Big bird

I hear it before I see it.

A whistling call, slightly eerie.

Tilt my head upwards…

Oh wow.  Flying low, wheeling, above the gardens.  In the cloudless sky its plumage is unmistakeable – the barred underwing feathers, the forked russet tail, the white head.  And then it soars right over me, that whistling call on repeat, and angles its head down to survey.  Does it see me?  I think it does.  I’m disproportionately (and, I know, ridiculously!) moved to the point that my eyes prick with tears.  I can’t really explain why, except I think it’s something about the wonder of seeing such a huge, majestic bird in the wild, and of knowing its bittersweet back story.

…

Look up!

Something compels me to look up... even though I haven't seen it yet.

I’m wandering down the slope, on the way to the shops.  But it’s what’s above which now has my attention.  The circling – wings outstretched, so wide! – and the tell-tale shape of its tail.  As I keep walking, the bird’s effortless-looking spirals move ahead of me incrementally and it feels as if it’s leading the way.  I follow, but it has the advantage over me; its speed reducing it to a mere speck, and then out of sight.  I want to fly!

…

I’m hanging the washing out on this still, intensely bright, cyan blue March morning, when a movement pierces the skyscape. Rising upward over the roof, gaining height, higher, higher - and then a graceful glide, henna-hued tail fanned - over the ridge tiles and away.  But what a sight.

…

Once again, I hear it before I see it.  Oh, that call.  I’m tuned in now, that'll be it forever now, my ears have instinctively diverted to it, over the sound of cars and jackdaws.  That whistle is really evocative – a sound that taps into something deep and primeval  – as if I've been here before, centuries ago.   I wait in the garden for it to pass over, oh please do! - and yes it does –  coming so low I can see its detail, the yellow bill, its eyes swivelling to look down.  Ohhh! Then off again over the fields, the whistling getting fainter.  I feel a thrill.

…

For four days running now I’ve enjoyed the spectacle of the red kite.  I’m sure it must be the same one.  I said it came low, but then I thought, how low was it really?  Considering this bird of prey has a wingspan of up to 6 feet, it was probably still quite high up.  I’m trying to imagine it landing in the garden and how much space it would take up…which really puts things in proportion.... 

Is it that direct connection to wildness, to nature and a relatively unfamiliar creature which excites and delights me so much?  I think it must be, but as I mentioned above, it's also the back story.  If you don't already know about the red kite's history here it really is noteworthy.  Centuries ago they were common but, as with so many birds of prey, they suffered from severe persecution.  Sadly so much so that, by the late 1800s, they were extinct in England.  But in 1990, efforts were made to reintroduce them - and it all started off with just 13 pairs, who were flown over (in a British Airways jet!) from Spain.  Those 13 pairs did well - breeding successfully in the Chilterns, their young continuing the generations, more birds then being introduced, and gradually they've spread further out across the country.  It's now thought we have nearly 5000 pairs of red kites - maybe you already see them regularly? - but if you haven't yet spotted one, I'm sure they'll be coming to a field or garden near you soon, they're doing so well.  I hadn't seen one here until the last few years.

Everything's alright, even when it isn't, when these moments happen.  I'll be happy to stop whatever I'm doing, to be moved and exhilarated, breath-taken, grateful and in awe of this big, beautiful bird any time.  I hope I see it again today.

Simon Dupree & The Big Sound: Kites (!)

Eddie Floyd: Big Bird (a different kind of big bird, but what a song)

That eerie sounding call

Free games for May

Sorry, sorry, sorry!  I've been terribly bad at keeping up with things but I am still here. Just spending fewer prolonged periods in front of a screen these days - and still don't seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do!  I've been on a bit of a creative trip to destinations unknown lately which has only served to confirm my suspicions that I am and always have been very much an analog girl.  In spite of that, blogging remains the source of such interest, pleasure and especially lovely connections that I really don't want to lose it, so I must put some effort in!

While I was out yesterday, my mind joined my feet in an aimless meander and I was reminded of how sometimes in my more prolific blogging moments I enjoyed taking you for a walk with me and I thought, perhaps I can actually get writing about that again? 

Come on, come with me!

We can go down beyond the main thoroughfare of the village and then turn off from the hub-bub of traffic to find ourselves in a quiet lane.  I adore this route, especially at this time of year.  We'll wander past the low roofed chapel now converted into a house, the backs of gardens of a red bricked Victorian terrace and then the human formalities start to give way to wild verges.  I always was a little drawn to the wilder verges of life.  This one would appear to be very attractive to cats too.

Then, well, it's blissful. There are meadows either side and you can smell and hear an English May without even looking; the heady scent of new blossom and cow parsley, an orchestra of insects, a symphony of lusty birdsong.  Wren, blackbird, robin, chiffchaff.  I get a funny (in a good way) feeling when I'm out like this - it must be connected to childhood memories, I'm sure.  I find the timelessness of it incredibly evocative, deep-rooted and uplifting - does it do something to the brain perhaps and induce a dopamine high?  For me it's as intoxicating as any physical substance, and I can still walk in a straight line.

The lane runs alongside a tributary and down to a weir but we won't go that far today, instead just take in the view of the lane and bridge curving around, the shadows of trees striating the road. 

