Nature Post-Lockdown II

2/3 The House Martins of Chatworth

This is part of the extraordinary flower-rich cultivated machair in South Uist in the Outer Hebrides, For my money this archipelago is the British landscape that’s most expressive of a creative partnership between its people and nature. Long may it continue so and congratulations to the Hebrideans.

Last month in the first of three blogposts on Nature post-Lockdown I highlighted what I saw as an egregious failure of two environmental agencies to defend the cause of a British bird in parlous decline. It was about the house martins at Chatsworth, whose nesting places were netted.

The owners argued that the birds were a threat to the Grade I listed building – Chatsworth Palace – but especially to the integrity of recently restored statuary on the walls, where the house martins find highly suitable niches to nest. Who could possibly resist the argument that the acid content in the birds’ droppings will dissolve the stone? Of course it will.

But probably not for 500 years! May be longer. By that time winter rain will have done as much damage as any house martin guano. The main point I want to highlight is the privileging of statuary over something alive!

At the heart of this is a deep Western bias, possibly it is a universally human bias (and my illustrations to accompany this blogpost tell their own very specific story about it), towards the importance of the abiotic. To translate this word bluntly, it means dead. The point is powerfully made by the late John Livingston the Canadian environmentalist in an essay entitled The Fallacy of Nature Conservation, where he argued that humans had no way of valuing what he called life process. I cited it in my book Our Place.

This is Cladh Hallan cemetery nr Kilpheder, which really comprises an extension of the coastal machair flora found on South Uist. It is hard to imagine a more beautiful setting for the human dead in our islands. What more fitting tribute to the departed than this glorious carpet of gold?

Livingston wrote:

‘The nearest thing we seem to have is the appreciation of form in music or poetry or dance – form, as opposed to specific content. This, as a kind of process, we understand and appreciate aesthetically. But we have not developed an aesthetic of life process. This is because our culture is essentially abiotic.’

This predilection for material objects over living essence is writ large in western consciousness since the early modern period and it goes hand in glove with the advance of capitalism. One can see an allied version of the same principles being applied in the arguments of the English philosopher John Locke during the seventeenth century.

Locke’s theories of value and property were deployed in the claim that, since native Americans did not till and cultivate the land, they did not technically own the hills, forests and plains where they had lived for 10,000-15,000 years. They had no title of possession. Implicit in this case was the idea that Euro-Americans, seizing and converting to farmland those very same vast territories, were the rightful owners before the court and before God. Nowadays we see it for what it is – a form of licensed banditry.

A similar version of the same ethical posture was embodied in the several thousand enclosure acts that were passed in this country from the eighteenth century to the late nineteenth century. These instruments of law levered about 7 million acres, a tenth of the land surface of these islands, of commonly held moorland and pasture across Britain – used for centuries if not thousands of years by subsistence rural communities – into the estate of the landed classes. The general principle on which it functioned was that the wealthier you were the more land you received. My guess is, though I don’t know the details, that a good many acres helping to fill the coffers of the Cavendish family today in Chatsworth, were acquired by this means.

Yet to mark out the cemetery as a cultural space rather than a part of the ‘wild’ flora of the Uist coastline, someone had strimmed completely all the ‘wildflowers’ and made of it a lawn-like ‘monculture’.

John Livingston’s argument was that our failure to accord value, or sufficient value, to a living world before the rights of ownership and the primacy of material objects would defeat conservation as a cultural and political project. Fundamentally, he was saying that human culture is a dead culture. If you prefer to the use the language of Freud and his concept of the anally retentive infant, it is our ‘shit’ that out-ranks everything when it comes to deciding what’s important.

Before going on to my own arguments just ponder a moment these questions. Say the word civilisation and what comes to mind? Big houses? Architecture? Paintings? Books? Statues? Libraries? Of course. Here’s a more challenging question. Which of these is a cultural landscape: the Lake District or the Flow Country? Finally, are the Serengeti and Yosemite or Yellowstone Parks expressions of nature or culture? Are they perhaps, even, outcomes of civilisation?

The truth is the living and the cultural are completely fused, whether we understand this or not. Livingston is wrong when he claims we have no sense of how nature can be cultural. Gardening is the most obvious example of a blending of the two elements. My guess is that visitors to Chatsworth are appreciative of precisely this interpenetration of human agency and the more-than-human parts of life, when they wander the grounds to the big house.

As substitute for that nasty golden carpet of bird’s-foot trefoil the relatives of the dead had placed at intervals these black marble vases holding beautiful bouquets of plastic roses and tulips! I know which i prefer.

Environmentalism is an expansion of the same understanding that nature is a cultural entity. It is not only cultural of course. The living world is entire unto itself and needs no humans to complete or fulfil its processes. The world will continue very well without us. But once we engage with it – through imagining a wolf, through erecting a blue tit box, by creating a nature reserve, or designating a national park – it becomes both things. It is the challenge of environmentalists to expand and substantiate this idea that nature is among the most important parts of our cultural lives.

We still have not come to recognise the extent to which the living world nourishes all parts of our cultural and living selves. Other organisms blended together in ecosystems sustain our bodies, refresh our minds and spirits, maintain our mental health, they also inspire creativity in all its manifold forms. The living world and the maintenance of it in all its astonishing and limitless diversity, should be at the heart of our highest values.

Covid and the partial suspension of capitalism have, in many ways, highlighted this. Lockdown has brought to the fore the essential place of the natural world. No one denies that capitalism is key to the production of wealth, but let’s not succumb again to its white noise which say it’s all that matters.

Reverting finally to Chatsworth. The presence and breeding of a petite, 19-gm pied mouse-like flying dinosaur with a heritage of 150 million years, made of air-filled bone and collagen-engendered feathers – which has visited this country for hundreds of thousands of years and now makes an annual two-way journey of 10,000 km from African winter quarters that are still largely unknown – these are cultural matters. The birds are a part of the integrity of Chatsworth just as much as stonework. The martins’ nesting on the statuary is absolutely entwined with its meaning.

In Macbeth Shakespeare has Banquo propose (ironically as it turns out) of the spirit at Cawdor House  

No jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird

Hath made her pendent bed and procreant cradle;

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed

The air is delicate.

My guess is the air is now less delicate at Chatsworth. May its occupants come to rue their decision and free the birds from their wretched nets.

Nature post-lockdown

1/3 The House Martins of Chatsworth House

Like almost everyone else in the nature community I have been fascinated to see how wildlife has come to the fore during lockdown. As the human project, with all its deafening white noise has receded, so has the rest of life stepped tentatively forward. Bird song has expanded and wild animals seem to have ventured into our space.

What does it portend for the future? What breakthrough could occur because of this resurgence of interest in nature? Will the British people discover a new relationship, valuing other species – flowers, birds, insects – for the life-enhancing joy that they bring, for their ability to buffer us against stress and enrich our lives when times are tough? But also when times are good? In a three-part post I tackle a number of issues and propose ways in which things could change.

