerows are less well maintained; they are taller but gappy and, whereas the previous hedge acted as a stock-proof fence, here additional wire fencing runs behind the row of hawthorn that can no longer serve that purpose. I can’t help but look at it from a hedge-layer’s viewpoint, considering how best to restore it to its former glory. The trees are tall enough, without being too tall, and the gaps are easily bridgeable. It is noticeable that there are far fewer birds here and these are mostly wood pigeons.

However, even this hedge is better than what follows where a long length has been cut down to 3ft stumps. Hopefully, the aim is to regenerate the hedgerow but as the gaps have not been planted up it is difficult to see the practical purpose of what has been done. Needless to say, here there are no birds at all. The one thing it does afford is an uninterrupted view away towards the South across the flat Sussex Weald, far below, towards the South Downs in the far distance, just a smudge on the horizon. Even in the hazy sunshine the view is stunning. Green fields are marked out and separated by lines of trees and hedgerows, the nakedness of the trees revealing far more of the landscape than will be seen in summer. Greenhouses, roofs and windows glint in the sunshine, which also highlights the lush paddocks immediately below. Occasional patches of brown indicate where fields have been ploughed and harrowed and possibly planted as the farming cycle continues.

It’s not long before the path passes the end of the hedgerow we planted in the chilly frost of December a few years ago - it's good to see that it is making progress - and the field, the site of our infamous archaeological dig, where we were searching for the illusive dewpond that turned out to be a rubbish pit - much to the delight of the volunteers who had worked it out long before the trained archaeologists, who were not so delighted. Just thinking about it brings a smile to my face. I peer over the fence but I can’t make out the site.

A frosty morning in December 2008 - site cleared and ready for planting.

Looking West along the Downs, the sky is brighter and the miles and miles of rolling fields stretch away towards the next peak, making me even more determined to take on a far longer walk. From the top of the peak a tower juts up from the trees. The view from where I stand is spectacular, what must it be like from there?

Passing through a kissing gate, crossing a field that in the summer will be rich with tall grasses and chalk-loving wildflowers, then through another gate with a sign warning about the presence of grazing sheep, I descend through a narrow belt of scrub to the edge of the great bowl at Park Ham. It is like a huge natural amphitheatre, with steep sweeping sides that drop away sharply to the wildflower meadow below that in the summer will be covered in yellows and reds and purples that will all pale in comparison to the sea of ox-eye daisies, thousands upon thousands of them all rippling gently in the breeze. The steep sides of the bowl, which were carved out when the ground defrosted at the end of the last ice age, are well-known to me as, for the past few summers, a small army of us have trudged up and down, removing dozens and dozens of sacks of ragwort – but more of that particular pleasure another time. It is a hugely impressive site and worth the journey alone. Covered in snow it would make for a fairly hair-raising toboggan run – fortunately there is a long run-out along the flat before encountering a rather solid fence.

The impressive bowl at Park Ham.

A sea of Ox-eye Daisies in Spring, gently rippling in the breeze.

An old, rusty piece of farm machinery, once used for turning hay, sits abandoned on the hillside, a wonderful agricultural sculpture, a reminder of the days of farming before massive industrialisation took hold. From the linkage, this was probably pulled by a tractor but you could easily imagine it working along behind a horse. As impressive as the big modern machinery is, there is something about their older, more basic ancestors that demands one to get out the rose-tinted glasses and imagine a wonderful life of simple pleasure spent working the land, where the sun always shone, rural children were always rosy-cheeked and farmers wives had little more strenuous to do than discover where the family chickens had hidden their eggs. However, you don’t have to walk very far along the Downs to realise that a day of manoeuvring machinery up and down these slopes, exposed to the wind and the rain and the cold was not always a joyous, life-enriching experience.

Bamfords of Uttoxeter began making agricultural machinery in the 1870s.

I remember the freezing blast of those December winds, fingers and ears numb as we planted hawthorn and dog rose and crab apple along the slope, the frosty grass crunching beneath our boots and the lunch breaks made short before the cold crept past the protection of numerous layers. However, looking back up towards the ridge, with pointed roofs just showing and the clouds floating lazily into view it is hard to imagine a more wonderful place than the English countryside on a warm, sunny day.

