May. 10.
Stormy all night. Tortoise scarce moves during this wet time. Tremella nostoc abounds on the grass walks.
May. 11.
Tortoise moves about, but does not feed yet.
May. 12.
The missel-thrush drives the mag-pies, & Jays from the garden. Lettuces that stood the winter come to use. Hops are poled, but make weak shoots.
May. 13.
Vines are backward in their shoots, but show rudiments of fruit. The cores of the spruce-firs, produced last year, now fall. After a fast of 7 or 8 months, the tortoise which in Oct. 1779 weighed 6 pounds 9 oun: & ½ averdupoise, weights now only 6 pounds 4 ounces. Timothy began to break his fast May 17 on the globe-thistle, & American willow-herb; his favourite food is lettuce & dandelion, cucumber, & kidney-beans.
May. 16.
Wheat looks somewhat yellow. Men sow barley: but the ground is cold, & cloddy.
May. 18.
Field-crickets in their pupa-state lie-out before their holes. Magpies tear the missel-thrushes nest to pieces, & swallow the eggs.
May. 19.
Helleborus viridis sheds its seeds in my garden, & produces many young plants.
May. 27.
Large blue flag iris blows. Flesh-flies abound. Timothy the tortoise possesses a much greater share of discernment than I was aware of: & ‘. . . Is much too wise to go into a well;’ for when he arrives at the haha, he distinguishes the fall of the ground, & retires with caution, or marches carefully along the edge: he delights in crawling up the flower-bank, & walking along its verge.
May. 29.
The tortoise shunned the heat, it was so intense.
May. 30.
Columbines, a fine variegated sort, blow.
May. 31.
Master Etty went on board the Vansittart India-man at Spithead. Thunderstorm in the night with a fine shower.
Reverend Gilbert White, The Naturalist’s Journal, 1780
Ah, May is bounding forward! Her silly heart leaps at the sight of the old place – and so in good truth does mine. What a pretty place it was – or rather, how pretty I thought it! I suppose I should have thought any place so where I had spent eighteen happy years. But it was really pretty. A large, heavy, white house, in the simplest style, surrounded by fine oaks and elms, and tall massy plantations shaded down into a beautiful lawn, by wild overgrown shrubs, bowery acacias, ragged sweet-briars, promontories of dogwood, and Portugal laurel, and bays overhung by laburnum and bird-cherry; a long piece of water letting light into the picture, and looking just like a natural stream, the banks as rude and wild as the shrubbery, interspersed with broom, and furze, and bramble, and pollard oaks covered with ivy and honeysuckle; the whole enclosed by an old mossy park paling, and terminating in a series of rich meadows, richly planted. This is an exact description of the home which, three years ago, it nearly broke my heart to leave. What a tearing up by the root it was! I have pitied cabbage-plants and celery, and all transplantable things, ever since; though, in common with them, and with other vegetables, the first agony of the transportation being over, I have taken such firm and tenacious hold of my new soil, that I would not for the world be pulled up again, even to be restored to the old beloved ground; – not even if its beauty were undiminished, which is by no means the case; for in those three years it has thrice changed masters, and every successive possessor has brought the curse of improvement upon the place; so that between filling up the water to cure dampness, cutting down trees to let in prospects, planting to keep them out, shutting up windows to darken the inside of the house (by which means one end looks precisely as an eight of spades would do that should have the misfortune to lose one of his corner pips), and building colonnades to lighten the out, added to a general clearance of pollards, and brambles, and ivy, and honeysuckles, and park palings, and irregular shrubs, the poor place is so transmogrified, that if it had its old looking-glass, the water, back again, it would not know its own face. And yet I love to haunt round about it: so does May. Her particular attraction is a certain broken bank full of rabbit burrows, into which she insinuates her long pliant head and neck, and tears her pretty feet by vain scratchings: mine is a warm sunny hedgerow, in the same remote field, famous for early flowers. Never was a spot more variously flowery: primroses yellow, lilac white, violets of either hue, cowslips, oxslips, arums, orchises, wild hyacinths, ground ivy, pansies, strawberries, heart’s-ease, formed a small part of the Flora of that wild hedgerow. How profusely they covered the sunny open slope under the weeping birch, ‘the lady of the woods’ – and how often have I started to see the early innocent brown snake, who loved the spot as well as I did, winding along the young blossoms, or rustling amongst the fallen leaves! There are primrose leaves already, and short green buds, but no flowers; not even in that furze cradle so full of roots, where they used to blow as in a basket. No, my May, no rabbits! no primroses! We may as well get over the gate into the woody winding lane, which will bring us home again.