Firstly, however, I want to highlight a local banishing of wildlife that went largely unreported during lockdown. In the late days of April, just as spring migrants were returning to this country, the Derbyshire Wildlife Trust highlighted a deeply sad and, to my mind, regressive measure undertaken at Chatsworth House by its owners.

The latter had sought permission to place nets over parts of their palace to prevent birds nesting in the statuary. They didn’t initially know what species they were dealing with, nor it seems did the ecological consultants, who had been called in to assess the matter (as is legally required when protected birds are to be stopped from nesting). Nor it seems did the Peak Park Planning Board, which passed the decision and approved the netting in the absence of this clear understanding.

As it turned out they were house martins. This is one one of the most charismatic of our summer visitors, famous for its pied plumage, swooping flight, conversational chattering calls and for a mud-cup nest that may have inspired early humans to the possibilities of clay and straw. Who knows?

What I do know is that house martins once nested in Derbyshire cliffs and caves as they must have done for hundreds of thousands of years until they saw the breeding possibilities entailed in our own homes. Their arrival in spring – about the first week of April now – is something of a miracle given that they complete this transcontinental journey and weigh about 19gm. Here’s a little piece I published in the Guardian which subsequently appeared in my book A Claxton Diary: Further Fields Notes from a Small Planet whose paperback version arrives next month click here for more details.

At Chatsworth, house martins have probably nested since the mid seventeenth century when the house was first built. However, when they applied to net their walls it seems as if all parties to the action were not certain if they were swallows, swifts or house martins. What was indisputable was that all three of these candidate birds were summer visitors. Why would you conduct a survey in December, on which you would base your decisions, at precisely the time when the birds were not present? Yet they did.

The nets were approved and legally placed over the statuary and as compensation a series of replacement artificial nests, initially it seems for swallows, and then, later, when it was plain house martins were involved, for those too. No one disputes that all parties acted legally. Yet it does beg questions of whether netting bird sites to prevent them breeding should be sanctioned in law. And Chief Executive of the Wildlife Trusts Craig Bennett thinks it is time to end it. I agree. It is a heartless gesture creeping into British planning procedure. The judgement (attributed to Gandhi) that a nation is measured by the way it treats its animals, seems deeply relevant.

What I challenge most is the meaningfulness of the legal process. That’s what this post is about. The problem with the due process at work in this case is that it always tackles the detail as they pertain to a specific circumstance. It is a process that is essentially ahistorical and blind to context. It assumes that each decision is equal to the last ad infinitum, and yet we know that house-martin numbers are shrinking at an alarming rate and have declined by 60 per cent in 40 years.

Thus, in effect, every time one makes a fresh decision that impacts adversely upon house martins their plight worsens. Every year overall house martins are doing worse in Britain. With each situation the legal guideline becomes less tenable. That is the background picture against which the Chatsworth decision was made. It highlights for me how wrong the decision was, especially by an agency, the Peak Park Planning Board, supposedly tasked with protecting nature in a national park. When will we recognise that in the situation we find ourselves –  where we live among a diminished and diminishing natural environment – this decision-making process is not adequate?

What could be done, as in the case of the house martins, is that where a species has declined by 25 per cent or more in 20 years, then no detrimental action could be taken other than in truly exceptional circumstances. At that point alternatives must be sought. And those could be based on a principle of net gain.

Yes, take action, but in a way that increases house martins at the site while solving your so-called problem with stone damage. It could have been a phased process, based upon a true survey in the correct season (summer), with genuine data of bird numbers and of the ways that they used the target stonework. Then you could make it a publicity campaign that enhances Chatsworth’s reputation for good wildlife practice. Make an opportunity, in short, of your so-called ‘problem’.

Once you had known how many house martins there were, they could have provided artificial nest sites elsewhere and then monitored the adoption of these alternatives. Instead of the ‘we’ve-put-up-boxes-surely-the-birds-will-see-the-need-to-move-from-the-stonework-to-the-new-sites’ approach. Wild animals don’t always know what humans plan for them to do! By a process of trial and error and incremental exclusion the birds could have been coaxed gradually from the house site. By providing more nests than were used previously you could have expanded house martin numbers at Chatsworth, where, as I point out, they have probably bred since the house was first built.

Are these wonderful birds not as as integral to the site and to all its cultural meanings as the very statuary that required such stringent protection? In fact, I would argue that in a land that is the 29th most denatured on Earth, we should privilege the living fabric over the lifeless infrastructure. For me, house martins are more beautiful, more engaging and more culturally significant than dragon-shaped stonework. That’s the issue of my next post.

Nature or nature: Views of the more-than-human in Pagnol’s The Water of the Hills, part 2