Once it was sheep that covered the North Downs, now it is horse country and you won't go far without coming across them, always inquisitive and always on the lookout for treats. Stop beside a fence and it won’t be long before at least one makes its way across to see what you have to offer. A group of three in their thick, shaggy winter coats stop grazing the poor grass to watch me pass. More horses are grazing along the ridge of the Downs, silhouetted against the sky as though they stand as guards at the very edge of the world. In those same fields skylarks hover overhead, pouring out their wonderful liquid song. Is there a more beautiful sound in the whole of the countryside? I could stay and listen to it for hours, especially on a day like today.

What was once a field boundary, the best days of the hedgerow alongside the field are long in the past, replaced by a rusty iron fencing that takes far less time and effort to maintain, but which offers no shelter or refuge for wildlife, no nesting places for birds and no food to see them through the harsh winters. At least here the hawthorn has been kept and not grubbed out as so many were in the past as farmers chased subsidies for doing just that.

Apart from horses another common sight are the grey squirrels that rummage amongst the leaf litter, possibly trying to remember where they buried their treasure the previous autumn, and scamper of the nearest tree at my approach. To some they are cute and entertaining while to others they are destructive vermin and often referred to as ‘tree rats’. Love them or loathe them you can't deny their adaptability, their intelligence or their acrobatic skills. If only they hadn't decimated our native population of reds and if only they would stop stripping the bark from trees... For some people living in our towns and cities squirrels, frequenting parks and gardens in increasing numbers, are often the nearest they come on a regular basis to wild animals, not that something that will take a peanut from your hand can ever be really thought of as wild.

One of the great attractions of the North Downs is its variety of habitats. One moment you are walking between thick hedgerows, exploding with birds, then you are walking beside paddocks of ponies and horses or through wildflower meadows before passing through farms with grazing sheep. Then a path leads into woodland, much of it ancient.

And it is in a small wood that I now find myself, with a bank covered in wild garlic leaves. Soon their pungent, heady aroma will fill the air and their small star-shaped flowers will shine in the sun like thousands of stars. On the other side of the path the floor is carpeted with the shoots of bluebells, a promise of the fantastic display to come.

A bank covered in wild garlic (Ramsoms).

A carpet of bluebells.

Opposite the wood, the rolling open fields of the Downs stretch away into the distance, the perfect view with which to end my walk.

 

Winter Wonderland 06/02/2012

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The world is white. The overnight temperature has fallen to well below freezing, leaving a frosty crust, glistening like thousands of tiny shards of glass in the wintery sunshine. The wood, blanketed beneath a thick layer of snow, is all tranquil wonder. My boots softly crunch the pristine white, leaving behind perfectly captured prints, as though formed of machine-pressed plastic. Birds, alerted to my presence, take to the air. A large wood pigeon lumbers up from an overhead branch, sending down a shower of powdery white. A blackbird shrieks, its piercing voice muffled by the snow, scuds low and fast across the woodland floor, a monochrome image captured, jet black against the white. High in the canopy a robin sings out, its melody flowing like a bubbling stream into the crisp air.

The path winds between snow-splashed trunks, the usual muddy tracks and ruts on the stony surface hidden from view. The only visible tracks are those that have been left by the few walkers who have preceded me. Fallen branches, sawn-off trunks and standing deadwood take on a sculptural brilliance, an intriguing contrasting combination of colours and textures of moss-covered bark and heartwood and of snow and ice, blending together. Sharp edges have been smoothed out and deformities removed as though air-brushed.

The giant beech is highlighted and enhanced by its coating of white, the twisting network of limbs and branches, usually invisible beneath a cloak of green, are brought into stark vision; I could spend an age, possible multiple ages, trying to follow the intricate network, enthralled by nature’s ability to create this complex giant, unique in its structure.

Shrivelled deep red hawthorn berries, dusted with ice crystals, have suddenly stepped out from the dull background to enthral those prepared to take the time to step closer to investigate. Hazel catkins, dense clusters of yew fronds and sooty ash buds are crusted with ice. A few brown leaves continue to hang on despite the extra coating of white. Intricately tangled branches have the brittle appearance and delicacy of spun sugar, as though to touch them would be to risk snapping them off.  

Yet the most delicate and intriguing of them all is a single strand of silken web, strung like the very finest of necklaces with the tiniest of crystal gems. It is something of such stunning beauty that I have to look closer, conscious that to even breathe upon it, let alone touch it, would be to destroy it.

The snow has even leant a magical air to mundane, everyday objects: a wooden 5-bar gate, plastic fencing and iron fence poles. Even my feelings towards strands of barbed wire, the object that I detest the most in the countryside, are slightly, but only slightly, mellowed.