Here we are making the best of our way between the old elms that arch so solemnly over head, dark and sheltered even now. They say that a spirit haunts this deep pool – a white lady without a head. I cannot say that I have seen her, often as I have paced this lane at deep midnight, to hear the nightingales, and look at the glow-worms; – but there, better and rarer than a thousand ghosts, dearer even than nightingales or glow-worms, there is a primrose, the first of the year; a tuft of primroses, springing in yonder sheltered nook, from the mossy roots of an old willow, and living again in the clear bright pool. Oh, how beautiful they are – three fully blown, and two bursting buds! How glad I am I came this way! They are not to be reached. Even Jack Rapley’s love of the difficult and the unattainable would fail him here: May herself could not stand on that steep bank. So much the better. Who would wish to disturb them? There they live in their innocent and fragrant beauty, sheltered from the storms, and rejoicing in the sunshine, and looking as if they could feel their happiness. Who would disturb them? Oh, how glad I am I came this way home!
Mary Russell Mitford, ‘The First Primrose’, Our Village, 1824
My children called it Dad’s field. It was a place where they could wander through the long grass, hurtle down the hill, chase butterflies or simply enjoy the sense of freedom that being outside gives a child. Despite its official title within the family, it never was my field; it belonged to the Lancashire Wildlife Trust, as it still does. I simply looked after it as a voluntary warden, a relaxing task that enabled me to get to know the site intimately. I knew the location of the adder’s tongue and where to find the globeflower, I knew the flush that emerged halfway up the slope on the east side that gave rise to the marsh valerian and the greater bird’s foot trefoil. I knew the areas of vegetation that held the most species and those that had the least.
It is a site unknown to the general public and probably little known even to the keen naturalist. No casual traveller would see it, unless they were seated in one of the railway carriages that regularly flashed by along the line that marked its western boundary. A hedge and another field delineated the north side, a small brook lay to the south, while the eastern edge merged into the woodland that extended further down the valley. Sit on the slope and look east and south Lancashire unfolds before you, the brook disappearing into the Yarrow woods which in turn spill over the base of the valley, which has as its backdrop the grey-blue of the Pennine hills.
In many ways the field was not particularly remarkable. It held no exceptionally rare species, it had no complex mix of habitats and no unique geological features. What was remarkable, however, was its survival. Species-rich grassland, either as meadow or pasture, was once common across Britain, the product of centuries of farming with scythe, cattle or sheep which was attuned to address local needs. But sadly, since the end of the Second World War these low-input grasslands and the attitudes that went with them have been replaced by uniform fields hosting rye grass, clover and very little else. Indeed, by the time
the significance of these once-common habitats had been realised and their conservation called for, it was almost too late. Lowland Lancashire had only two such sites remaining; Dad’s field was one of them.
On greyer, more reflective solo days at the reserve, the realisation of what had been lost countrywide induced a gentle melancholy. However such sadness was virtually impossible when visiting in spring sunshine. The wealth of colour, the variation in leaf pattern, the ever-changing vegetation and the discoveries that came from exploring it gave an innate sense of quiet joy. It was partly this joy and partly the distinctiveness of the vegetation that led me to visit the site for another reason every spring – this time in my role as lecturer in botany, tasked with the specific job of developing undergraduate identification skills and, more generally, an appreciation of plants. I ran the course every spring, visiting a mixture of inspirational sites over two weeks to develop the students’ breadth of knowledge. From an academic viewpoint the slope provided an excellent example of an MG5c Cynosurus cristatus-Centaurea nigra grassland, Danthonia decumbens sub-community. From a wider perspective the magic of the place, its diversity, its glimpse into the past and its view over the countryside provided a stimulus that helped win students over to the joys of plants.
It was the academic viewpoint that was of initial priority one day every year in late May as the students entered the site by the gate, split into small groups and then set out their tape measures to delineate their survey areas. They then adopted the standard botanical survey position of ‘head down and bottom up’ as they got into the intricacies of the meadow. A colleague and I would move between groups addressing general queries, drawing attention to species missed and discussing the finer points of identification. Once finished we would turn our faces back to the wider landscape and enjoy a picnic.
A scientific approach emphasises increasing breadth of knowledge and a resultant search for universalities. Our field visit aimed to give wider understanding of grasslands generally. From a teaching point of view the site was an infallible source of species that typified a meadow community. Ostensibly nothing changed and students invariably identified the same community each year. However, intimacy with the site made me realise that it never actually was the same year on year. Some changes were obvious: the extinction of globeflower, the arrival of speckled woods, the thick thatch that supported a multitude of spiders revelling in the three-dimensional vegetation complexity that followed the removal of grazing in the year of Foot and Mouth. An eye seasoned by experience was needed to spot other changes: the abundance of spring sedge one year, the gradual increase of cuckoo flower and the variable difficulty of picking up the later-emerging grasses such as quaking grass and heath grass.
After almost twenty years, the appeal of the site hasn’t lessened. I still take students there, I still teach them of the intricacies of an MG5. Equally important, I sometimes encourage them to change their focus and recognise that nature is a pleasure in itself. Within education it is currently fashionable to attempt to assess whether an activity has been successful. Of the twenty generations of students that surveyed the site, some are professional ecologists of various forms and many others have gone on to be employed in environmental roles. So technically the trip can be viewed as a success. More difficult to assess, however, is whether those former embryonic surveyors still find a place for nature in their lives. I suspect and hope that they do and I like to think that our spring experiences on a small Lancashire Wildlife Trust grassland reserve helped form their lives. The sense that this experience somehow shapes a person’s future pleasures imbues my renewed acquaintance of the site each year with a sense of promise and reawakens my own connection to the place. Next spring I will take my granddaughters to a site their mother knew as a girl. I secretly hope they name it Grandad’s field.