This is the second of my two-part blog about this remarkable book. The human narrative in the novel is tackled in the first. Here, I want to talk about Pagnol’s observations of humans relations with the rest of life. The book was published in 1962 and centres on a contest between two parts of one family over the ownership of a farm. At the heart of it all is a gushing fountain of spring water, on which both sides have founded their spiritual, as well as their agricultural, hopes.
It is surely unnecessary to point out that a story fundamentally about H2O has profound implications for our time, especially now that climate chaos confronts us all. And since it’s a book so pre-eminently about water – and given that I have no pics of Provence where the book is set – I have illustrated my posts with aqueous images of many kinds.
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Very early in the story Pagnol sets up opposing views of nature as manifest in the two branches of a family. Jean Cadoret – the ‘Jean de Florette’ of the title – inherits his farm through his mother’s line and arrives in the village of Les Bastides to create a dream home in the country. He, his wife Aimée and daughter Manon are immediately established as what we would call today ‘nature lovers’. The long-neglected land at Les Romarins, with its overgrown thickets of dog rose, brambles and rosemary, is instantly heralded by Jean as a haven: or as he declares, it’s ‘Zola’s Paradise.’
Jean goes on to capture their united sense of enchantment with the farm’s wildness, cracking open a bottle of wine to toast their arrival: “I drink to Mother Nature,’ he says, ‘to the fragrant hills, I drink to the cicadas, to the pine woods, to the breeze, to the rocks of thousands of years, I drink to the blue sky!” What Jean names are precisely the unproductive parts that a peasant farmer like his nemesis Ugolin doesn’t even see, except for their possible implications for agricultural profit.
While Jean is no sandaled hippy I feel you can’t read his story and not see links between his attitudes and those of modern environmentalists (including me), for whom Nature has become an idealised entity. Jean says to Ugolin elsewhere in the story, “I came to the irrefutable conclusion that the only possible happiness was to be a man of Nature. I need air, I need space to crystallize my thoughts. I am more interested in what is true, pure, free – in a word, authentic, I hope you understand me?’ There is a deliciously comic irony here, because later Ugolin recounts the same conversation to his Uncle, Le Papet, where he reveals how completely he had misunderstood Jean’s words. He assumes that authentics are some kind of funny foreign crop Jean is seeking to grow at Les Romarins.
Yare at Rockland Staithe
There is not only idealism in Jean’s attitudes to Nature. There’s also a touch of pride. Like the tax auditor that he had once been, he loves to flourish his black notebook with its detailed statistics of monthly rainfall in that part of France, and quote them at Ugolin as the ultimate authority whenever the latter queries the practicality of his rabbit-breeding plan. These jousts of agricultural know-how pit theoretical book-learning about Nature against a peasant’s rooted experience of it.
Jean is unequivocally more sinned against than sinning, but there is an element of vanity in him. While it can never cancel, nor can it any sense justify, the wickedness of his relatives when they block up the Les Romarins spring, sometimes he seems overly pious. An example comes at the point when he has taken to dousing – pathetically and, ultimately, with fatal consequences – to try to locate a water well for the farm’s needs. He does it barefoot, explaining to Ugolin that:
‘… firstly shoes are very dear. So I want to get used to doing without them and I’m taking my first steps here, to give myself a horny sole, as strong as the best leather, and more supple … On the other hand, since I want to be a man of Nature, these ridiculous covers already seem to me to be perfectly useless. It’s a great pleasure to walk barefoot, and it seems to me that the subterranean currents of our Mother Earth penetrate my body better, to revitalize and rejuvenate it!’
River Wye in Millers Dale
For their part, Ugolin and le Papet embody traditional peasant values. They are steeped in first-hand experience of the soil. They are practical materialists. Ultimately, they relate to nature – not Nature – as a thing to be subdued in order to generate produce or profit, but also to be respected as an adversary and never to be under-estimated.
I’ve just learnt a rather nice word to summarise it. Umwelt. It means the world as experienced by a particular organism. They are both surrounded by the same swirl of life, but Ugolin and Jean take from it different things, they construct separate Umwelten and arrive at different conclusions. However there is a character in Pagnol’s book who combines both versions.
The real figure of nature and of Nature, reconciling all and looming over the whole book is Jean and Amelie’s daughter the eponymous Manon (the second volume is called Manon des Sources). She is an idealised symbol that fuses the human and the more than human parts of life.
She is firstly the daughter of a Caliban-like hunchback, a ‘creature’ of nature if you will, and, once ousted from Les Romarins as a fatherless minor, she is forced to take refuge in humankind’s first home on Earth – a cave. There she lives with her biological mother, Aimée a former opera singer, and her spiritual mother, Baptistine a Piedmontese peasant who has lived in the hills with her woodsman husband for decades. Mothered by both culture and nature, Manon grows up perfectly attuned to these wild montane surroundings.
rain on leaves in Solomon Islands
We find her surrounded by some of most telling classical motifs of the Dionysian. For example, she is a goatherd amidst a troupe of satyrs and fauns, and when alone communing with the elements, Manon delights to play her father’s harmonica, a twentieth-century version perhaps of Dionysus’ pan pipes. Most telling of all, is the moment when Manon bathes naked and dances and music-makes in the stream beneath the hot sun, in the dreaming hills.
This extraordinary scene is, as I noted earlier, one of the two decisive moments on which the whole drama turns. Because thereafter fortunes favour this goddess of the hills, rather than the money-grubbing, flower-growing peasants who would block up another person’s water source for profit. As Manon dances and bathes she is espied by Ugolin, out for a walk to escape the noxious chemicals that he administers to his intensively grown carnation crop at Les Romarins.
In stumbling upon a naked goddess – and Manon is actually described in the text as such – Ugolin is doomed like another Peeping Tom of Greek mythology. In this story the prince Acteon, while out hunting in the woods, stumbles upon Artemis as she disrobes by a secluded pool. His punishment for this transgression is to be turned into a stag, when he is set upon by his own dogs; and if Ugolin is not exactly torn to pieces by his own hunting pack, he is at least undone by the hounds of love. Because he falls into a hopeless infatuation with Manon and moons after her like a love-sick fool, ultimately succumbing to his unrequited passion and killing himself after he has gone mad.
It is worth noting that, until that moment by the stream, the unloved lover has worshipped a very different mistress. Every night Ugolin goes to his hearth to count and to add to the gold pieces that he stores in a tin by the fire. Thereafter, however, he is besotted with another kind of gold: the flowing blond locks on Manon’s beautiful head. Ugolin is, in a real sense, undone by nature or, at least, by one of its most irresistible forces: sex.
All of this complex trading upon classical imagery and ideas is lightly done by Pagnol and it’s easy to overlook his underlying metaphysic. Yet there is another example of it at the story’s other key moment that I must mention. It comes when Manon, following one of her goats into a hidden cave where it has strayed, discovers the aquifer that determines the prosperity and ultimately the well-being of the entire village. That she ventures into the underworld to find the secret source of life, that she acquires there the powers of life or death over Les Bastides and all of her neighbours, strikes me as somehow reminiscent of the myth of Persephone. Yet quite how it functions I am not sure. Perhaps a reader can enlighten me.
There is a secondary element to Manon’s role as hunter goddess in the hills. She is literally a seeker of game and a subplot in the interactions between Ugolin and Manon centres on her daily excursions to check her line of snares and traps for hares and thrushes. It leads to another deliciously ironic moment when Ugolin, desperate to please Manon, catches a hare himself and then places it in her noose as a kind a love token. She then promptly gives the prize to her actual lover, the man who will win her heart and marry her, the teacher Bernard. And if he is not a figure of nature in quite the way that Manon is, he is a geologist, a rock hound who strikes the Earth with a hammer. In this we should perhaps see a glance at Vulcan, the divine partner to the goddess of love Aphrodite. (Incidentally, I suspect for Pagnol, Manon is both representative of the virgin huntress Artemis and of the sexualised goddess of love).
But the key thing to note is that in delineating a female emblem of Nature, Pagnol saw nothing contradictory in presenting her as a killer of the other parts of life. Of course, this is no more than a reflection of the moral code of the author himself. Being ‘lover’ and ‘hunter’ simultaneously is the very order of things in twentieth century France. For me this aspect of Manon is perhaps the most important and most resonant for our times, because it raises questions about how we should understand our relationships and responsibilities to the other parts of life.
I am a devoted environmentalist and shot a magpie once, at my mother’s behest (she hated them!), and have then spent a lifetime of guilt atoning for my crime. This doesn’t mean that I have ever subscribed to the kinds of blanket opposition to blood sports one finds so often associated with my field. Much as I would never do it myself, I am tolerant and, in some ways, celebrating of our hunter past. Who is not awe-struck by the predatory prowess of hunter-gatherers such as the San or the Yanomami?
reed reflected in the embanked medieval Beck at Claxton
Anyone who knows the first thing about the other parts of life is aware that human moral codes have nothing to do with how nature itself functions. Nature is beyond notions of good and evil. There is no issue of ethics entailed in the mosquito infected with a malaria plasmodium. We cannot condemn the cordyceps fungus that grows in the brains of an insect and whose fruiting body sprouts from its head while obliging the victim to die in a posture best suited to the dispersal of fungal spores.  I have no truck with the attitudes of the otherwise great American ornithologist Alexander Skutch who, a vegetarian himself, saw snakes as an expression of a lower morally degraded part of life, compared, say with a frugivorous quetzal.
full moon on puddle at Holkham, Norfolk
Nature is a system entire unto itself and whenever I encounter attempts to lasso human notions of value around our fellow creatures, I find myself resistant to it. Let me qualify that. I despise trophy hunting of anything inedible and even edible – wolves, lions, giraffes, elephants etc. Yet where there is some semblance of the old subsistence hunting and the victim is eaten I really have no problem (theoretically, I should add; I don’t necessarily wish to encounter or see it!). And where there is no conflict with a species’ self-sustaining viability, again, I really don’t think it is an issue. If the target species were in anyway at risk – such as, say, snipe or woodcock in Britain – then I would oppose hunting, but if the prey were abundant and native and shot in numbers that reflected subsistence consumption I can see no obvious problem.
There are many instances where taking life in the interests of species conservation or habitat management is a necessity. Clearing islands of non-native invasive mammals – cats, rodents, goats, monkeys and possums etc – by systematic poisoning and trapping seems to me perfectly acceptable. Culling excessive numbers of grazing herbivores that are not controlled by some wild predators, such as the muntjacs in much of England England, or the red deer that presently help to reduce large swathes of northern Scotland to a wet desert, is not only tolerable, it is to be devoutly wished for.
Yet so often we find people implacably opposed to killing as if it were a matter of universal merit never to take life. One example is the person I met who opposed the conservation of Scottish wild cats on the grounds that one measure, proposed as a necessary prerequisite, is the trapping/killing of feral domestic cats; or their neutering to prevent interbreeding. Their position was to see wild cats go extinct in Britain as a species rather than cross a moral Rubicon and eliminate any of their domestic relatives.
Wild cat neutered male as part of captive breeding programme
We have come a long way from Manon and her slip knots to catch thrushes. But in straying on to this field, which is complex and fascinating, I wanted to illustrate the multiple issues about our relations with nature that are entailed in this wonderful novel sequence. For me, as I said earlier, it is among the most significant nature-centred books I know. It could so easily be the basis for an entire course on nature and the business of writing about it. It is a gloriously funny, desperately sad and brilliant mirror in which we find ourselves reflected over and over again. I hope you will be inspired to read it. 
reed reflected at Claxton

