Summer

by Melissa Harrison

  After I’d seen the owls first, I thought a lot about the place they’d chosen, this not-distant, not obviously wild place and suddenly, it felt undervalued and far too fragile. Who fights for the scruffy, the rubbish blown, edge-of-the-city urban? Who sees it as a rich habitat for anything? Who fights to protect what humans don’t see as wild or beautiful or precious to themselves alone? Who knows that everything, in one way or another, can be truly wild?

  I walk up the dunes a little way to look over the sea. Against the horizon, the oil vessels which usually rush busily to and from the platforms out at sea, look motionless, fixed, as if they’ve been abandoned. They seem to fade into a sea filled with luminous evening light, into an eau-de-nil and sea-glass coloured sky. (A couple of miles away, the harbour’s crammed with supply vessels no longer fully occupied. Someone told me recently how much it costs a day for them to languish but I can’t remember now. A lot, I just remember that.) As I turn away, I think of ghost ships, symbols, parables about folly, wealth, destruction.

  The rush hour’s muted, the air still unusually warm. There aren’t many evenings here when one can sit outside comfortably but on this one, I do. I take a candle to read by as it darkens. Time in summer seems too fast and too slow, an illusion of day-length or light or the novelty of heat. The swifts are shrieking in the evening sky. Bats flick round the corners of the house. This is the moment, they seem to say, this one, now.

  Esther Woolfson, 2016

  August

  Aug. 1. We destroyed a strong wasp’s nest, consisting of many combs: there were young in all gradations, from fresh-laid eggs to young wasps emerging from their aurelia state; many of which came forth after we had kept the combs ’til the next day. Where a martin’s nest was broken that contained fledge young: the dams immediately repaired the breach, no doubt with a view to a second brood.

  Aug. 5. Mr Grimm the artist left me. Began to gather apricots. Put out two rows of celeri: the ground dry & harsh.

  Aug. 6. [Meonstoke] Wheat-harvest begun at E. Tisted & West meon.

  Aug. 10. [Selborne] Hay not housed at Meonstoke & Warnford.

  Aug. 15. [Chilgrove] Sun, & clouds, sultry, showers about.

  Aug. 16–27. [Ringmer.]

  Aug. 20. Timothy, the tortoise weighs just six pounds three quarters & two ounces & an half: so is encreased in weight, since Aug. 1775, just one ounce and a half.

  Aug. 26. While the cows are feeding in moist low pastures, broods of wagtails, white & grey, run round them close up to their noses, & under their very bellies, availing themselves of the flies, & insects that settle on their legs, & probably finding worms & larvae that are roused by the trampling of their feet. Nature is such an oeconomist, that the most incongruous animals can avail themselves of each other! Interest makes strange friendships.

  Aug. 27. [Isfield] Grey, sun, sweet day.

  Aug. 28. [Ringmer] The tortoise eats voraciously: is particularly fond of kidney-beans. Vast halo round the moon.

  Aug. 29. [Findon] Full moon. The rams begin to pay court to the ewes.

  Aug. 30. [Chilgrove] Mr Woods of Chilgrove thinks he improves his flock by turning the east-country poll-rams among his horned ewes. The east-country poll sheep have shorter legs, & finer wool; & black faces, & spotted fore legs; & a tuft of wooll in their fore-heads. Much corn of all sorts still abroad. Was wetted thro’ on the naked downs near Parham-ash. Some cuckoos remain. N.B. From Lewes to Brighthelmstone, & thence to Beeding-hill, where the wheat-ear traps are frequent no wheat-ears are to be see: But on the downs west of Beeding, we saw many. A plain proof this, that those traps make a considerable havock among that species of birds.

  Aug. 31. [Selborne] Fine harvest day. Some corn housed.

  Reverend Gilbert White, The Naturalist’s Journal, 1776

  Radiant sunshine illuminates the Parish Church of St Mary and All Saints, Fotheringhay, for centuries a prominent feature of the landscape, reassuring and resplendent, and a summer’s-blue sky with only occasional clouds forms the backdrop to its ornate limestone pinnacles and octagonal bell tower.