Paul Ashton, 2016
The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
Philip Larkin, 1967
Imagine you’re walking along a path that leads away from a vast and swaying reedbed, an hour or so before sunset. This is a landscape shaped by man: it may seem wild, but this part of the Suffolk coast is carefully managed for people and wildlife. As a stark reminder of our continual human impact, a nuclear power station broods in the background in harsh juxtaposition with the gentle landscape, its boxy shape and white dome contrasting with the natural curves and undulations of the coast, the cliffs and these famous nature reserves.
This is the season when the stage is set for the coming year: sorting the genetic lines that will survive, reproduce and prosper, from those that will fall by the wayside. Hobbies are snapping dragonflies off the surface of the water, while marsh harriers sweep the tops of the reedbed, passing food to their mates in a spectacular aerial display. Swifts and sand martins wheel against the darkening sky, and all around, the woods are alive with the rustling of unseen birds: chaffinches, robins, wrens, blue tits, blackbirds, blackcaps, whitethroats layered with the frenetic outbursts of Cetti’s, sedge and reed warblers in the reeds. Underpinning them all on the bass, the booming of the bittern reverberates in the air and sends deep vibrations into the stomach of everyone that hears. Crows and jackdaws caw their harsh, uncouth tones and the yaffling of the green woodpecker adds a comical twist.
The sun is sinking over the reeds.
The final visitors, families and couples are strolling back to their cars along the high grassy bank that separates the sea from the marshes below. They are bathed in the golden light coming from the west. To the east, waves crash onto the shingle beach and terns dive for tiny, silver fish. Gulls (mostly black-headed) are crying harshly to one another, while on the marsh, avocets ‘kluut-kluut’. They may be beautiful birds with their strikingly elegant black and white plumage, but in reality they’re bullies: pity any wader who strays too close, to be quickly and viciously driven off. The reeling of a grasshopper warbler, sounding uncannily like the whirring of a fishing line being fast let out, starts up: he can’t be seen, but you can imagine his little head turning slowly and smoothly side to side to make sure that everyone can hear.
The sun is sinking over the marsh.
A little way down the road, the same woodland and grassland birds are in mid-song; only the reedbed and marshland dwellers are no longer heard. Instead, as the shadows lengthen, the forlorn and lonely cuckoo repeats his plaintive, yet hauntingly beautiful name, sending shivers up your spine and setting goosebumps at the back of your neck. He is calling out, but no one is answering him – not yet, anyway. He’s the first back, but in a few weeks both rivals and lovers will return to take their place in the mating season.
The sun is sinking over the heathland.
The dulcet tones of the cuckoo are interrupted by a swift and throaty cackle from the nearby gorse. This new sound comes at first in fits and starts, as though warming up for a long and complex performance; then, as the calls of the warblers and tits and finches begin to lessen and grow faint, the nightingale takes up his place and shatters the stillness of the evening with his continuous crescendo of warbling, chirruping, rasping, snapping, whistling, squealing, clucking and clicking. He’s a great pretender, taking pride in the unpredictability of his voice, challenging and imitating his adversaries, relentless and untiring. The most you’ll see is a silhouette, a shadow, an outline; he lives to be admired for his song alone.
The sun is sinking over the gorse.
From over near the plantation comes a deeper, more nasal
call, the unmistakable grunt of a roving woodcock as he circles above the treetops, wings beating frenetically. This complements the rough bark from a dog fox, and contrasts with the gentle mewling of one – no two – little owls in amicable conversation. Then, at first unrecognisable as it’s so rarely heard, the high-pitched tones of the wailing stone curlew: a banshee. Still the nightingale continues his serenade, barely pausing, whilst the echoes of the cuckoo remain, and then, to add one last dimension, the purring of the now rare and elusive turtle dove briefly caresses the air, before falling silent.
The sun is sinking over the woodlands.
I don’t think any artist, using the subtlest brush strokes and softest of hues, could capture the rich colours and sounds and scents of the evening. Is there a poet who could fit the rhythms and beats and randomness to the rigidity of a sonnet or haiku, even with the cleverest metaphors? No orchestra could mimic the mellow simplicity and the startling complexity of this unrehearsed, yet harmonised soundtrack.
The sun has set on this Suffolk spring evening.
Lucy McRobert, 2016
Author Biographies
Paul Ashton is currently head of Biology at Edge Hill University. A native of Lancashire, previous study and employment saw him happily exiled to Scotland and Norfolk before returning to the North West. For over twenty years he has striven to fire an enthusiasm for plants, evolution and conservation in his students. A mission he is still energetically engaged in.
Jane Austen (d. 1817) was a leading author of her time, writing several works of romantic fiction, including Sense and Sensibility (1811), Pride and Prejudice (1813), Mansfield Park (1814) and Emma (1815), which continue to be widely read today.
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