The Water of the Hills: A Parable for Our Times by Marcel Pagnol


Recently I returned again to the wonderful novel sequence Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources by the French playwright, author and film director Marcel Pagnol (1895-1990). This year I even made The Water of the Hills (L’eau des Collines), the title for the whole work, my book of 2019 in The New Statesman. Originally published in the same year that Rachel Carson released Silent Spring (1962), Pagnol’s great work is the most resonant modern parable about nature that I know.

Every European who has ever watched a screen in the last 40 years has been touched by it, because the famous harmonica riff that has been used ever since in Stella Artois adverts was initially inspired by Pagnol. Those few melancholy chords have morphed into a kind of audible signature for everything rural in France, but they were initially part of the soundtrack for Claud Berri’s brilliant screen adaptation of Jean de Florette (1986) starring Gerard Dépardieu and Yves Montand. (in fact, I learn that this music was itself borrowed from the overture to another tragic tale, Verdi’s La Forza del Destino, Force of Destiny, opera).

Together with the sequel Manon des Sources, Berri’s film is still the biggest box-office success among all foreign-language cinema and sealed the international reputation of Dépardieu. Yet I urge you to find and watch the films again here: like me you may come to judge Montand’s performance, at the very end of his life, the more complete and the most moving expression of broken human dignity.

Everyone thinks of both the novels and the films in terms of their dramatic human story and I shall outline this in the first of my two blog posts. (The Water of the Hills is, after all, shaped as two separate novels, so i shall respond in kind!). In the second post I’ll dwell on its implications for our relations with nature. The title, even, gives a strong clue to the underlying ecological themes. The work is a meditation on water’s centrality to life.

voidomatis spring, viiko IMG_8715

Pagnol is rightly cherished as a kind of Gallic Thomas Hardy, with his books, in turn, celebrated for their rich, earthy, humorous accounts of Provencal life at the turn of the century. The author was born and raised in the high limestone country just inland from Marseilles and his landscapes and rustic characters have the authenticity that comes from deep firsthand knowledge. To the bucolic comedy, however, Pagnol blended plots that most closely resemble those of classical Greek tragedy. In fact the pair of novels contain heart-rending dramas that are of mathematically precise symmetry.

The first volume tells of Jean Cadoret, who is both a hunchback and an idealistic intellectual, a town-bred tax collector, who has inherited a family farm just outside the fictional village of Les Bastides. The farmhouse is called Les Romarins and is portrayed, at first occupation, as a forlorn plot, rank with weeds and brambles, the olive trees long neglected and its rich soils unproductive and dormant. The farm’s single saving grace is a private spring that flows perennially in its upper ground and offers potential to Jean Cadoret’s ambitious new rabbit-breeding scheme.

Unfortunately just before Jean, with his wife Aimée, a former opera singer, and their delightful young daughter Manon can arrive and take possession of the house, they are preempted by the machinations of  Ugolin Soubeyran. I love the way that the clue to his despicable behaviour is contained in the name. He is a young peasant farmer with his own grand designs for Les Romarins – an intensive carnation-growing operation that would be a thirsty consumer of its spring waters.

Egged on in these flower-growing plans by his elderly and wealthy uncle, César Soubeyran – known by all in Les Bastides as ‘ le Papet’ – Ugolin blocks up the spring at the Cadoret place. His hopes are that the owners and their plans will soon fail and enable him to snap up the farm at a bargain price. Quickly he inveigles his way into their household, feigning friendship and offering faux assistance, somehow always finding a way to be on hand for his charming and open-hearted neighbours, all the while enjoying a spider’s-eye view of the unfolding tragedy.

For no matter how hard Jean de Florette labours, and no matter how nobly he wrests from Les Romarins the makings of a successful enterprise, the hunchback is thwarted by basic meteorology and geography in that part of southern France. Unaware of ‘his’ spring or its blockage by the Soubeyrans, Cadoret resorts to ever more desperate measures to obtain water. Steadily, inexorably – with a growing thirst that can never quite be quenched by the wine that is his consolation and his increasing addiction – Jean dies for want of simple H2O.

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The second volume Manon des Sources tells a very different kind of story, but it is one of equally dramatic and emotional power. And, in a way, it is the perfect measure of Pagnol’s brilliance as a novelist, because the central tragic ‘hero’ – if we can call him that – is precisely one of the two villains of the first volume. César Soubeyran.