I open my senses to the beauty of my surroundings; the soft sound of crunching beneath my boots; the light smattering of snow as a sudden breeze dislodges it from an overloaded branch and the sharp wetness as it flutters down the back of my neck; the noise of a startled roe deer as it takes off through the trees; the coldness of the snow upon my fingertips, crumbling and melting; the fresh clean smell of the woodland; the taste of snow on the end of my tongue, neither sweet, nor salt, nor sour, but a fresh taste all of its own, dry and wet and refreshing, yet not thirst quenching; wood smoke, faint on the breeze, the smell of a woodland winter. And then there are the less tactile senses, the ones that lift the spirit and fill me with the joy of the moment.

Spindly ash line the path, their sooty buds in stark contrast as they peer from beneath the coating of white. Yew branches are bent low toward the ground under the weight. For others the weight has been too much; a tree has fallen across the path, the snow having proved too much for the exposed shallow roots. I pick a low point to clamber over, trying unsuccessfully to avoid contact with the snow, which wets the inside of my thighs; not the most pleasant of my sensory experiences.

Roe deer tracks.

Deeper into the wood the floor is covered in tracks: deer, foxes, dogs, horses, walkers and mountain bikes. Sets of animal tracks, possibly foxes, are captured, forming straight lines of single-minded determination across the woodland floor, not the meanderings of human prints. Theirs are about survival in the harsh conditions, not enjoyment. A spaniel bounds through the snow, throwing up a powdery mist, enthralled by the unusual experience and new sensations.

Stepping into a clearing opens up my view of the woodland. It is absolutely stunning to take in the total transformation that a heavy snowfall can achieve. The sun has given way to a wintery-grey sky, into which merges the pale tree tops.

Breaking out of the woodland to the viewpoint is to enter yet another world. Distracted by the fascinations of the woods I haven’t noticed that a dense, chill mist has crept across the land, enveloping the Downs. Far below, lost from view beneath the grey, is the sound of traffic speeding along the motorway.

In the short time I have stood, looking into the mist, it has washed over me to encompass the woodland. Distant trees have taken on a ghostly appearance and even the birds seem to have disappeared. The way ahead is no longer to clear, as the mist has engulfed the woodland path.

The chill has intensified, so I hurry on and soon I am leaving the quiet of the woodland for the sludgy-grey of the edge of the town. Time for a warming cup of coffee as the world struggles past, a world in complete contrast to the magical, unhurried one I have just left.

 

Stepping into the Past 03/02/2012

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It’s a glorious bright winter’s day, with the low sun pouring out of a vast blue sky that stretches in an enormous dome, covering the site of the former Battle of Britain airfield, curving to touch the ground all around. However, the sun does not equate to warmth. The official temperature may be marginally on the plus side of freezing, but the wind-chill from the stiff raw breeze makes zero seem distantly balmy.

To walk onto the airfield perimeter, especially on a quiet day like today, with just a couple of hardy dog walkers, huddled behind scarves and turned-up collars, for company, is to step onto a piece of history. Only the dogs seem totally oblivious to the cold and the history as they have other things and smells in the surrounding grass to distract them.

The sun shimmers off the wide concrete runway that stretches away and disappears over the curve of the ground, chosen for its elevated position. Standing at the very end it doesn’t take too much imagination to mistake the wind for the distant spluttering roar of single-engine fighters - Hurricanes and Spitfires - warming up. The sound gets louder and louder as they gather speed along the ground towards me, heard but not seen as they are hidden behind the brow. The clear canopy, then the wings and finally the undercarriage come into view as the plane hurtles towards me. The wheels lift slowly, breaking contact with the ground. The wings waggle then, in a flash of sky-blue underside, the aircraft  roars right over my head. I snap round and watch it climb into the air. The pilot looks down at me from a face far older than his tender years. The wheels are retracted and the plane banks into the clear blue. Then it is gone, the sky is empty and the only noise is the constant roar of the stiff breeze. In the 6 decades since that plane took to the air, the world has changed beyond all recognition, yet for a few short moments it is the summer of 1940 when everything hung in the balance. It is also impossible not to wonder how different the world would have been today had it not been for the young pilots who risked all every time they took to the air from this airfield and many others like it.

RAF Kenley is said to be the most complete of the remaining Battle of Britain fighter stations, at the forefront of the country’s defence. The hangers and many of the buildings have long gone or become derelict, but around the perimeter road, the aircraft blast bays are being restored. The bombs have, thankfully, also long gone, but the grass-covered brick and concrete structures now provide welcome relief from the constant blast of the wind.  The entrances to the shelters that would have been used by pilots and ground crews in an emergency have been uncovered, years of swamping vegetation removed. I stand in the doorway and wonder who else would have stood in my footsteps, and what became of them.