If we were to carry on we could cross a couple of fields of cowpats (probably some cows too) and find one of those WWII pill boxes - this area of East Anglian countryside was one of the most heavily fortified in the country.  Defence lines of pillboxes, anti-tank blocks, deep ditches and barbed wire were drawn across the landscape to obstruct armoured columns which were expected to move inland should they manage to breach the ports and beaches.  I try to imagine how it must have felt living in such a rural and sparsely populated environment then, far removed from the cities, yet with these constant reminders of the possibility of invasion. But being here today it's so peaceful, whatever else is still sadly going on in the world in a similar vein, and I just can't.  Instead I'm lucky - lost in the sensory escapism of nature and my cherry-picked memories of perfect dappled riverbanks and bike rides and buttercups.  

For the return journey we can take a little detour past the allotments.  Say hello to the chickens and some ruddy-cheeked men in checked shirts discussing their cucumbers and on to the Village Hall.  There's a Book Fair here today - £1 to get in - how could you resist?   Mmm, the smell of old books, comics, postcards, maps....the smell of the hall itself, all coffee and floor polish and sunshine on curtains.  The low murmur of people enthusing about their stamp collections and Rupert annuals.  It's all rather lovely, a safe space for us nerdier members of the species.  And I'm drawn to so many items!  I come away with just this one, utterly enticed by its kitschness.

Heading home now we can pass this noble doorstep guardian

this old street grit bin which I really like for some weird reason

and take a couple of photos which I won't show here because instead I'll be sending them to John for his monthly photo challenge post!

Then dive back into the shade of trees and across the wooden footbridge over another part of the tributary which is looking particularly photogenic today.  An older man stops for a chat and talks about how he used to swim in there as a young lad, having lived here all his life. The resident swans will swim down here soon too, with cygnets to follow, hopefully.

At the bottom of the hill there's the young lad I often see with his skateboard. He's never with anyone else but is so obviously into his board and honing his skills on the tarmac path outside the big house.  I've often thought perhaps he's a bit of a loner, a little geeky, a little outside of the mainstream as he's always alone, practising, practising, not looking up.  But this time - oh, he has a girl with him!  A sweet-looking girl with an angelic face and a coy demeanour; he's holding her hand as she tries to keep her balance on the skateboard, gently encouraging her.  He looks over and for the first time he smiles.  I don't even know this lad but, well, I'm feeling all chuffed for him!

Onward up the hill and there's something alien hiding behind this hedge which makes me smile (turns out it's a small digger)

And just in case you need a further boost there are resources at hand a few doors up...

But sometimes I reckon a good walk can give you just the high you need.

"...you'll lose your mind and play

 free games for May..."

Still here

Red kite

Hello, how are you?!  Several weeks have gone by and the cobwebs in the corners of this blog are gathering cobwebs of their own, but I'm still here...

A bout of Covid (my first) knocked me back last month, but the leaden-legged fatigue and peculiar effect on the tastebuds (I couldn't have distinguished between a rice pudding and a vegetable jalfrezi in a blind taste test) thankfully passed.  Now I'm "in-between" work projects and, aside from many overdue jobs to do around the house, it's a pleasure to take a breather and get immersed in nature outside for a while.  So, screen time isn't a big draw at the mo.

Ah, but outside is, I'm addicted.  By day I've been spotting the biggest, fattest garden spiders I've ever seen, and have been exhilarated by my first ever sighting of a live grass snake in the leaf litter.   I can hear the mewing of buzzards (we've never heard so many round here before) and watch the beautiful aerobatic displays of red kites over the rooftops and fields (still relatively new to these parts and they thrill me every time.  Did you know they have a wingspan of around 5ft?!)  By evening, it's the occasional, surprising close encounter with a bat as it flits with beating wings in somewhat manic fashion past the honeysuckle - and my head.  There's evidence of a hedgehog's wanderings too (those animal faeces recognition skills come in handy) and I can't help but have a fondness for Mrs Brown Rat as she lifts her nose, ears twitching independently, to sniff me from a safe distance (although had to stop feeding the birds for now in an effort to persuade her to move on).  Still, a chiffchaff skims the buddleiah, delaying its return to Africa while the weather's so warm here.  A stunning hornet (the native European species) wows me with its size and tiger colours, and the Red Admiral and Peacock butterflies bask on the kitchen window frame. With surprising speed, Cabbage White caterpillars rhythmically munch through toadflax (love that name) pausing only to drop off neat little parcels from their opposite ends... who knew you could even see a caterpillar take a crap?! - all part of the cycle...

I could watch, and listen, and smell all this for hours; it's my salve... I recommend it to everyone, even if only for a few minutes a day. Even if it's just what I used to do when I lived in a top floor flat looking out at the orbweb spiders in the corners of the windows and the magpies bouncing on the opposite rooftops.  Just get whatever you can.  I'd recommend it to Putin et al.  Honestly, mate, I'd like to say to him/them in my Utopian dream world, just sit back and watch the bees and the birds for a while and wonder at the simple pleasures of nature, how marvellous and precious it all is, how it deserves our protection, and you might just feel a little bit happier inside and appreciate the value of peace and harmony.  Oh, if only...

Bumming about in nature doesn't leave a lot of time or motive for blogging but I really don't want to lose the blogging either- it's very important to me too, the source of some lovely friendships and also something of a salve.   So I will be back!  Just maybe when I've finished watching that wasp drinking from the bird bath and the convoy of ants on a mysterious mission running along the path....  See you soon.

Eight arms to hold you

What has three hearts, nine brains, eight legs, blue blood and a beak? I feel sure there’s a joke in there somewhere about the royal family and a pet parrot…. but I think you probably know the answer and it lies, not in the soil, but in the sea. 