  The churchyard has become an area of species-rich beauty, a peaceful place that provides sanctuary for both flora and fauna. The semi-natural grassland within it contrasts markedly with the arable countryside across the stone wall, stretching out linear to the horizon. There is buzzing activity in here amongst the graves, and signs that life carries on through the seasons. My footsteps on the golden gravel path send several rabbits scattering from their grazing, tails bobbing and with gentle thud of paws, back to the warren that has reportedly been here since medieval times.

  Sweeping paths cut through swards of fine, fizzing mead-owgrass, creating layers that climb up bright-orange lichen-encrusted headstones. Cocksfoot in tufts is buffered alongside sweet vernal grass, post-solstice breezes tickling the vanilla-scented spikelets. These entangled rhizomes weave beneath every monument, standing, broken or fallen, and are then carpeted by rounded heads of white clover flowers that attract squadrons of bumblebees. Heavily laden and off-balance, they alight on the delicate rosy tints of petals in their quest to harvest nectar.

  Ivy can be both a curse and a blessing. Its rambling vines can ruin and cover many headstones, but here, dense growth up a tall Victorian grave marker spills onto a wall, providing a nesting site for a pair of blackbirds – potentially with a second brood by this point in summer – and the skilfully woven cup sits precariously low, at risk from predators. From a vantage spot I can see three chocolate-flecked, greenish-blue eggs; soon returns a keen-eyed female, closely followed by a male chattering an alarm call.

  Dappled rays under the crown of an old oak tree create pockets of shading on the uneven ground; fronds of hart’s tongue ferns sprout from cracks in moss-cushioned displaced tombs, shifted over time, and are spun with silken spider’s thread. Mangled tree roots create damp-smelling hollows where leaf litter collects and woodlice scuttle in the detritus. I spy a robin who has been following me, flying from each weathered cross to coped stone, disappearing into a patch of lime-tinged wood spurge. Crunch, crunch goes a pile of mottled garden snail shells underfoot, devoid of occupants and a sign that a thrush has had a tasty meal using the slabs to crack them open. Other visitors to the graveyard noted by mere traces of their presence are foxes. Along the perimeters are pungent scats, twisty reddish-brown hairs caught on wire and a pile of pigeon feathers; they ate well yesterday evening, it seems.

  Back towards sun-bathed scythed edges of heady wild flowers that are a nod to the meadows of another age – frothy ivory umbellifers punctuated by purple whorls of self-heal, pink rosettes of dove’s-foot cranesbill and yellow studs of creeping buttercup. Long-stalked ox-eye daisy smiles cheerfully against the epitaph ‘Peace, perfect peace’. It is a setting that soothes the soul, and in the milder months a perfect spot to sit awhile and just breathe in the serenity. A glance at a patch of earth reveals insects going about their daily round; a long, black-bodied rove beetle battles with a blade of grass, antennae fighting like swords and iridescent wings shielding an exposed abdomen. Crickets stop their chirping at my every rustle and start again as soon as I make myself completely still.

  From inside the nave evensong can be heard, all enthusiastic organ-playing and a hymn sung with gusto. But this is no match for one of the tiniest birds of the churchyard, the wren. The corner of my eye catches a quick, dull umber dart into the overgrown elder shrubbery under the light of a heraldic stained-glass window. Suddenly making its presence known, a crow perched atop the lead roof caws, beady eyes moving in all directions, watching and calling. Its shiny, indigo-black feathers outstretched, it rocks forwards beside a gargoyle who looks on mockingly. This is not the only movement above, amongst the grotesques and flying buttresses; for the air is alive with the frenetic humming of wasps swarming around a papery nest, busy producing new queens.

  By early evening, with the light dwindling and the few parishioners having left through the ancient wooden lychgate, a twilight spectacle starts in the
sky, of swallows soaring, gulping beakfuls of insects whilst performing aerial acrobatics. The sneezing call of a chaffinch erupts from a hawthorn and is echoed by the wheeze of a greenfinch, the slow winding-down of a warm day. Shadows grow longer by each memorial in this resting place and dandelion clocks stream silently into the air like spirits gliding into the sunset.

  Samantha Fernley, 2016

  Thyme. 1. Wild Thyme Thymus Serpyllum, aest. fl. July and August. There are many varieties of the above; it is sometimes called Mother of Thyme. 2. Basil Thyme Th. Acinos, aest. fl. July and August. The Phalaena Papilionaria lives on wild Thyme, and Bees are so fond of these and other aromatic plants, that it might be worthwhile for the farmer to cultivate them on purpose for them. Virgil praises this sweet herb in his Bucolics.