At the close of Jean de Florette we see César and Ugolin unblocking the well after purchasing Les Romarins from the destitute widow Aimée and the fatherless Manon. In their poverty the two Cadoret females are obliged to go and live with their Piedmontese friends and neighbours in a cave located near the only other water source in the area. The Soubeyrans, meanwhile, free the spring from its cement plug and the waters gush forth, at which point Ugolin cries:

“The carnations, Papet … Fifteen thousands francs a year … The carnations … It’s a fortune that’s bubbling up … Look! Look! It will run to the carnations … Look!”


Initially the waters and fortunes flow exactly as they plan. The Soubeyrans  do indeed found their carnation farm and Ugolin secretes in his hearth the gold louis that his profits yield. César is delighted to see his nephew flourish and anticipates that his wealthy young relative will soon take a wife and produce the heirs to inherit the Soubeyran land and money that his ancestors have salted away.

Manon, meanwhile, grows up into a gorgeous young woman, living freely in the hills above her old home, tending her goats, reading her fathers’ books and playing the harmonica that is her only other inheritance from him. The story then reaches a watershed in two Hardyesque moments of dramatic reversal, and fate flows in the opposing direction.

The first occurs when Ugolin, out hunting in those same hills, comes across the sumptuous young naked Cadoret maiden as she bathes Diana-like in a rock pool. He is intrigued, increasingly captivated and ultimately besotted with Manon, who moves centre-stage to direct the course of events in the second volume.

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The second key moment happens when Manon, following a lost goat into the Earth, discovers the underground chamber, where gather the waters that supply, not only Les Romarins and Ugolin’s thirsty carnations, but the entire supply for the village of Les Bastides. She thus reverses the situation and blocks up this mountain stream and inflicts upon the community what it has done originally to the Cadoret family. For Manon discovers that several of the villagers knew of the Soubeyran plot to oust them from their farm but had done nothing to stop the evil.

Two tragic consequences unfold as the water crisis grips the village. Ugolin, tormented by his guilt and his love for Manon, and realising that she will never consider him as a suitor, goes mad and hangs himself. Cesar is grief stricken by the loss of his only blood relative, but worse is to follow. For in his youth le Papet had had a love affair with the eponymous Florette, the mother of the hunchback Jean Cadoret and the grandmother to the beautiful Manon.

However he had departed into the army and had never learned why Florette’s had abandoned him and had gone to marry in a neighbouring village. He learns, however, his lover, far from leaving or rejecting him,  had written to tell him that she was pregnant with their child.

At the book’s close Cesar realises finally the devastating truth. The man whose misery he had sought, whose livelihood he had ruined, whose farm he had allowed to fail for want of water, whose plans he had thwarted in favour of a nephew, and whose family he had rendered destitute and turned into cave dwellers, was, in truth, his own son. Jean was his heir and Manon his granddaughter.

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The boy, the man and the Jack Snipe: why I jump for joy at being a naturalist

jack snipe


‘Is it a “Jack” snipe because it is like a jack-in-a-box?’ were the words I overheard from someone standing near me. A fair question, because as it feeds this tiny wader (technically it is called Lymnocryptes minimus) from Arctic Russia bobs up and down, the body performing a rhythmic movement that I timed at about one bob per second.

The seemingly involuntary vertical motion is in a separate plane to the jack snipe’s frenetic, horizontal mud-probing action, which I reckoned it was repeating at about five stabs every second. So in a minute of feeding the bird simultaneously pops up and down and jabs the head and beak forward at a rough ratio of 60:360. Let’s be frank: this is hilarious stuff. (Check out the various Youtube pieces here, apologies for the music).

But to answer the person’s question, this bouncing behaviour doesn’t explain the name. ‘Jack’ – first recorded in the seventeenth century – is a reference to the species’ size. It is a ‘little’ snipe, compared with the once-abundant resident bird known as a common snipe.

What I find entrancing about this secretive creature is that it reveals its identity, aside from the distinctive jack-in-a-box behaviour, by relative or negative capabilities. Jack snipes are less than their relatives. When visiting Britain they are also silent. In all my life I’ve never heard so much as a peep. They’re famous, when flushed, for flying less than common snipe and sometimes even refusing to move at all (for this reason the French call it Bécassine sourde, the ‘deaf snipe’). In fact the first I ever saw 46 years ago was plucked bodily by a friend like a gold-and-emerald treasure from out of its rush couch.

Since that moment a jack snipe has gifted me, through these negative details, an understanding of its identity each subsequent time that we have met. The process of acknowledgement by one species unto another, observer towards the observed, is for me the greatest privilege enjoyed by any naturalist. I recommend it to everyone. It peoples every day with so many live encounters; it has crowded a lifetime with ‘friends’, and around each of their names has accumulated a deep well of memories. So that an hour by a muddy pool with a little bobbing bird is part of a life steeped in meaning.

(The lovely photograph is courtesy of my good friend David Tipling, the wunderkind of British nature photography  The short article is taken from my Guardian country diary. You can find it on 29 October 2019. Confines of space meant that it was cut and part of the article’s real significance was lost. I’m posting it here so I can restore it to the original.)






(Ivy) Bee Aware

DSC_1250Here is a short visual essay on a wonderful addition to our parish. It is ivy time again and the lane down from the house has a hedge smothered in it. I always love to stop and examine the plethora of insects, which are intoxicated by its pollen and nectar. Last autumn I found a gorgeous addition to the village community called ivy bee Colletes hederae. This week I find it is back in even greater numbers.

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It is recorded as larger than honey bee but it looks to my eye about the same size. What is distinctive is the pattern of five pale hoops around the abdomen. The precise colour varies depending on the state of the season, as you can see below.

In fresh condition – right now (early September) – they are a gorgeous warm bright ginger on the thorax and the lines on the abdomen are a citrus orange. Both the front, sides and top of the head, as well as the sides of the legs, are all covered in fine blond downy hairs. As the bee wears and bleaches, the creature is still strikingly bright and more distinctive than any other family members in the ivy hedge, but the colours fade to washed-out sandy beige.

Bizarrely no sooner had I found the insect for the first time ever, I then located a small breeding colony elsewhere in the village. Like many solitary bees they burrow in soft sandy earth, often many together. The females then presumably provision the eggs in the nest chamber with quantities of ivy goodies (nectar and pollen?). Their entire ecology is tied to ivy and they occur only during the time of hedera blossom. They are gone by early November.

Let’s take one small step back to look at the host plant itself, which is one of the miracles of the European hedgerow.  Here is a typical flower cluster that is in full blossom, but


begins as an unprepossessing raceme of minuscule fig-like lime-green balls (just visible below main flower head). Even these unopened flowers are hugely attractive to insects and I notice all manner of bees, wasps and flies, scrape and lick the surface of the incipient buds. What are they getting from them?

The unopened flower then develops into a triangular cone topped by a nipple, from which peel away the five sepals. Eventually the flower opens and out burst the five tiny, sepia serrated stamens. This whole unit has a magnetic effect for so many insects. Ivy’s only competitor as a concentrated source of food for invertebrates is probably sallow blossom in March and April. It is worth thinking about the importance of ivy, incidentally, when you plan your wildlife garden. But back to the main story.