There is something slightly surreal and beautiful about the octopus and I’ve rather fallen in love with this remarkable creature. Apart from having an overabundance of hearts and brains, octopuses (octopi?) are amongst only 1% of animals which use tools, they are notorious escape artists, they can change colour, texture and shape in an instant, and even regenerate missing arms at will. Once you start reading and learning about them it just gets more and more fantastical.  I've long believed that there's a lot more going on in the animal kingdom than we can even begin to comprehend, no matter how much scientific research takes place.

My affectionate admiration towards them really came to the fore last year after watching, quite by chance, a documentary which focused on the intelligence and behaviour of one particular individual and her extraordinary relationship with humans. In ‘The Octopus In My House’ a professor and his teenage daughter bond with their cephalopod protegée called Heidi. In return, she shows them how she can solve puzzles, distinguish between different people, pass memory tests and use planning strategies. She even watches TV with the family from her huge tank inside the house, moving to the edge to be closer to the screen. I find myself wondering what she’s thinking, but I’m happy just to wonder and not to know. 

There is, inevitably, a darker side to their lives too - and they don't live for very long.  Once a female has laid eggs, it effectively spells the beginning of her end. She stops eating, becomes listless and wastes away - the female octopus in captivity even seems to go on an active suicide mission – she's very unlikely to make it through to see her new young emerge.  Nature being what it is, there's no need for her to do so - they'll fend for themselves, and thus it seems octopuses are never going to have a population problem.

But putting that grimness aside, I’ve discovered a whole new form of therapy to help soothe away some of the worries of life in 2020. The other evening I'd been stupid enough to catch up on the news before I was about to go to bed and I needed something to offset all the doom and gloom...  so I tuned into youtube and watched some octopuses.  Octopuses swimming, octopuses playing, octopuses hiding in shells, octopuses interacting gently with the sweeter variety of human, octopuses solving problems, octopuses shape-shifting: job done.  Kittens, watch out.

The obvious choice? Syd Barrett:  Octopus

A paean to pondlife

Most of the time my mum used the large Pyrex dish for baking Apple Crumble but as Spring turned to Summer and long yellow days stretched out ahead of us, the pie dish took up residence in my bedroom.  Sometimes on the windowsill - or if it got too hot there, I'd move it out of the sunlight and make space for it between my felt tip pens and Puffin books on the little white desk.  There in this modest container each year the magic would take place.

Tadpoles.

What a way to learn about life...  To get up each morning and wonder how many of the funny little black beans with nostrils and diaphanous tails might have started to sprout tiny limbs during the night.  Hind legs first, then front ones -  I could almost, almost watch them grow in front of my eyes, I'm sure.  

What a way to learn about death, too... occasionally having to scoop out a lifeless body, the unfortunate weaklings which were never going to have made it into froghood.   But the rest - I was fascinated at each stage of their development, watching them gulp down the goldfish flakes with mouths which seemed to open almost mechanically, like those of a ventriloquist's dummy.  Mesmerised by the way they swerved and darted about just below the surface.  Excited as the weeks passed and legs got longer, tails got shorter and newly recognisable frog features began to form.  Alchemy!

I don't think my mum ever made an Apple Crumble during the Summer; the tadpoles took priority.

Eventually they were ready to liberate - the timing was important, it needed to be just before there was any risk that they'd crawl out of the pie dish and end up inside the vacuum cleaner. We'd take them into the garden where the tortoises feasted on the dandelions in the lawn and where we had two small ponds.  Neither was fancy; in fact one was simply an old-fashioned washing-up bowl sunk into the clay soil, but both were full of what seemed to be the most alien life-forms imaginable.  Twitching, wriggling mosquito larvae with fan tails... wonderfully named Water Boatmen propelling themselves with oar-like limbs... and freshwater snails in tightly coiled transparent shells grazing on viridescent algae.

Some of the froglets may inevitably have been eaten by our cats, or the blackbirds, or a visiting hedgehog, but others would survive out there with the pondskaters, caddisflies and newts, growing into big bulky adults with beautifully long toes and inky speckled backs.  

I'll be forever grateful to my arty, free-spirited (and occasionally clinically depressed) mum and her Pyrex dish for teaching me to grow tadpoles in my bedroom.  And for her Apple Crumble too, of course, once the frogs were out in the pond...

L7 - Bite The Wax Tadpole

Flying Electric Spiders

That should so be the name of a band, shouldn’t it?  A no-holds-barred garage band whose super-fans throw gigantic fluffy spider toys on stage at gigs (so much more hygienic than knickers).  My sister once had a gigantic fluffy spider toy;  it had pipe-cleaner legs and red teddy-bear eyes on wire stalks, and you could bounce it up and down on the thin elastic attached to its furry black head.  As a child I used it covertly a couple of times by half-hiding it in my bedroom in a bid to scare off the little lady that came once a week to help my mum with the cleaning.   (I’m aware how terribly middle-class that is... Truth being that my mum did struggle to cope, and this was at a time when she was also reliant on another kind of mother’s little helper – the small round one commonly known as Valium).

I was a horrible, naughty child and poor Mrs Sibley in her flowery overall and thick tan tights was the intended victim of my cunning plan.  I was sure that if I carefully secreted the spider in a dusty corner, the unexpected discovery of it would be enough to make her shriek and leave my bedroom in a panic.  The Betta Bilda blocks, my Francie doll and assorted plastic farm animals could then stay strewn on a dirty floor for another week.  ( I tried the same tactic with a rubber snake, but that’s another story.)