  Thomas Furly Forster, The Pocket Encyclopaedia

  of Natural Phenomena, published 1827

  A brown hawker cruises, three feet above the ground, locked in a straight line. Seemingly heading somewhere in a hurry, it’s keeping to the speed limit. It is focused on a point ahead, which none of us can see but which is clearly the target.

  We’re at Brockholes, in Lancashire, where Sophie Leadsom, the former reserve manager, describes this insect as a First World War fighter plane; it is easy to see why. You can almost hear the engine as it moves steadily on, crossing the battlefields of France which, in this instance, are the lakes and meadows of a nature reserve.

  The brown hawker is not the only member of the Odonata family at the reserve; dragonflies and damselflies are a major feature of spring and summer. Wander close to any grassy clump and matchsticks of blue, black and red will rise up after a couple of minutes, disturbed by your movement, to bask in the sun. These are damselflies which hold their wings back along their slender bodies when at rest.

  Dragonflies are chunkier beasts and bold enough to spread their wings at right angles to their body when they gently land on a leaf along the Brockholes path, or on the banks of a lake or stream.

  A total of nineteen species have been recorded here – azure damselfly, banded demoiselle, black darter, black-tailed skimmer, blue-tailed damselfly, broad-bodied chaser, brown hawker, common blue damselfly, common darter, common hawker, emerald damselfly, emperor, four-spotted chaser, large red damselfly, lesser emperor, migrant hawker, red-veined darter, ruddy darter and southern hawker.

  This busy family adds splashes of colour to the Brockholes summer and helps to bring the meadows and reed-beds alive with a constant motion on warmer days. Its members are busy providing photo opportunities for lensmen over the water, too. While humans at the Visitor Village immerse themselves in nature, this natural phenomenon flits on around them. As well as providing a great spectacle for visitors, dragonflies and damselflies also serve another purpose: they are very tasty to some predators.

  Anyone taking tea and cake in the restaurant at Brockholes will have noticed stunning aerial displays by swallows and sand martins over the Meadow Lake. These birds are amazingly agile, dipping and diving and travelling at high speed before suddenly changing direction and returning to sweep another path over the lake in the hunt for the millions of tiny insects. Look carefully at these birds because you may see something a little different to this hirundine family. The larger birds are, in fact, birds of prey – the sprightly hobbies. Sometimes described as ‘over-sized swifts’, these elegant small falcons are combing the water for smaller birds and our colourful dragonflies.

  The birds nest in the old homes of crows and other birds. These nests tend to be on the edge of a wood so provide good observation points in case of intruders. We have no signs of hobbies nesting at Brockholes yet, but they may already have increased in the woods around the reserve. If so, they will join buzzard and kestrel as residents, despite only renting out a holiday home for summer. Their appearance is great news for the four-year-old reserve, however, and bodes well for hopes that osprey and red kite may, one day, decide to make their nests just off the M6 motorway.

  Alan Wright, 2016

  Books may be read that tell us of strange forms of life to be found in the deep waters of the great oceans, if we have ships and trawls to help in their quest; but on our own shores we can see for ourselves equally wonderful animals living their lives, which is better than viewing their remains in museums.

  When we arrive on almost any shore, even though only of the little harbour where some worn-out boats are drawn up high and dry above high-water, we are soon aware of a brownish-green crab scuttling about on land, peering into corners in search for the garbage on which he feeds. Because he spends most of his time in this way and out of the water, he is known as the Shore-crab or Harbour-crab. In the Tropics there are Land-crabs, that wander far into the interior, and visit the sea only for the purpose of leaving their eggs there. In this country, we have no Land-crabs; but the Shore-crab comes near to earning the title, though he never goes out of sight of the water. He is here of all sizes, up to three or four inches measured across his sharp-toothed upper shell; and his habits enable us to get him into a corner and make ourselves familiar with crab structure, so far as it can be learned from the outside. We see that he is clad in armour, stony if thin, one part forming an almost flat shield which has sloping sides reaching down to the bases of the limbs. There are four pairs of rather flattened, jointed legs with pointed tips, and in front of them a much stouter pair that end in powerful nippers. His eyes are mounted on long stalks, which can be turned upwards so that he can see what is going on behind or to the sides as well as in front. Between the eyes are two pairs of many-jointed feelers which, like those of insects, appear to collect knowledge of what is happening around.