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The ivy bee is, like the Greenland glaciers, the hurricane in the Bahamas and the 2019 hottest July temperatures on record, an expression of climate chaos. It is remarkable to contemplate that this insect was not known to science (I learn from the fabulous Field Guide to the Bees of Great Britain and Ireland, by Steven Falk and Richard Lewington) until 1993. Nor was it recorded on the British mainland until 2001.

Rather like the newly spread tree bumblebee Bombus hypnorum, the ivy bee has subsequently colonised large areas of southern England. In a year it has substantially increased here but the species is also passing northwards at a high rate (now in Anglesey). The Bee, Wasp and Ant Recording Society have a website with a mapping project for this species. If you find it yourself then perhaps pass on the record here.

Before closing I urge you to take a close look at the nearest patch of flowering ivy. It is a wonderful source of fascination. Our patches are presently smothered with bush crickets, butterflies, bumblebees but also some rather exciting predators. The most abundant is the field digger wasp Mellinus arvensis.


This rather flat-bodied wasp does seem to enjoy the vegetarian delights of the ivy but it also runs among the foliage and inner core of the hedge, manoeuvring about in the twigs and leaves with almost primate-like smoothness, to hunt stronger meat. Every now and then, amid the more even drone of busy insects, there is a shrill outburst as another poor victim succumbs to the digger wasps embrace. It too, like the ivy bee, is provisioning the nest chamber, but in this case with fresh flesh. Imagine having to face your assassin in this near-sexual embrace:DSC_1225

There is also at present a more striking killer in our hedge. It is another wasp called rather appropriately the bee wolf Philanthus triangulum. Here it is – notice the very distinctive facial pattern and orangy brown edges to jaws (and also at the back of head).



This species specialises, as the name suggests, in honey bees and can apparently have a substantial impact on whole hive populations. Mercifully, so far, in our village, it seems the lion and the lamb have found a way to lie down together (bee wolf and ivy bee feeding on ivy).





A Kitchen-sink Drama

I am a naturalist of almost 50 years continuous practice, but I am still not entirely sure what to make of these moments. Maria and I were having our customary pot of tea when just before 8 o’clock there was a murderous shriek, which we had heard last year when I DSC_8623 (2)

plucked a rather dazed immature starling (alive and well; see my Guardian country diary here) from our wood-burning stove. This bird was clearly in a different danger and, sure enough, just beyond our back kitchen door, on the concrete strip that bounds the garden, jammed up tight against a low perimeter wall, was a young sparrowhawk with an adult starling.

For all their timidity when in the presence of humans, sparrowhawks with prey are remarkably persistent and brazen. You might have thought two agitated humans passing just 3m away, albeit behind thick glass, would have spooked him (actually I am not entirely sure which sex this sprawk is and would welcome feedback; it looked small enough for a male but was decidedly brown, had no grey above, except one single moulted feather visible in the image below. That it is last year’s bird is fairly sure. See the pale tonsure and rufous hind crown, as well as the yellow irides, which turn orange in adults) but he was unrelenting.


The other thing that was so apparent was the air of indifference to its victim. I chose my opening picture because so far as I know there was nothing there to elicit that upward  stare by the sparrowhawk . And notice how, as it kneads the life out of the starling (next two images), it barely looks at the other bird. Yet the starling is yelling ‘No!’ in its face, but it looks everywhere but at the victim. Of 30+ plus shots of this moment, only one suggests eye contact between the two. Of course the sparrowhawk must keep itself safe from its own predators as it persists in this rather vulnerable state, but you might also have thought that watching for that long yellow starling bill, would have been wise.


The other striking thing, aside from the sparrowhawk workaday ‘pitiless’ spirit, was the sense of pure terror that must have assailed the poor starling (see below). What made its plight all the more alarming is that this spring, as in every spring i can recall, I have starlings nesting in my office roof, just above where the pictures were taken. Even as I type now I can hear the chicks making their sneezing, wheezing begging calls and occasionally I see a parent fly into the roof cavity with food. Could that bird beneath the hawk be one of these parents? i cannot say. Will my chicks survive if there is only one parent? I probably will be unable to tell because i am due to leave for a trip. But I can tell you that throughout the latter stages of the whole drama, while i was rushing back and forth changing lenses and finding other vantage points to photograph the action, my starling nestlings in their nest were completely silent. Had they intuited or been informed that there was imminent danger?

DSC_8671 (2)Eventually the sparrowhawk carried the near-dead starling to the back wall of our back garden and proceeded to pluck and eat it. I continued to photograph the developments from an upstairs window and was mesmerised by the thoroughness of the sparrowhawk’s feeding method. The part first eaten was the head cavity, including the brain and both eyes. The work was done so thoroughly that eventually I could see almost the whole bare skull. DSC_8809 (2)The other thing that I would like to convey is the muscularity of this little hawk, who may not weigh 200 gm and just double the starling. Eating and plucking was a process that involved the  whole body and one sequence in particular which i produce in its entirety shows the sheer physicality of the process of eating. The ten images (to be read in sequence) represent less than 30 seconds. Look at the intensity of action, the whole body including that entirely elevated, pointing-in-the-air tail, working to prize food from the tough skin for which starlings are well known.



Here as a reprise in greater detail is that central shot when the bird is at its most focused.

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Finally I would say, as a moral commentary on the experience, just moments after it flew off I was placing our fish supper in the fridge for tonight. Is there any moral or attitudinal distinction between us and the sparrowhawk? I think not.

Painting Africa: Martin Woodcock 1935-2019

P1160359The birding world woke up last Sunday morning to learn that Martin Woodcock had died after a short illness. He and Barbara have been friends for more than quarter of a century, from a time when I was on the council of the African Bird Club, along with John Fanshawe, Gary Allport, Eng-Li and Paul Green and many others. Martin was our chair and later president of the society. Both he and Barbara were often fabulous hosts to meetings at their Kent home. Those occasions were always memorable. Later the Woodcocks moved to Blakeney in north Norfolk and for many years Barbara was our go-to girl for framing our paintings and art.

Everyone will tell you the same thing. They were, they are terrific people: kind, warm, modest, funny and lovable. This is a small tribute to Martin, on whom I wrote a short piece in 2005. Here’s the text:

“Some people are 50 years old and some are 70 years young. The wildlife artist Martin Woodcock might have the physical age of the second but he has the vitality of the first and has crammed into his three score and ten as much as most of us would achieve if we lived to be both ages added together. His work is currently part of the Norfolk Open Studios programme, which gives us a rare opportunity to meet the man and enjoy his artwork display at his Blakeney home.

My immediate impression on seeing the exhibition is the sheer variety of styles and materials. There are lovely loose pencil field sketches, intensely colourful oil works on wood, freer and more expressive water colours of Norfolk birds, such as a barn owl ghosting across an autumn landscape.