Anyway, that’s how much I believed in the power of spiders…

And I still do.  I’m convinced that if real spiders were aware of the fear they are capable of inducing, even in otherwise rational adult humans, they could take over the world.

I also believe that most of the creatures surrounding us are far superior to us in so many ways, they just lack the arrogance and vindictiveness (two purely human traits) to use it against us.   From tiny worms, blind and limbless, being able to detect minute changes in air pressure which means that even underground they can tell when it’s going to rain, to the incredible navigational sense of birds migrating thousands of miles across mountains and oceans to the exact same place each year, these are innate skills we humans can only dream of having.  Then again, worms and birds don’t know how to add a cat face filter to a selfie so we shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves...

So here is where flying electric spiders come in.  ‘Spiders Can Fly Hundreds of Miles Using Electricity’ is the sort of headline that makes my ears prick up (without the need for a cat face filter) and to my mind, totally supports the theory of their superiority.  Marvellous, amazing, fantastic spiders - I love them. We know that they are able to travel beyond where their eight little legs can carry them; they've been found two and a half miles up in the sky and 1000 miles out to sea, and recently two researchers at the University of Bristol were able to demonstrate that it was far more than just random wind power that propelled them.  Spiders can actually sense the Earth’s electric field and use it to launch themselves into the air.

These researchers "... put the arachnids on vertical strips of cardboard in the centre of a plastic box, and then generated electric fields between the floor and ceiling of similar strengths to what the spiders would experience outdoors.  These ruffled tiny sensory hairs on the spiders' feet... In response the spiders performed a set of movements called tiptoeing - they stood on the ends of their legs and stuck their abdomens in the air...  Many of the spiders actually managed to take off, despite being in closed boxes with no airflow within them..."   

Now I don't know if this sort of stuff interests you as much as it does me, but you can read the full article here.

All this leads me to think that, one day when we've properly fucked up the planet and each other, leaving behind a world inhabited only by the last surviving creatures of the non-human variety, they will fare very well indeed.  Whereas me - well, Mrs Sibley did still clean my room, and moved my toys, unnerved by a fluffy spider with pipe cleaner legs - I'm merely human.

This gives me a good excuse to post some Australian '80s garage punk in the form of the Lime Spiders too, don't you think?!

Vermicular love

They excite me so much, I can’t resist telling people.  Anyone who’ll listen: my hairdresser, the neighbours, the guy who works down the chip shop (swears he’s Elvis), you….   

I’m generally met with a look of complete indifference and the feeling that nobody really cares.   I understand.  Maybe it’s hard to get how anyone can be this excited by worms.  But I have fallen head-over-heels in love with my little herd ( to use the correct term) of Tiger Worms and European Nightcrawlers  - as introduced here.

They’re tucked away in the shed for the Winter now, their Wormery home wrapped in paper and bubble wrap to keep them warm, and every day I trudge down there first thing, before I’ve even had a wash or a cup of tea, to check on them.  Lift the lid and have a little peek, careful not to expose them to prolonged bright light, as their skin is ultra-sensitive to it and too much will cause them harm.  Check the thermometer on the wall and if it’s below 10 degrees, tuck them up again.

There’s something incredibly soothing about checking out your worms - it should be prescribed as a form of therapy.  Unlike the common earthworm which likes to burrow deep, composting worms spend more time on the surface so it’s possible to see them just by lifting their bedding.  Watch them slowly eating their way through their food, or occasionally one may climb up the inside of the worm bin for a little wander and a change of scene, especially if they sense it’s raining outside, which they can  - even from inside a bin, inside a shed.  Who knows what else they know that we can't even begin to understand?

Occasionally I’ll find a pair mating – side by side, pressed up to each other tightly for a couple of hours (!), hermaphrodites with multiple hearts (three more than a Time Lord!) - am I selling them to you yet?

If not, just one more thing....   It struck me as I was walking yesterday that worms truly are the gentlest and worthiest of creatures.  They don’t fight or kill each other or any other being over food, territory, or mates. They co-exist harmoniously with other species and are undemanding of each other.  If there’s not enough food for them all in one place, older worms will move on to seek it elsewhere to let the younger ones feed more easily.  And they self-regulate their population – too many baby worms starting to hatch in a confined space? – they’ll simply stop breeding until their numbers level out again. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from them.

I ♥ my worms

But is it art? VI

The sunlight was so bright yesterday morning that I had to pull the blind down to be able to work.  But I was unexpectedly distracted and mesmerised by the scene it created - the flying and flitting silhouettes of sparrows (there's a birdfeeder on the other side of the window.)  It's often the simplest things that I find the most charming  - couldn't resist a clumsy attempt to capture their movements in a video.

Art?

Tigers and nightcrawlers

The box arrived a couple of weeks ago:

‘FRAGILE - CONTAINS LIVING CREATURES - OPEN IMMEDIATELY’.

I sometimes wonder what couriers make of these packages when they load them onto their vans.  I’d be curious, inclined to press an ear against the taped up cardboard in the hope of hearing something –  a clue - scratching or yawning or purring perhaps.   Checking the corners for a protruding claw or the tip of a scaly tail.   Or smells.  Seepage, even.

Inside this box was a small bag, filled with something soft.  I thought it might wriggle but it didn’t move, and it didn’t make a noise, or smell or seep.  I was very excited….

…My Tigers and European Nightcrawlers had arrived!

