Not so silent spring

Once, early on a May Day morning I had a close encounter with a Tawny Owl. We are fortunate to live in a wooded valley which is home to many owls and we are often caught in the middle of their courting calls, the plaintive unsure croaks of the young fluffed up owlets and sometimes lucky enough to see them faintly in the gloaming. These are our tawny owls, we exist cheek by feathery jowl with them. Further out of the village hunting over open moorland we often see Barn Owls, ghostly and silent seeking out their prey after dawn or before dusk, moth-like, their broad powerful wings out of proportion with a short, flat-faced body, deathly accurate as they drop into the grass. Occasionally, like a glimpse of rare treasure we might catch sight of the Short-Eared Owl with its unmistakable wingbeat, quartering over open moorland in the dying light of a winter afternoon.

My close encounter was in the woods near the house, with a sleepy Tawny Owl, a dirty stop-out who had fallen asleep on a small branch, low down in a silver birch right next to the path. As if nervous about falling off its perch while it slept the owl had positioned itself next to the thin trunk and was propped against this seemingly for support. I stood and watched the sleeping hunter, dogs silent at my feet until it slowly woke, eyes opening reluctantly and blinking in the light, as if taking a moment to remember where it was. It saw me, it sat still, I stood motionless barely breathing, not ten feet from the beautiful raptor. I raised my binoculars to see each intricate detail of the feathers, a pattern in every shade of brown, the perfect camouflage for its woodland habitat. I didn't want to move and startle the bird causing it to expend precious energy in flying away so the stand-off continued for perhaps another minute until the owl dropped soundlessly from the branch, spreading impressive wings over my head and disappeared into the trees to find a more private spot to sleep the day away.

I never walk past that spot without remembering that moment of magic that happened about ten years ago. Recently I was walking in the opposite direction and looking to pick out the exact branch where that owl had sat when suddenly one of the dogs (Bobby, uncharacteristically!) saw or smelt something and dived into the sparse undergrowth beneath the tree. As I grabbed him I sensed movement and looked up just in time to see a tawny owl departing a small dead tree only a few feet above my head, an almost silent flap of wide brown wings and it was gone as if I had dreamt it! 

I always feel close to birds at this time of year, probably because they are so active, so busy and ubiquitous in their calling, flitting, feeding endeavours. Even on a drenching day of rain the birdsong is incessant and I only wish I could distinguish more of those perfect tunes. I miss my Dad as I try to identify just one bird by its song. Not the older Dad whose hearing failed him, who couldn't walk too far into the wild places but the my-age Dad who tried to teach me the calls of all the classics as we walked for miles; the repetitive notes of the song thrush, the melodious blackbird and those we've attached phrases to such as the yellow-hammer's "little bit of bread and no cheese". I haven't heard a yellow-hammer since my Dad was the age I am now, they have become a rare sighting sadly but it could equally be the inability of my tone-deaf ears to pick out a tune! (40 million birds have been lost in this country since I was born in 1970). One I could always name as my young legs strode out alongside Dad was the grasshopper warbler, less of a song than a vibration exactly like the insect it is named for - this one was unmistakable! I remember proudly raising a finger in the hushing motion we use when we want to share something we've heard with a companion; listen Dad, the grasshopper warbler! But he couldn't hear it, the low pitch of this tiny bird hidden in the nearby reeds was the first sound lost to my Dad as his hearing slowly began to fail. (He blamed the damage to his ears on a shotgun that accidentally went off in the back of a van he was travelling in many years earlier but that's another story!!)

Birds were a feature of my childhood because my parents were both keen birdwatchers. Not twitchers who tick their sightings off on a list or sit for hours waiting for a rare visiting species about which they've received a tip-off, just people who have a deep interest and knowledge, a love and an understanding, who have a decent pair of binoculars with them on most walks and know when and where to expect different species as they travel through the seasons. We were members of the RSPB with our little enamel avocet badges and once made a pilgrimage to Scotland on our first family camping holiday to see the nesting ospreys at Boat of Garten. I was four years old but I've never forgotten it.