Perhaps my favourite is the painting of a small group of yellowhammers, whose dry metallic song – once known to every schoolchild as ‘a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese’ – was once one of the defining sounds of drowsy summer evenings in north Norfolk. The yellowhammers are painted in acryllics, a medium with which the artist has a love-hate relationship (apparently the paint dries too quickly). Although it is typical of the man that despite these reservations he plunged headlong into experimentation with acryllics.

The result is a detailed and deeply intimate portrait that, because of the darkness and enclosed feel to the surrounding vegetation, intensifies the sulphur yellow of the birds. I also love the way in which the subjects’ brilliant colours are picked out, one by one, in the lichens and foliage detail of the setting. Despite the seeming incongruity between the yellowhammers and their gloomy deadwood perch, there is, in fact, a beautifully harmonious interplay. The work exemplifies the way that much more is often happening in a Woodcock painting than might immediately strike the eye.

The current exhibition gives a good insight into his artistic versatility, yet it will tell you very little about his passionate understanding of music, his attachment to reading – and writing – poetry, his love of photography. Nor will you find any hint that by the age of 40, this Kent-born naturalist wasn’t a professional artist at all, but a stockbroker in the city. Although his passion for wildlife had been in the blood since he was four and his first ever published drawing, exactly 50 years ago, was notably of a bird seen in north Norfolk.



a plate from a late book Safari Sketchbook: A Bird Painter’s African Odyssey, in which I had a small hand

His big break came when he was commissioned by the publishers Collins to produce the plates for a field guide. It was, in a sense, in his guise as illustrator, that I first met him 15 years ago in the forest of Thailand. He wasn’t there in person, but he was present in the latest of his book, A Field Guide to the Birds of South-East Asia, and indirectly he helped me to identify every bird that we saw throughout our month in the country.

Field guides are intriguing documents. Some become such close companions, particularly during a long journey, that they are much more than written accounts of a group of animals or plans. The relationship is well captured in Redmond O’Hanlon’s wonderful book Into the Heart of Borneo, where the author treats his copy of ‘Smythies’, his guide to Bornean birds, more like a sacred text. These books get covered in hand-scribbled notes and are so loaded with memories about the creatures that they helped you to recognise and the context  in which they were encountered . And the more thumbed and battered the guide, the more one treasures it later as a personal memento of the past. Eventually one can also come to regard the author as a sort of friend by proxy.


(Part of a couple of Martin’s plates for The Birds of Africa)

It is in this context that so many of us know Martin, because he is one of the most prolific illustrators of field guides in our time. His titles include a Handguide to the Birds of the Indian Subcontinent, The Birds of Oman, and the Gem Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe. This last shirt-pocket-sized work has been in print for a quarter of a century and has sold perhaps as many as 500,000 copies.

Undoubtedly his most important contribution as an illustrator is his work for the seven volume The Birds of Africa. Just the vital statistics of the project should indicate the scale of his achievement. It took him more than 25 years to complete, it includes 220 plates of more than 5,000 bird figures and covers all the species of the entire continent. The quality of the workmanship evolved over the course of the project, but the whole set is remarkable and the plates in the final volumes include some of Martin’s finest work.


When I hear about the work of great nineteenth-century wildlife artists such as John Gould or J J Audubon, I am left in awe at the sheer stamina they showed for such huge multi-volume projects and wonder how on Earth they managed it. The Birds of Africa is a work created in much the same fashion. The key difference is that its artist is still very much with us and for one more week you can go along and meet him and ask how it was all done.”


I have two very fond memories of Martin and Barbara. One is from when I gave a speech of appreciation from us all when he stepped down as Chair of  African Bird Club. The second comes every time I lift my binoculars to look at the next wonderful wild creature or plant. Because a few years ago I bought Martin’s old Swarovskis. All naturalists will tell you how treasured their ‘bins’ are; mine are now doubly so.


Postcards from the Solomons No 1 Sharks at Fatboys

Before I saw Fatboys Resort, just east of Gizo in the Western Province of the Solomon Islands, the name made me think of nightclubs and loud music on tropical beaches. It conjured images of suntanned young things with cocktails and leisure. Yet it wasn’t like that.Fatboys P1140051

The bar and restaurant were on a raised platform entirely surrounded by sea, approached by a jetty running 50 metres into the shallows. At the other end was a beach fringed with coconut palms. By day there was a kind of light show where the impossibly blue swell of the South Pacific, refracted and intensified against the white-coral sands, glanced up and played in shadow on the underside of the thatched roof.


There was also leisure and at lunch I liked to order a beer at the bar and walk to the restaurant’s open side to watch the reef fish. Mostly they were black-banded snappers (tosi in the local language), hand-length fish with inky blue stripes and yellow patches along their dorsal areas. They swayed beneath the platform, the colours quaking as they moved. Occasionally staff tossed breadcrumbs and what had been a loose shoal wandering through the water column became a writhing knot of sunlit colour and movement where the tosi massed at the surface.


By night, Fatboys was a lozenge of light over warm water, where we could relax amid after-dinner conversation and the click of the pot balls as the staff paced to play around a faded pool table.Fatboys P1140013

Yet a standard ritual of the evening was for spotlights to be turned on at the back and, as if summoned by some electrical messenger, the intended recipients suddenly seemed to gather before us. At first they were just dark shapes looming out of a wider darkness. These then hardened into fish, a metre and a half in length, shining grey like highly polished sandstone.

Their pectoral fins were long and scythe-shaped and, with their caudal fins, they carried black margins like edges ground into long blades. When the fish moved, the limbs swayed back and forth. Yet there seemed a disconnect between the sweet leisure of the parts and the quickness of the whole organism. The animals passed from one edge of the light to its furthest margins in a fraction of a second.


And when the fish guts hit the water, all converged. Half a dozen of them in one extraordinary melee of hunting prowess – perfected by that slow-chipping chisel wielded across 400 million years of evolutionary development – came together as a circle of black-finned reef sharks.


They were just a body’s length away from where we leaned to watch. They swerved and merged and crossed one another as smoothly as layers of oil. Their heads were thickened meat wedges. Occasionally a glass glint from a tiny eye shone up at us. They looked weaponised – precisely like the monsters that have haunted the Western imagination for centuries – but I was struck by none of the generic anxiety, nor the violence of their frenzied feeding. What hit me most was grace and beauty. Whenever they swept into the food, the speed of their movements created an effervescence where the water in front and around them was displaced. A momentary sheath of fizz curled about each fish, but it also survived as a fast-dispersing ghost of its last passage. Second by second the effects of all this changed but it wreathed the sharks in light and water and then played out on the surface of their sandstone bodies as a secondary set of fractal shadows.