I didn’t know before I bought them that worms could have such exotic names.  It’s not just me, is it, for whom  ‘European Nightcrawler’  evokes images of neon cities under black skies, of mysterious women smoking long cigarettes and trains rumbling hypnotically through a dark forest landscape to the soundtrack of Bowie’s  ‘ Low’ album?

So I’m now the proud owner of wonderfully titled wild tigers (Tiger Worms, aka Brandlings and Red Wigglers!) and nightcrawlers, all 500grams of them.  Did you know worms have five hearts? They are also of course eyeless, toothless (ah, imagine a worm with teeth), hermaphrodites, who breed prolifically, and I’ve become the custodian of a small colony making their home inside a special Wormery bin. 

I’m already getting disproportionately fond of them, giving them all names – there’s Mavis, and Fluffy, and Tinkerbell….   No,  it’s okay, don’t worry, I’m just sticking to Worm, it’s easier that way…  What I didn’t know before researching the whole Wormery thing, though, was that they’re quite sensitive creatures and do require some care and attention  – they need time to settle in and adjust to their new surroundings (often trying to escape on their first few nights, I eased them in by leaving a solar light on to start with) and it’s important not to overfeed them, let them get too cold or hot, etc.  So you know, I’ve been like a protective parent these last couple of weeks, checking up on them regularly, chopping their food into tiny pieces, making sure they’ve plenty of bedding to snuggle down into, bless ‘em.  They seem to be doing well so far.

And then the point of it all – they get to devour all our kitchen scraps, and turn it into top quality compost.  So basically, in return for decent food and lodgings, they pay us in shit.  Strangely, it sounds like a good deal to me.

David Bowie: Subterraneans

Lost for words - part two

“Once upon a time, words began to vanish from the language of children.  They disappeared so quietly that at first almost no-one noticed….”

So begins a beautiful book called ‘The Lost Words’, written by Robert MacFarlane and illustrated by Jackie Morris.

I treated myself to it, as a lover of language and nature and illustration – a large, heavy hardback, tinted liberally with gold, flooded with watercolour washes on some spreads and unafraid of the boldness of white space on others - a work of art in the truest sense.  Birds and letters of the alphabet flit and fly through its pages as the author casts magic spells to reinvoke the ‘lost words’ of the title.  What lost words are these?  Words like rapscallion and farthingale?  Erm, no - but tell you in a minute. 

Although categorised as a children’s book, it’s far more than that - not a story book but poetic and playful, written to be read aloud - like incantations.  But the story behind the book’s existence is also really worth telling.

Once upon a time (in 2007), the editors of the latest version of the Oxford Junior Dictionary faced a dilemma when they needed to find room for contemporary words like ‘analogue’, ‘broadband’ and ‘celebrity’, meaning that several others previously included would have to go.

I’ve no idea how I'd make decisions about which words to replace, and I realise it’d need a lot of thought, but I’d have difficulty culling any connected to nature, I know that.  The natural world is under threat from so many different corners and yet so vital to our well-being, I feel its vocabulary is at least one thing we can easily protect and ensure it stays alive in the minds of its future inheritors.

Still, unfortunately, several words I was really surprised about lost their place in the new edition.  Nature words, like these ones….

                                    Bluebell

                                                                                                  Magpie

                              Conker

                                                         Kingfisher

                                                                                  Blackberry

                                                  Starling

                                                                      Acorn
                                                                                              Newt

That's just a small example.  Maybe I'm being sentimental and old-fashioned, but I feel quite sad about this - I don't ever want a celebrity to have priority over a conker, in any form.

If you feel the same, at least know we’re not alone - when news of these changes came to light, there was quite an outcry.  (Read more here if you’re interested...)

And what better motivation could there be than that to create a sumptuous tribute to these newly 'lost' words, something thought-provoking and exquisite, both literally and visually, to be lingered over and treasured?  Indeed, the depth of feeling led to a collaboration between this hugely talented author and illustrator, and then to this remarkable book.   Not only that, but a proportion of the profits is also being donated to the Action For Conservation charity.  I guess that must be our happy ending.

May your Christmas be wild...

...in the nicest possible way, of course.

And what better, more fitting way could there be for me to send my festive wishes to you than to share some beautifully wacky and slightly macabre natural history themed Christmas cards from our Victorian ancestors...?

May Christmas be merry

May all jollity "LIGHTEN" your CHRISTMAS hours

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS

A hearty welcome

To wish you The Compliments of the SEASON

A Happy Christmas to you!

Friendship is flavour best for wine

Take then, anew (?) with Christmas, mine!

A Loving Christmas Greeting

(Sorry about that one! It was traditional to show dead birds on Christmas cards

in the Victorian era, perhaps related to ancient good luck rituals

and as a symbol of the fleeting nature of life.)

A very Merry Christmas to all who come here and many thanks!

x

But is it art? V

Been a while since I last posted one of these 'But is it art?' numbers.  Just looked it up, nearly four years  - proof that I really am crap at keeping series ideas going.

Then I found something in the garden and I thought... yes... "But is it art?"

So here it is.

Just a lovely big old stone with some lovely big old snails stuck to it, bedded down for the Winter.  I'm just in awe of how particularly beautifully and perfectly they blend into one - it's as if they're part of it, growing out from it.

I took all these photos at the same time but love the way the different angles bring out completely different colours and shades in both the stone and the snails.

The stone is now safely tucked away again with the snails still intact in the hope that they'll survive the cold, as I am stupidly fond of snails - and stones.