In about 1976 our cat killed the mother of a family of thrushes that we had been watching in our garden. We had seen the adults gathering nest building materials, spotted the nest in one of our poplar trees and watched the hen bird sitting on the eggs but then the disaster happened and we felt responsible (or my parents did, I was only about 6 years old!). Somehow the decision was made to intervene so the nest was taken carefully down from the tree with the tiny chicks safely inside and we set about rearing them by hand. Even in my childish memory this was a full time job, those babies were hungry. All the time! It started with a pipette of water and soon progressed to some sort of mealy mixture like soggy cereals and I'm not sure we really expected the fledglings to survive but they flourished and our work intensified. We were constantly digging for small earthworms, cutting them into manageable bits, searching for caterpillars as well as keeping the nest clean as the parent thrushes would have done by removing the faecal sacs. As we entered the shed they would raise their heads, throw open their gaping mouths and demand more food! I can still smell that nest now, probably not a particularly pleasant smell but I loved everything about it including the scent of droppings and dead worms! 

Photo courtesy of The Sentinel circa 1976

The local paper heard about the story and came to take photos and write a piece which appeared in The Sentinel. It was all very exciting but in the back of our minds was always the knowledge that we would have to let the young birds go. They started to demonstrate signs of fledging, perching wobbling on the rim of the nest frantically flapping their short wings, getting ready to fly. Whilst we would have loved to keep them close and monitor their progress as they learned to fend for themselves we couldn't risk the instincts of the cat kicking in again so we knew we had to take them further afield. After giving them practise at finding bits of food we had secreted amongst a box of twigs and leaves the time came to release them into the wild. We loaded them into a box and into the car and drove them to the edge of our favourite place, Hanchurch woods. We carried the box a little way down a track known as Lonely Lane and with a profound amalgamation of joy and sorrow set them down on the ground where they took their first tentative hopping steps into the wild. They were wide-eyed but off they went without a backward glance and soon started to peck at the ground and fly up into the nearby bushes. We watched for a short while before turning back and heading home to clear the stinky old nest out of the shed. I often wonder how those four little birds got on....I hope their descendants are nesting in Hanchurch Woods right now.

So in my mind spring is largely about the birds, the arrival of the summer visitors who choose our little piece of the planet over all others which, when you think about it, is pretty incredible. We are so lucky to have them! The frantic courtship, nest building, feeding to build up strength before the long days of sitting on eggs and then the dawn till dusk job of feeding the young, keeping them healthy, clean and safe before encouraging them out into the world. By which time the parents are thin, scruffy, exhausted and starving...but they usually do it all over again before the summer is out, making the most of the long hours of daylight and plentiful supply of food. Of course all this is completely dependant on so many factors, all of which herald the other signs of spring; tree buds finally bursting open to release the concertina folds of downy lime-green beech leaves, their golden husks cast off and gathering like snow on the forest floor and floating in puddles like confetti, bluebells ringing loud in our eyes, a shimmer of insect food and joy, tadpoles fattening on a diet of algae blooming in the sunlight, fern fronds unfurling with a delicacy that belies their strength in pushing out of the warming soil....there is so much life! 

This year I have tried to carry the binos with me most days and to spend more time looking, listening, watching as I pass through the woods. The rewards have been plentiful; I have learnt to recognise the beautiful song of the black cap and watched as its grey throat fluffs out vibrating with the melody blasting out from a willow or pine. I have followed the scuttling tree creeper as it winds its way up the rough bark, probing its long curved beak into tiny crevices for food and I have seen wrens disappearing into a stony hole under the eaves of a nearby barn. Grey wagtails bounce on the rocky islands of the woodland stream and chase each other along its length - they have a nest for sure but they're keeping it from me.