The far end of the runway, covered by a concrete gun emplacement upon a grass embankment, ends in a clipped double hedge that separates the airfield from the surrounding fields. Normally I detest the mangled and chewed look resulting from the use of modern flail cutters for hedgerow management. However, as the airfield is today home to gliders, there is an obvious need to keep them from growing too tall. So, for once, I will forgive the butchery. The path that runs between the hedges is frozen and rutted and the crumbly surface crunches beneath my boots. The rutted tracks of a passing vehicle are dusted with recent snow, as though the ground has been sprinkled with icing sugar. Despite the cold, the thickness of the hedges act as a welcome windbreak, something that today's extensive use of wire fencing can never achieve. And out of the wind it is quite remarkable how the sun seems to have suddenly found the ability to provide warmth, as though someone has suddenly flicked a switch.

Beyond the hedgerow the field slopes in a great curve down into the valley below, with its 2 railway lines either side of a busy road. Across the other side of the valley, the white face of the former chalk quarry, which rises vertically for 50m, shines brightly. It is incredible to think that this wall of chalk was formed under a shallow warm sea of the skeletal deposits of billions upon billions of tiny creatures. The working life of this quarry spanned approximately 150 years, up until 1960s, when cheaper imports and the increasing use of chemical fertilizer made the quarrying of chalk for use in building and agriculture uneconomical. The impressive shear chalk face and undulating spoil heaps are all that remain prominent of the once thriving industry, although there are hidden mine shafts and rusting abandoned equipment awaiting the unwary. For this reason it is closed to the public. I have, however, been very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work on the site. 

It is a site where a couple of years ago we installed a platform and a set of steps up one of the spoil heaps next to the face so that schools and ecology societies could study the various layers of chalk. The narrow, steep, loose surface was not the easiest of environments in which to work, and the completion of the construction was all the more satisfying because

The path runs just inside the woodland edge that crowns the top of this side of the valley, the surface again frozen and crumbly and dusted with snow. Puddles form cracked mirrors, crazy jagged lines running in all directions from where the ice has been broken. It is not a very big area of woodland and the path soon passes beside the area where we spent a couple of weeks early last spring coppicing hazel and removing a dense bank of holly. All around are the signs of nature’s incredible ability to regenerate, with shiny green clumps of prickly holly growing to replace the bushes that were removed. Even a fallen tree shows its ability to cling onto life. Although most of the roots have been torn from the ground, those that remain attached are able to provide enough nutrients for the stumps where side stems were removed to also be crowned with new growth. And amongst the leaf litter bright green bluebells shoots are pushing their way through the woodland floor.

With the sun sinking lower in the winter sky, I am soon back at the end of the runway, which must have been a very welcome sight for those young pilots returning to the airfield.

 

Battling the Alien Invader 30/01/2012

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The Victorian obsession with transporting exotic flora from around the world to plant in the gardens of fashionable country gentlemen who wished to impress their peers, created an unforeseen problem that we are still battling today, over a century later. Had these non-native species remained within the confines of their new environment they would, no doubt, have continued to be admired and that would have been the end of the story. However, with the inevitability of spring following winter, these species, no doubt with a little well-meaning assistance, eventually escaped and found their freedom very much to their liking. One such escapee is Rhododendron Ponticum, an evergreen shrub, with short-lived fragrant purple flowers. However, Rhododendron Ponticum is no respecter of boundaries and has spread to cover a wide variety of habitats, from heathland and moorland to ancient woodland, from South Dorset to North Wales to Scotland. In the South-east, the tremendous surge in colonisation occurred after the great storm of 1987, when the devastated canopy opened up the woodland floor for this alien invader to colonise.

Rhododendron Ponticum is an evergreen shrub, with short-lived fragrant purple flowers.