It is art, don't you think?

Where the wild things are

There, under a large pot I moved this morning, was a beautiful, tiny newt. 

The woodlouse on the far upper right gives

some idea of scale

That’s why I leave this place a little wild.  Sometimes part of me feels a bit ashamed of my garden, because I know it doesn’t conform, it's not beautiful or tidy or planned, but then I have to remind myself:  it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. 

I leave this little outdoor space pretty much to its own devices, with the minimum of maintenance, and I know that it looks like I can’t be bothered.  But I just don’t want to bother all the wonderful things in it that are doing very well without me.   I don’t want to bother – as in trouble, or disturb - the perfect cycle of nature, the happy micro-world within its boundaries. 

For me the rewards are all I could ever wish for.  Like that beautiful newt, an unexpected find, the first I’ve ever seen here.   And like the hedgehogs that visit every night.  The things they leave behind – nearly always in the same place – are the next morning’s confirmation of their fruitful foraging and, I know it sounds bizarre to get a buzz from seeing hedgehog shit, but I really do get pleasure from that proof.  Like this one, so conveniently left for me directly on a leaf!

(I promise I won't make a habit of 

sharing my animal droppings)

It’s true, I spend a good ten minutes every morning searching for and then burying numerous little hedgehog turds.

Last year, the evidence of one sleeping under piles of twigs and cuttings beneath the hedge was the sound of it snoring.  Actually, a bit more than snoring; it was also emitting a noise that I can only describe as being like a Smurf with a smoker’s cough.  A hedgehog with a cough isn’t a good sign, meaning it may have lung-worm, but this one seemed to be doing okay.  Then one day in late Summer I heard something else  – some squeaking and snuffling and… a kind of suckling sound. Hearing this every day for a week or so, it dawned on me that she may have had babies…

…She had.

One of last year's hoglets

I can’t tell you how ridiculously happy it makes me to think a hedgehog chose to give birth and wean her young here.

Unplanned flowers and herbs proliferate too.  Lemon balm and feverfew grow of their own accord, wherever they like, along with pink and purple toadflax.  Forget-me-nots grow in the cracks in the ancient paving. Strong-smelling calamint blooms long into the Autumn, self-seeding on the path, where I leave it to brush against my ankles amid honeybees and butterflies.  Nettles are great in so many ways - I leave a good patch of nettles, and at this time of year so many of their leaves have been neatly folded up by caterpillars, sealing themselves inside with silk threads.  A bramble bush compensates for its outrageously sharp thorns with its long season of luscious blackberries. Vast mats of clover creep over the old concrete patio, plumptious woodpigeons peck at its leaves, bumble bees are drawn drunkenly to its heady scented flowers.  Ivy shelters gorgeous, huge garden snails and secretive wolf spiders.  Buddleia and honeysuckle do their own thing,the knock-on effect of their nectar’s attractiveness to small insects bringing in low-flying bats and swallows at dusk to scoop them up.

Dandelions in Spring are as pretty and bright as any cultivated plant, so why not leave them? Goldfinches which, like great spotted woodpeckers, look far too exotic to be British birds, cling to their long stalks bending slowly under their minimal weight, and pull at the flowers methodically, filling their beaks with the delicate seed heads, then depart with a tinkling chirrup, as if to say “Thanks!”

There are bank voles, woodmice, shrews.  A stoat appeared one day, as did a slinky little weasel looking for prey.  Grasshoppers and crickets....a frog under the shed... exotic-looking beetles with bodies that shimmer like jewels prompt me to read up about their species, get educated.  Somewhere below the surface a mole has been digging, I'm stupidly excited at the thought of this mysterious underground visitor.  There's no neat lawn to disrupt, so it doesn't matter. Blackbirds and dunnock chicks hatch in their nests, secure in the overgrown hedges where the sparrows roost en masse at night, treating us to a late afternoon chorus of quite unbelievable volume.  What are they chatting about?! 

Everything’s a mess and everything’s alive.   I wouldn't want it any other way.

A view to a kill

As far as excuses go, I don’t think “The sparrowhawk ate my woodpigeon” is going to wash when I explain why I’m a bit behind on my work – but it’s what held me up yesterday.  I’d come in from my Shedio (shed/studio, out in the garden) to make a cuppa, got sidetracked checking emails, and when I went back to the kitchen to get my tea I witnessed some very gruesome bird-on-bird action through the window.

I’m glad I missed the initial attack - must’ve been pretty harrowing.  The woodpigeon is a big old bird and weighs about half as much again as a female sparrowhawk.  However, with her speed and stealth, the sparrowhawk had ambushed it and was already plucking out its feathers whilst pinning it to the ground, ready to eat.  Sadly, it was probably still alive.

Once the sparrowhawk started tucking in to its prey I realised I too was ambushed in a way –  trapped inside the house because going back to work in the Shedio would mean disturbing her and I didn’t want to.   My reasons being: a) until most of it had been eaten, the woodpigeon would be too big for the sparrowhawk to carry away in her claws to finish elsewhere so its death would’ve been futile and, frankly, what a waste of fresh meat  and, b) I didn’t really want the job of clearing up the crime scene.

So I decided to wait until the sparrowhawk had eaten the whole bloody thing even though it would take hours. 

Anyway, next time I glanced out the window the hawk was on the fence, empty-footed, cleaning her talons before  flying off.  Finally (but too late to get on with any more work, honest)  I could go outside.  It looked like there had been a small explosion in a feather duvet shop but, apart from that,no sign of any other pigeon remains.