Nick's picture of our Tawny Owl

And an owl...in the last two weeks we have had a few utterly magical owl meetings across the road, just a matter of metres from our house. We sleep mostly out in the cabin now that the nights are shorter so the last thing we hear is the calling of the tawny owls and usually we wake to the persistent cuckoos who send their echoes along the valley at first light as a backdrop to the dawn chorus. But we have come across an owl in broad daylight, disturbing it from a tree immediately behind the cabin. On each occasion the tawny owl has refused to fly far into the woods and so we have been able to creep close to it as it finds a new resting place. We try to walk as silently as the owl flies, the soft forest floor absorbing our steps, with one eye on the ground and one up in the tree canopy trying to spot the elusive bird. I wonder how many times it has watched us walk by without us noticing it? Scanning the mossy trunks and twisted branches we spot the mottled breast and dark face, huge eyes fixed on us. An old name for the tawny was 'wood owl' because it blends so perfectly with its woodland habitat but here, in England's highest beech wood above sea level, the trees are cloaked in bright green moss and the brown owl is not so well camouflaged, luckily for us! Slowly we approach, taking care not to disturb the bird, each time feeling more confident having got so close before. Whilst the disc of the face follows our every move it feels as if we are trusted, as if having seen us pass by so often the owl knows we mean no harm, knows we will respect its space and let it rest quietly. We get within 20 feet of the tree and the bird is no more than 15 feet above the ground, we can see every feather, our insufficient eyes lock with its unimaginably powerful gaze; it can probably see the pores of our skin, the dapple of our irises. We are all rapt. Filled with the joy of this encounter we continue on our walk, once returning after about half an hour to find that the owl hasn't moved. As dusks creeps across the valley tonight this stunning creature will wake for its nocturnal hunting and hopefully we'll hear it as we drift off to sleep...

Hair ice

Waking up to a frosty morning is one of my favourite things. We usually know it's frosty before we're even properly awake because somehow Olive senses it and gets all restless and excited, pawing at the bed in her impatience to get outside and run round the garden in circles barking at Jack Frost before scratching at the door to come back in and run around the house urging us to get out for a walk while it's still icy cold!

Today was one of these days, we knew it would be as the sky had been clear for over 24 hours, a high pressure sitting over us keeping the weather still and cold, turning the wet, muddy moor to glistening iron. Olive succeeded in getting us up and out before the sun had climbed over the hills at the eastern end of our valley, she had us striding toward the sunrise wrapped up warm in the silent grey world. The crunch of leaves underfoot in the woods opposite the house is different when they are frozen and the ground beneath them is hard. Ice crystals push the mud upwards in tiny geometric towers which crumple satisfyingly beneath your boots. Even the deepest mud has a soft solidity about it, still giving just a bit under your weight so every step is a reminder of the drop in temperature. The beauty bestowed on the world by frost is a universal treasure but here in Simonsbath we have a special treat which I've never seen anywhere else; we have 'hair ice'. 

These delicate sculptures form on moist, rotting wood from broadleaf trees when the temperature falls below zero and the air is damp. Each fragile filament of ice is only about 0.02mm in diameter but can extend to a length of 20cm. Within the last couple of years the fungus Exidiopsis effusa was identified as the key to the formation of hair ice although exactly how this happens remains uncertain. Normally such tiny ice crystals would recrystallize into larger ones very quickly but hair ice can last for days so it seems that the fungus somehow stabilises it with a recrystallisation inhibitor similar to the antifreeze proteins used by some plants, animals and fungi to survive in sub-zero temperatures.


 As they emerge like a breath these strands of soft snowy ice curl and twist to form extraordinary shapes along the length of the branch. They really can look like a white beard emerging from an old man's chin! I love to pick up these branches, carefully so as not to break the magic, and gently touch the iciness to my face where it disintegrates without me even being able to feel that it ever touched me, such is the fragility of this phenomenon. You can blow them away like a dandelion clock, they are weightless. Olive on the other hand likes to pounce on them and dig away at what she hopes is snow (Olive loves snow even more than she loves frost, perhaps more than anything else in the whole world!) and then looks puzzled as the whiteness disappears beneath her big fat paws.