In the ancient wood where I am currently working it took just a few short years to cover large tracts (estimated in the region of 50-60 acres) of the wood’s 200 acres, spreading by any means possible. It coppices; it seeds, with each flower head producing in excess of three thousand seeds; it suckers and it layers, the drooping branches putting down new roots wherever they touch the ground. And to ensure that grazing animals won’t touch it, the leaves, as well as being toxic are tough and unpalatable, while the sticky substance exuded by the new buds act as a deterrent to insects. It is difficult not to admire its colonising and survival tactics until one remembers that this plant supports little insect life, bird life or any other native fauna and flora as it rapidly drowns out large areas of bluebells, wood anemones and tree saplings. The leaf litter is toxic and little can live beneath its spreading limbs, which form a dense, dark shade, ensuring that wildflowers are stifled and the natural regeneration of tree species cannot occur. This in turn leads to the loss of native butterflies, whose caterpillars are deprived of the necessary wildflowers to feed upon, bees, insects, birds and mammals. Now it poses an even greater threat as it has been identified as a carrier of the fungal disease responsible for Sudden Oak Death, currently causing devastation amongst oak and larch in the West Country.

However, it is not just the native fauna and flora that suffer. People with sensitive skin can find that any form of contact with this plant will bring them out in a rash and cases of non-fatal human poisoning have also been reported, caused by the consumption of honey produced from the flowers. There are even reports from vets of the suspected fatal poisoning of dogs that have chewed Rhododendron sticks.

But the fightback has begun.

Rhododendron forms an impenetrable mass of stiffling vegetation.

It is a chilly winter’s morning but, thankfully, the early morning mist has cleared as I follow the winding path deep in the woods to where a dense mass of Rhododendron awaits, an impenetrable wall of tangled green. The large area cleared last year, roughly half the size of a football pitch, is easy to identify from the scattered rhododendron stumps, crowned with the shiny leaves of regrowth. It will soon be time to chemically treat them, a process that has been successful in previous years, leaving the dead stems to be prised from the ground. And, for every acre cleared, an acre of ancient woodland is on its way to being restored, with woodland plants and tree saplings beginning to show signs of coming back. Snowdrops decorate the edge of the woodland ride and amongst the leaf litter thousands of tiny bluebell shoots are beginning to appear in a once sterile environment. On this site, at least, we can report that, slowly but surely, the war is being won, a true conservation success story.

To the casual visitor this may seems like wanton destruction but the fact is that without this clearance the casual visitor would not be able to wander freely and uninhibited through this woodland or, in an alarmingly short time-span, through any part of the woods. There would be no paths for them to follow, there would be no spectacular display of bluebells in the spring, there would be no woodland views, there would be no exciting glimpse of darting deer; there would be nothing but a dense wall of Rhododendron, impenetrable and smothering.

A welcome fire on a chilly winter's day.

Beneath layers of brown-grey ash, the red-hot coals from yesterday’s fire are still glowing brightly and the fires take very little encouragement to roar into life, providing welcome warmth to a day where the temperature is struggling to rise above freezing. Soon they are devouring a new mass of vegetation.

Stems as thick as thighs and branches as thick as forearms twist and intertwine and fuse together as they reach high overhead in an impenetrable mass, like some giant wooden puzzle or living sculpture. The brittle red-brown wood, smooth and sinewy, has a habit of suddenly snapping, and whilst it is easy to saw through, it takes a number of carefully considered cuts to free the mass of fused limbs to reveal a hidden heart of beautifully intricate patterns. But the heart of this plant is one of a cold and ruthless coloniser.

A resident robin appears, perching on a branch, watching me work and dropping to the ground to inspect the disturbed soil whenever I shift position to a safe distance or drag cuttings to the fire. These are wonderfully colourful, cheerful and inquisitive little birds that are always welcome visitors. Meanwhile, a kestrel hovers over a clearing just beyond this bank of vegetation, possibly attracted by the opportunity to catch any small mammals disturbed by my activity. Both birds have learnt to take advantage of human presence.

Meanwhile, the flames from the fire get higher as more vegetation is added and, driven by a keen breeze, they leap and writhe in an endless pattern of hot colours, mesmerising and beautiful and at the same time frightening in their intensity. Glowing orange embers add new burn holes to my clothing and force me to duck and weave, as though from a swarm of irate bees.

Over successive winters the battle is slowly being won.

With the winter daylight starting to dwindle it’s time to start to wind things down and, armed with a pitchfork I take the opportunity to turn the trailing debris in towards the centre. By the time the fire has died down it is after 4pm, the light is fading fast and the temperature has noticeably fallen. It is time for the long walk back through the woods, along the same path I arrived on, only this time the wall of vegetation hemming it in on one side is just that little bit further away and the area cleared last year is just that bit bigger.

Another day over and another step taken towards the reclaiming of this corner of ancient woodland.


Details of the latest countryside management tasks can be found on the Urban Countryman facebook page: Urban Countryman.

 

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