Occasionally a dorsal fin broke the waters and fired a spray of droplets up at us. I caught one splash on my lips and could taste the salt of it. P1140046





For Sale, Nature Reserve – One Careful Owner


For the last eight years Blackwater Carr has been a major part and a central adventure in our lives. Yet things change, we change and now Maria and I have reluctantly conclude that we have to sell it. It has absorbed an enormous amount of our energy and planning and, in return it has given us great fulfilment, not to mention an unending supply of firewood for the woodburner. Our hope is that we can pass it on to someone who will love it for much the same reasons as ourselves and will continue to work with it to enhance its wildlife potential. It is presently on sale with and visits are managed by its staff member Bob Liles (click here).

However I thought it might be helpful to give any visitor or prospective buyer a virtual taster of it through the seasons so you can appreciate what it has to offer. If you can get to see it only in winter it is hard to imagine the extent of colour and the richness of wildlife that emerges in spring and summer. What’s so striking about Blackwater is its dynamism as a place, changing dramatically between the seasons.

The site was originally two fields of grazing marsh that started to scrub over with disuse after the war. The first field of about two acres, which I call Sallow Carr, is now well wooded with willow and increasingly alder. I am leaving this area to develop more completely into carr woodland and focus most of my interventions on what I call Oak Meadow. Even so Sallow Carr is a great place for butterflies, grasshoppers and bumblebees, all of which enjoy the stands of mixed flowers including meadowsweet, angelica, flag iris and great hairy willowherb which flourish every year.

Sallow Carr is really excellent for wildlife. I love to get down to Blackwater in April and find the first Willow Warblers and Blackcaps of the year, usually singing in the encircling alders. Both of the birds breed at the site. The flag irises that flourish near the entrance  flower in May and their great tubular flowers are a real draw for several types of hoverfly but also Garden Bumblebee. This beautiful creature has a tongue long enough to get into those deep iris nectaries.

From high summer through to autumn  Sallow Carr is  a favourite area for hunting dragonflies including both Scarce Chaser and Norfolk Hawker. The track runs through the tall vegetation and they like the corridors of warm air where insect prey are gathered. Perhaps the most beautiful, as well as one of the most common, is the Banded Demoiselle. Here’s a photo I took of a male in Sallow Carr, while the other species are Hairy Dragonfly (above: they are often the first dragonfly to appear in spring) and then Scare Chaser.

At the far side of Sallow Carr is a dividing dyke where I have recorded minnows. Its bank have grown thick with Goat Willow and i have freed up from encircling scrub a number of bird-sown Hawthorns and a single Ash tree. In the clearing, which has also become a great spot for Fleabane and Marsh Thistle, both much loved by insects especially bumblebees, I have also built and installed a site for solitary bees and wasps. You can see it on the right as you pass through from one meadow to the other.

Another detail in this area are the flowering hawthorns. They have been a major draw for a moth called Black-headed Gold pictured below (left). This is among the scarcer species found at Blackwater, which may have yielded more records for the moth than anywhere else in Norfolk. My other speciality is the Black-bordered Piercer, which turns up in early/mid April on the trunk of my Oak and nowhere else. I have scoured other areas in Norfolk for this unobtrusive little oak specialist but not found it anywhere.

Oak Meadow is the larger of my two fields (c3 acres)  and the place where I have concentrated a lot of my efforts. It is quieter and more secluded and the area on the far dyke gives you a great sense of being immersed in nature. It is the place where I camp or have barbecues and which is great for some of the children’s activities that we have run at Blackwater.

A major part of the work is cutting about an acre of meadow, firstly with a specialised mowing machine belonging to the Hawk & Owl Trust, then latterly with Austrian hand scythes, here operated by my brother Andy.


The L-shaped meadow has also been sown with Yellow Rattle, a hemiparasitic plant occurring naturally in many British meadow types. It saps the energy of the coarser grasses and allows more delicate plants to flourish. Since I started the annual meadow cut seven years ago a whole range of insects and plants have moved into the shorter sward. Marsh and spear thistle hardly occurred at all before I bought Blackwater, but have particularly increased and both are really welcome as important plants for bumblebees and other specialists. Click on the pics to make them larger. They are in clockwise order from left (ruby-tailed wasp, Gorytes laticinctus a Red-Data wasp, and an ichneumon a parasitoid wasp on marsh thistle laying its eggs probably in the larvae of  some kind of thistle gall fly.


Other plants that have flourished with my cutting are, of course, the Yellow Rattle itself, Ragged Robin, which was not present before, Fleabane and Greater Birdsfoot Trefoil. It is wonderful to see how the dried seeds become the flower-rich patch the following spring.


All the cuttings that we take off the meadow are put into a great fertile heap that maintains an elevated temperature in winter and is a fantastic refuge for small mammals, including voles and shrews, but also spiders especially tens of thousands of little wolf spiders. But it is also great for Grass Snakes that have started to lay their eggs in its depths.

Finally the veg pile known as ‘Slub Mountain’, which rises to 4 metres at the end of the hay festival, is great for people. Here are Andy, MC, Oscar and Rachy after a final session.


And here is the forest school group brought by Rosie Hoare to help with practical tasks but also to help put Blackwater to good use.

We normally try to combine work with pleasure and the hay cut usually involves a routine barbecue and beer.

Blackwater is a fantastic microcosm of the Broads National Park which surrounds it. To date I have recorded well over 600 species of plant and animal and am in no doubt that it would eventually produce a list of thousands. Encouraging experts in all sorts of fields has been part of the fun. Here are the lovely Helen Smith spider specialist with her friend and former county recorder on spiders Pip Collyer. Then Jackie Fortey with her husband Richard who is an acclaimed author as well as a top mycologist to boot, helped me sort out a few of my mushrooms.

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All of this goes to show that Blackwater is great for nature and great for people. To date I have used it as a place to work, to camp, to gather wood, to teach writing, to catch and study moths, to inspire poets, to encourage children to work and play, to learn and to relax. I am hoping all of this can be continued. IMG_7022IMG_4830

Here finally is a poem by my friend and poet Matt Howard who has played an enormous role in enhancing the patch for wildlife. His glorious Crome, which was inspired by Blackwater, appeared, in turn, in my book Our Place. Matt’s last line resonates powerfully throughout the entire book as a statement of what we need to do.

I cherish the idea of Blackwater inspiring people, who inspire action for places like Blackwater. I am hoping to find someone to continue the virtuous circle.


to cast a tool of ash and hooked iron

to take care in boots at the edge of standing water

to throw from the shoulder, then heave from the lumbar spine

to clear a dyke of leaf-fall and slub from the past three decades or further

to feel a suck and pop of sedge-roots tearing from bog

to spit splash-back of festered water from one’s lips

to wretch one’s balance of vows and curses where no one else is listening

to imagine a cut of clearer water

to haul deeper with long-drawn tines

to blister then callus both hands in unfavourable conditions

to consider the phased wing-strokes of dragonflies

to listen to the short, descending arc of willow warbler song whilst working

to see sunlight on the nodes of a Norfolk hawker’s forewing

to act with the whole body and mean it


‘Crome’, Matt Howard