After climbing through the woods this morning we traversed along the top of the valley, weaving amongst the gorse which still has a few yellow flowers clinging on amongst its thorns, their coconut scent long gone with the summer heat and today looking like sweet flowers of icing on a cake. Other than their frozen droppings there was no sign of the rabbits who live in the beech hedgerow up here. Usually they dart between their burrows beneath the twisted roots of the ancient hedge and the thickets of gorse and bracken a few feet away but today I imagined them nestled below ground out of the cold. From up here we could look down on the valley below to our right, at the dark river snaking through the white marshy meadow.

As soon as the pink orange peeped above the hillside this morning Nick had to head home and dash off to work (the temperature on her car's thermometer read minus nine!) but Olive and me had the luxury of a long walk along the valley with not a soul in sight. Not a human soul that is; we were watched from the far side of the river by the woolly black cows who had a thin layer of frost highlighting their backs and plumes of warm breath rising from their noses. Other than them there were only a few crows and wood pigeons around, a buzzard meowing somewhere below us and some pheasants screeching and flapping out of their hiding places in the bracken thanks to Olive's persistent hunting. Otherwise it was so still and quiet that the river seemed to be tiptoeing through the white landscape trying not to disturb the early morning peace and even the sun went back to bed, disappearing behind a narrow bank of cloud almost as soon as it had shown its rosy face.

Once we reached the rocky knoll where we like to sit on warmer days soaking in the wondrous view we headed steeply down through the dead bracken, Olive making her obligatory visit to the badger sett which must smell irresistibly strong to her whiskery, sensitive nose. Cattle and horses have recently trodden this narrow zig-zag path, churning it into lumps and holes which are now frozen solid and threaten to break an unsuspecting ankle so I picked my way down carefully. 

Olive hurtled. Oh to be as sure-pawed as a small sturdy dog! Now in the valley bottom we followed the bridleway, close to the river where the coldest air had settled overnight. That line "earth stood hard as iron" was written for a day like this, a track like this, rock solid underfoot, dotted with frozen puddles and with icicles encasing the reedy grasses where tiny streamlets flow off the hillside and cross the path via stone-rimmed channels to make their way to the river below. 

The best kind of frozen puddle is one where the ice is white and you can tell just by looking that there is actually no water beneath it. My Dad had a childhood friend known as Adger who called this 'box ice' and that term has stuck with me as if it were the official name of this particular form of ice. If the inuit language has 50 words for snow it seems entirely reasonable to have a word for the kind of ice you have to stamp on regardless of your age. No box ice today though sadly. No satisfying stamp and shatter. I also love those puddles where the water beneath the ice forms swirling patterns and almost-concentric rings as if this is its one chance to appear artistic and glamorous instead of merely muddy. If you step gently on those puddles, not hard enough to break the ice, the water beneath sometimes shifts and releases bubbles which try in vain to escape their icy prison, changing the black and white patterns right under your feet. And no one else sees that precise moment but you. These unpredictable little experiments are what make a frosty morning walk so exciting to me!

We walked as far as the old disused mine and dwellings of Wheal Eliza where a friend recently found a dead otter lying peacefully in the grass. Sad that it had met its end but so good to know there are otters in the valley. Here we turned to head home but instead of retracing our steps along the track we first circumnavigated the large hillock of Flexbarrow where again the cows had badly churned up the narrow path, their deep hoof prints frozen solid making walking difficult for a while. The river here is at its most peaceful, hidden from the main path (and therefore from the majority of walkers) it feels as if it keeps its secrets here, especially on a day like this. There are often herons along this stretch and I once saw a female goosander leading her brood of 8 ducklings downstream. It's a perfect spot for a summer picnic but today the air seemed even colder here, trapped low between the steep slopes of Flexbarrow and Great Woolcombe so there was little temptation to stop except at the place where the water tumbles white and briefly excited over rocks and forms a pool which is good for a dip when the days are longer. The icicles here were spectacular, splashes held in freeze-frame lined the banks; no Christmas tree decorations could ever come close to this sparkling finery so I was compelled to slow down to take it all in.