  The crab’s mouth looks very complicated when he opens the pair of door-like jaws that are jointed and hinged, and discloses other jaws that are shaped like feet. All these play their parts in holding and cutting up the food before it enters the mouth proper, which is quite small. He is a general feeder, but you will find that he has a distinct preference for animal matter.

  Looking at the crab from above, its body covered by this shield, we should not be likely to include him among the animals that are built up of rings, as we know the insects are. But if we turn him over on his back, we shall find joint lines across the body and similar lines on the ‘tail,’ which is really his hind-body tucked closely under him to be out of the way. We shall be able to make out this structure more clearly when we come across some other members of his class that keep their bodies less closely folded.

  Very striking along the beach is the line of heaps and rolls of seaweed left by the last high-tide when it turned. Some people turn over these heaps to get from them the finer seaweeds that grow in the deeper water, that have been torn off by the breakers and thrown up by the waves. As a rule, these are bruised and broken by this treatment; but wrapped up in the heap you may often find other things of interest, such as small shells, starfish, jelly-fish and the eggs of cuttle-fish. There: I have used the names of three things ending in ‘fish,’ and not one of the three is a fish; we must not allow such names to mislead us.

  Here are the low rocks, with many hollows cut in their surface and filled with clear water in which we can see many creatures swimming, gliding and walking. We will look into one closely by and by. First, let us enquire into some of the many things that are sticking on the dry parts of the rocks. Their active life is led under water, but between tides they are left in the air, and do not mind it; though there are many others that would be killed quickly by the change. Most plentiful of these rock ornaments are the rough grey patches that cover a great part of the surface, and which are very trying if you have climbed on the rocks with bare feet after a swim. These are Acorn Barnacles; and if you look at them closely you will see that each one of the crowd is a little cone with the top cut off, as it were, and the opening closed by a pair of doors. Whilst out of the water, these doors are kept closed, to prevent the animal within from drying up; but in this little pool adjoining you can see the doors openi
ng and closing at short intervals, and at every opening a fairy plume is thrust out which expands, curls up and retires behind closed doors. That is the way in which the Acorn Barnacle catches its food. You did not see anything caught! That is because it consists of things too minute for us to notice, but it was there all the same; and you may conclude from the abundance of Acorn Barnacles that a good living is made by means of these delicate fishing-nets.

  Edward Step, Nature Rambles: An Introduction to Country-lore, 1930

  Forget everything you thought was true about nature. Fairies do exist, but they are small, fluffy and chubby, and fly around, right under our noses, working their magic.

  In early spring, fairy queens have just woken up after a long winter hibernating, the warmth of the sun coaxing them out of their slumber. The only thing on their minds is to find nourishment; sleeping for that long makes them very hungry. They feed on the sugary nectar produced by the UK’s wild flowers, and this is the best time to witness them busily buzzing around, filling up for the year ahead. It always gives me pleasure to see my first fairy in flight. Their next job is to find a nest, which is important if they are to produce more fairies for next year. Most species make nests in the ground, and they will use ready-made holes whenever possible; their favourite place is an old mouse hole.

  We are of course talking about bumblebees. These humble creatures have played a part in folklore ever since humans starting documenting the world around them. They are heavily linked with magic and if one is seen buzzing round your house it is said to mean a visitor is coming. In Celtic folklore bees are seen as beings of great wisdom and messengers between worlds. Bumblebees and fairies have always been linked and, to me, bumblebees are the real fairies of our natural world.

  Bumblebees are known by many names; until the Second World War they were called humble bees. Some of you may know the name Dumbledore, which also refers to a bumblebee. I like to refer to them as ‘bumblefairies’. A ‘humble bumble’ fairy. The word ‘bumble’ has been perfectly chosen; next time you watch one in flight you will see why they are so called. It means ‘to blunder awkwardly, to stumble or stagger’ – what a perfect way to describe the beauty of clumsy flight.