When I looked out this morning, though, the sparrowhawk was there again.  And so was what was left of the woodpigeon, having its bones picked clean by the look of it.  I was surprised – seems the hawk must have left it hidden somewhere overnight and returned to retrieve it and finish it off today; I didn’t know they did that.  

The sparrowhawk and I both ate our breakfasts and by the time I’d finished so had she.  So I went outside to survey the scene, and this time I found a foot.  A whole woodpigeon foot, that was all. But be thankful I've spared you a photo.

Now, don’t be too put off, but I have a macabre fascination with this kind of thing and don’t find it gruesome at all.  Maybe because it’s all part of the way nature works.  Perhaps also because I when I was growing up my sister used to keep strange pickled things in her bedroom and I don’t mean onions.  She had a bat, fish eyeballs, a chicken’s foot – all to satisfy her interest in Biology.  Once we were on holiday, driving slowly along a quiet country road in Dorset, when my mum spotted something unusual just up ahead, motionless on the tarmac but looking like a snake.  Indeed, it was a large grass snake.  Dead, but perfectly preserved (no tyre marks).  

It’s only on recapping this story that I realise it may seem bizarre that we stopped , picked it up off the road and drove on with it in the car.  Then my mum and sister spent the next day traipsing round chemist shops in the Lyme Regis area in pursuit of formaldehyde.  And they got some.  So then we kept a  dead grass snake pickled in a jam jar of formaldehyde in the hotel room for the rest of the holiday (before it was given permanent residency on my sister's grim specimen shelf).

But I digress; the disembodied foot is still out there in the garden and I suspect it may have belonged to Limpy, who was a regular woodpigeon visitor, recognisable by (as you probably guessed) a limp.  Just now another woodpigeon has been sitting on the roof for an awfully long time, cooing and calling, probably for its mate, and no-one turned up. 

However, the sparrowhawk has feasted well.  It can’t be an easy life for this magnificent bird of prey, having to catch other birds on the wing – eating little else – this is a committed carnivore.  The female can survive for seven days without food apparently so hopefully a belly full of woodpigeon will keep her hunger at bay for another week.  If not she can always come back for the foot.

RIP Limpy (I think).

Twitch

The other day Mr SDS remarks that he’s experienced a funny sensation in bed the night before.  (Stop it…)   It was troubling him.  He describes it: “like a tickly feeling that started by my arm and then all of a sudden I felt it down my leg”.

“Probably just a nerve or something.  Or you know when you get an itch and it sort of spreads?” I suggest.

“Yeah, but it was just odd because it was, like, really fast.  Weird.”

Anyway, that was that.   I check the bed for spiders (possibly squashed) before getting in next night –  but thankfully no trace. 

A few evenings later I go into the kitchen to get a glass of water, when suddenly something small and dark scoots across the floor in front of me, over my foot and disappears under the washing machine.  Not a spider.  It has a tail.  And thus we discover that we have a mouse in the house. 

The following evening we’re assuming (hoping) the mouse has gone back out by whatever route it came in. We live in the country with all sorts of creatures frequenting the garden, so no big deal.  We haven’t heard or seen it since the night before and we’ve been careful not to leave any food/crumbs about.   I can’t see any tiny droppings on the floor and I’m well-versed in small mammal excreta (it could be my specialist subject on Mastermind, I can identify hedgehog poo at twenty paces). All seems quiet.

I’ll cut to the chase, literally - we are wrong about the mouse going back out.  Suddenly, god knows how, it's upstairs in Mr SDS’ little office room, it runs under his desk, disappears.  Ten minutes later, there’s a mouse in the kitchen… well, a tail hanging down behind an upper cupboard.  Its owner then makes a break for it across the worktop and down behind the fridge (but not before squatting briefly on the bread bin with a defiant stare).  Then back under the washing machine….  disappears.   Five minutes later there’s a mouse running around my workspace, here in the living room, where I'm typing this.  We try to catch it under a plastic bowl but it goes behind the bookcase and… disappears.

Oh no!  We don't just have a mouse in the house, I surmise - we have mice in the hice!

Well, I’m fond of all things small and wild with multiple legs and that includes mice, so I’m not standing on a chair shrieking or anything like that.  I do remember a long while ago, I was working in a huge office full of mostly men, many of whom were hairy-arsed seafarers (I can’t vouch for the hairy bits but I base the judgement on their beards), they’d  been employed as engineers, officers and Captains on massive international oil tankers, travelling the world for months on end, encountering pirates and tropical storms, weevils in their biscuits and all sorts.  One afternoon someone noticed a baby field mouse running across the large open-plan office floor.   All those rufty-tufty middle-aged mariners around and yet it was the new recruit, a 28-year old female admin assistant, who calmly knelt down and caught the panicky rodent in her hands.  (I simply cupped them around it gently and took it outside...)

So I’m fond of all things small and wild - hairy-arsed, even - but I’m concerned about how to deal with several mice running around our tiny home with all its quirky corners; I have visions of an infestation.  

I’ll cut past the chase now…the chasing bit was futile.  We bought a humane trap for £3.99 and left a piece of my favourite Tesco 74% cocoa dark chocolate inside as bait (the sacrifices I make!)  About twenty minutes after laying it, it had caught a mouse.  She was dead cute – as in cute, but not dead (I couldn’t do dead).  All pink nose and twitchy whiskers - I could happily have kept her as a pet, but we took her out for a ride in the car and released her by torchlight a few miles away in a hedge – I'm sure she’ll be fine, she’s a country mouse.