Climbing steeply back up to the track once more the light changed and I realised that the sun had emerged from the cloud and was finally hitting the floor of the valley turning the slate grey river to a soft smooth band of gold. Everything began to sparkle and glisten with rainbow flashes and just as I thought how little wildlife we'd seen a dipper flew fast and low upstream below me making me smile before it disappeared round a bend and ducked into the bank somewhere. Now the sun was up I half wished that we'd come out a little later so as to enjoy this light for our whole walk but then I would have missed this moment; the sudden magic as every blade of grass, every reed and twig began to shimmer and shine. It felt like a real treat to witness this awakening especially as it didn't last long; the cloud soon closed in again and stayed for the rest of the day.

As we got close to the village we scrambled back up through the woods where now a few small birds had emerged to dart around looking for breakfast, their feathers fluffed up to trap warm air after what must have been a long cold night for them. The branches dressed in hair ice, now over 24 hours old having not melted at all yesterday, were still adorning the leaf litter and as I was coming from another direction I found lots more in a haphazard woodpile, glowing bright in the shady woods. I took one last look at them before clambering down the wall and crossing the road into our drive to turn my attention to a massive breakfast and a pot of coffee.

Sharing nature with dogs

Marge & Millie shepherding Katie & Rauol at Chaffinch Corner

There is a particularly peaceful spot in the woods opposite our house. Known as Birch Cleave this small wooded hillside is the highest beech wood above sea level in England and it is a very special place to us but the very best spot is 'chaffinch corner'. Here the leaf litter of the forest floor gives way to lush grass and large mature beech trees stand solid and moss-covered like huge guardians, bearing the brunt of the southwesterly winds that thunder up the valley and rattle every leaf, bud and branch. From here there are tantalising glimpses of the view; the river Barle far below with its ancient stone bridge and the wider valley beyond. It's impossible not to stop and take a breath in this spot, to look up at the canopy, out at the view and usually to notice the busy dashing chaffinches who swoop through in chattering gangs and led us to giving this amazing place a name! We do have a habit of naming our favourite places.

Katie bounding in the snow

At the weekend we buried our beloved little Yorkshire Terrier Katie here and it felt perfect. She was almost 15 and we first met her exactly 11 years ago when she was a nervous little thing who had never really been for a walk and was afraid of her own shadow. She never fully lost that anxious nature but she grew into a funny, feisty, bold explorer who loved nothing more than sniffing around those woods with her friends, either keeping us waiting while she checked out every tree stump or dashing off ahead showing off that she knew the way. That and playing enthusiastically with her squeaky toys and unwrapping everyone's presents at Christmas! Because she always seemed so uncertain of our love for her, so unassuming, we would always tell her quietly that she was the 'best one' (making sure the other dogs couldn't hear of course!) and now 'the best one' will be forever in the 'best spot', wearing her best purple stripy sweater.

Anya sunbathing after a river swim

Sadly, less than a month ago we also lost our other Yorkie, Anya who had been with us for only three years and she too is buried in Birch Cleave but in a different place. She was always to be found in a sunny spot even if it was the only shaft of sunlight coming in through a window, so she needed an eternal place in the sun. Being less adventurous than Katie she is buried closer to our house beneath a soft mossy carpet in a light open clearing. She again came to us having not had a very adventurous life up to the age of 10 but proved herself to be a fearless and sometimes fierce character who would think nothing of swimming across a river if it meant she could get to her dearest Nick. Soon after we adopted Anya, Nick had a long time off work following her hip replacement and Anya became completely attached to her during that time. It really helped her settle into our home but it also really helped Nick because Anya had an incredible healing energy whenever she was close to you. Of course Nick then spent the whole of last year having treatment for cancer and Anya was her steadfast ally, always by her side, at her feet or underneath her when she was doing press-ups. It turned out that she came into our lives just when we needed her the most and left when she felt her work was done - Nick was healed, it was OK for her to go. She may have bitten the ankles of everyone who visited us but she was a brilliant little dog with a huge personality.

Our first Yorkie was Raoul who died 5 years ago. Again the first 6 years of his life had been  very different to the time he spent with us. In fact, he'd been a stud dog and never lost his way with the ladies! We adopted him just as Nick moved to Exmoor for work whilst I was still 200 miles away and travelling back and forth for eighteen months until I also found a job here. The first day he and I spent together was stressful as he managed to get himself lost in the garden and it was two hours before I found him. You'd think he'd bear a grudge because I hadn't taken care of him but no, he saw me as his saviour and didn't leave my side for the next seven years! I had been feeling alone, making my weekly trips to visit Nick and our other dogs on Exmoor but he kept me company, made sure I got out for walks and happily shared my snacks on the long drive from Sussex to Somerset. In exchange I slowly taught him to walk off the lead, feel confident in wide open spaces and to love a woolly sweater and a Malteser. He once took a wrong turn and tumbled down a rock face frightening the life out of us but emerged unscathed apart from a broken claw! He was a legend.

Nick's mother also had a little Yorkie for the last couple of years of his life after his owner went into a nursing home. He was a funny old fella with a wart on his nose and a persistent cough, he really didn't seem to have a lot going for him but Mickey proved to be a riot. He once entertained everyone at a New Year party by tearing off small bits of newspaper and using them to cover up the treats he was given so that the other dogs couldn't get them. As soon as his back was turned the others would eat his biscuit and he'd have to start all over again! It was thanks to him that we went on to adopt dogs from the same breeder and he lived on in our memory as Great Uncle Mickey.

Raoul being handsome

So we find ourselves without a Miniature Yorkshire Terrier in our lives for the first time in over twelve years and it feels like the end of an era. We never intended to have such small, typically yappy dogs in our lives but fate brought them to us and they fitted in with our bigger dogs just fine and held a very special place in our hearts. They changed the way we thought about walks for one thing. When you have a tiny dog or two at your heels you have to be mindful of obstacles which might impede their progress, go a little slower than before and be prepared to give them a lift over particularly boggy bits but we tried not to treat them like delicate lap dogs. Yes, they sometimes needed to be tucked inside our coats in the worst of weather but we kept our expectations high. Katie once walked over ten miles across the moor and she sometimes went to work with Nick letting the children hold her lead all day and sitting round a campfire with them in the rain. At the end of a day like that when all the other dogs were crashed out in blissful exhaustion she would climb into the toy box and get all her toys out, squeaking them loudly and racing around claiming not to be tired at all! They loved being out in the garden where they ruled the roost and always made their presence known to anyone walking by. They came wild camping with us, they learned to negotiate snow and streams, ditches, vast beaches and rocky hills, teaching us all a lesson in determination and bravery. They also taught us lessons in devotion, trust and unconditional love as only dogs can, not to mention the proliferation of cosy blankets they brought into our lives and their masterful ability to make a nest amongst them! And many's the big dog who found themselves crammed into a ridiculously small bed because their own bed had been appropriated by a tiny terrier! 

As we walk in the woods now I miss seeing the Yorkies hop, skip and jump over fallen trees, squeeze under gates and leap across small streams and I realise that even though they did these things every day I always felt a little bit proud that we had helped them become so confident. These things came naturally to our other dogs because they were gradually exposed to different environments and challenges as they grew up but this wasn't the case with the Yorkies who had led more sheltered lives before we adopted them. So we had to teach them to jump over things, to avoid deep puddles rather than just wade through them (Anya never quite got the hang of that!) and to follow in our tracks through long grass. I remember the times when we were snowed in and had to dig a series of narrow channels all around the garden so that they little dogs could get through the deep snow! 