What about all the other mice?  Well, it's been a few days now and it seems there are no other mice, just one extremely clever one (except when it comes to resisting chocolate) who managed to move unseen from room to room, upstairs and downstairs, via her incredible stealth, or possibly the power of invisibility.  

At this point it also dawns on us about the mysterious sensation under the duvet....

Your skin is black metallic

Chrysolina Banksi – what a lovely name!  I’d like to adopt it as a(nother) pseudonym.  The Chrysolina part sounds feminine, and the Banksi bit makes me think of:

The Girl with the Pierced Eardrum / Banksy

As a lover of small things with multiple legs I’d be happy to share the name with its original owner, this little beetle.  (I’m not 100% sure that he is a Chrysolina Banksi, but he fits the description.)

I found him lying on his back on the kitchen floor last night, so I helped him to his feet and guided him out the door.  Then this morning there he was, climbing the walls.  (A scenario which may or may not be familiar to you, but you know I won’t judge).

My photos don’t do him justice, for in reality it was like finding a shiny black bead (or pearl earring!) which when turned to the light gleamed a burnished bronze, decorated with the finest stippling.  Absolutely beautiful.

It made me think of this too; ages since I've played it - I still like it a lot.

Waspish

I’ve been getting myself all worked up about wasps.  Thankfully I’ve never had a bad experience with them; I was stung once, on the face, when I didn’t realise what was tickling me and I unwittingly rubbed it against my skin.  It was a big shock and hurt like hell, but I got over it quickly and if I was a wasp I’m sure I’d have done the same in the circumstances.

I’d rather keep on-side with these beautiful, fascinating little creatures and I’m always saving them from drowning in the bird bath by fishing them out gently on a leaf.  In return, they’ve kindly decided to nest under the gutter of our single storey kitchen, right next to our back door.  

But it's not their close proximity which is getting to me.  I’ve learned so much about them since they decided to take residence here.   For instance, I hadn’t realised before that the first male wasps you see in the Summer – the drones – don’t even have stings.  Neither do they feed or hunt close to their nest for fear of attracting predators, so they fly off over the rooftops and far beyond to do so.  And neither have they been feeding on the contents of picnic boxes and orange juice all these weeks so far, instead they do their bit for the environment by clearing gardens and agricultural fields of pests like caterpillars and greenfly;  thus they, like all insects, are an incredibly important part of the food-chain – truly beneficial pest-controllers themselves.  So really the wasps and me are co-habiting very peacefully.  Their flight path crosses my daily commuting route to my Shedio – a journey of a few steps I make many times a day - we bump into each other frequently, and neither of us comes to any harm.  I’ll feel the soft touch of one against my face, my bare arms and shoulders, sometimes even in my hair, and then it flies off.  They really aren’t in the least bit interested in me - far too busy.

What concerns me is that the way I think may be out of step with much of the rest of the world.  I guess it's always felt a bit that way, so I’m used to it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, when you find  your views at odds with the mainstream.  My tolerance of a wasp nest attached to my home possibly makes me appear weird, only one step removed from an old lady who keeps fifty-three  cats in her one-bedroom house and lets them shit all over her furniture. 

At least I’m not completely alone when it comes to giving positive PR to wasps, as well as other creepy, crawly, much-maligned creatures with more than two legs; I’m in the esteemed company of naturalists like Steve Backshall and Chris Packham (who famously let wasps lick jam off his young daughter’s face).   I just don’t have their authority, confidence or charisma to convince others with a more sceptical view to adopt a similar approach.  If only Steve or Chris lived next door (…I would never get any work done).

This would all be less worrying if it wasn't for the fact that the neighbouring house is let out to holiday-makers in the Summer.  Couples come here to relax in the garden and enjoy the peacefulness of the countryside.  I doubt they'd choose to stay right next to a wasp’s nest, one that's very close to their back door too; likewise I can't expect everyone to like it.  Although I can write here like the ambassador for a wasp preservation society, I don’t have faith in myself articulating it in person to a disgruntled guest… my worry is that it’s only a matter of time before I’m confronted.

However, it’s also only a matter of time before the resident wasps all die off naturally, apart from a small number of individual fertilized queens who will depart to quietly hibernate over winter before forming new colonies elsewhere next year.  They will leave an empty nest behind and I can block up the hole without harming a single one.  Sorted – at least in my ideal world.  The problem comes when the dying workers get a bit chippy as their lives come to an end, and seek sustenance from sweet things - the contents of picnic boxes and orange juice -  which will make them act a little drunkenly.  In theory these resident wasps are likely to do their final feeding well away from here, away from their nest, but I'm sure the presence of any tipsy wasps in the neighbour's garden will still be attributed to it.  The flapping arms of panicky people will aggravate them and the risk of stinging becomes a reality and of course I understand the fear of a wasp sting and the concern about allergic reaction.  Theoretically the best thing may be to leave them alone,  adapt and tolerate them for this short period and soon all but the queens will be dead anyway, but that’s quite a difficult point to argue when faced with traditional fears and attitudes.  It seems so much of the time that the human response to something we don't fully understand is to want to destroy it.

So any time now I won't be surprised if I'm asked to “deal with” the wasps - it’s the thought of having to deal with dealing with them which is making me anxious.  I just hope we can all make it through until the last, hazy, natural, dying days of both Summer and wasps, in peace.