I was born on a snowy night and apart from my mum and the midwife the first living thing to set eyes on me was our Yorkshire Terrier, Dylan, who raced up the stairs and jumped onto the bed to welcome me into the world so maybe I was always destined to have a special relationship with these little dogs. Dylan once clambered up the side of a 100ft waterfall just to get to some people who were enjoying a picnic so I should've known then that they were a tenacious breed! Tenacious, faithful, loud and loyal, feisty, bold, speedy, funny and simply adorable, they each leave a big gap in our lives despite being so small. We miss them like crazy but we have been lucky to share so many great times with them and feel privileged to have been able to help them when they were scared or unwell and ultimately to make the hardest decision of all on their behalf.

For the love of the dipper

I was born in 1970. I learned recently that since then 60% of the world's mammals, fish, birds and reptiles have been wiped out by the actions of humans. This depressing estimate is the result of a major study recently produced by the World Wildlife Fund which cites loss of habitat as the leading cause for this devastating decline, with land given over to the production of food for the animals we eat being the biggest culprit. When we leave this world I think we'd all like to leave a legacy; I hate to think that this is the legacy of my lifetime.

The disappearance of wildlife on this scale is not only sad in itself but it is threatening the very existence of humanity. How have we become so separate from the natural world that we cannot see our reliance on it for our own survival? Our wellbeing is dependent on the world's ecosystems for food, clean water and energy and we rely on the natural regulation  which governs climate, pollution, floods and pollination. Meanwhile a third of all food produced for human consumption goes to waste with by far the biggest proportion being lost before it even gets to the point of retail. Each person in Europe wastes around 100kg of food per year but twice as much is lost between production and retail.

The second nugget of information I heard recently was that 90% of seabirds have plastic in their system. This is the result of eating fish which have unintentionally consumed micro-plastics which end up in the ocean in colossal volumes, often invisible to the naked human eye. These are a hidden menace, often found in cosmetics, fleece clothing and toothpaste or as part of the degradation of larger plastic items. Of course we also eat fish and other seafood  so we too are consuming these microplastics but we also consume plastic which leaks into the food we buy from plastic packaging. Exactly how our health is affected by this remains unclear but laboratory tests on mice (don't even get me started!) have shown how these tiny pieces of plastic accumulate in the liver, kidneys and intestines and can harm the brain.

And the third is that half of all Killer Whales are likely to be lost due to chemical pollution from....yep, it's us again. PCB chemicals (which we have known to be dangerous for fifty years) were actually banned in the 1970s and 80s but it is thought that around 80% of the million tonnes of these chemicals produced are still around, leaching into water courses from landfill sites etc and the Orca, being the top predators, find themselves with the highest concentration of PCB chemicals found anywhere and this poison is passed to their calves in the fat-rich milk they produce.

I heard these things the other day (having of course already been aware of these issues in general terms but not truly appreciating the magnitude of the situation perhaps) and I honestly felt utter desolation and despair. I felt helpless and hopeless, at a loss to know how it could have come to this and how to process this global tragedy. My immediate therapy was to put my boots on and take the joyous Olive for a slow walk through the woods, embracing her simplistic appreciation of the moment, taking time to look up, listen to the birds and then stride across the fields to pick mushrooms for supper, the orange Meadow Wax Caps few and far between in this cold dry autumn. Connecting with nature in our small, local special places always makes me feel better, reminds me that life is precious and simple, puts things into perspective. We stopped to watch a Dipper bobbing above a small waterfall, Olive unsure why she had to sit still for a few moments but obliging nonetheless. This bird is in my top five favourites for its tenacious escapades over and under the white water of our rivers and streams, diving and swimming for food and rearing its young amidst the deafening roar of the rapids. 

My first encounters with this stocky brown and white beauty were on the river Tanat in mid Wales as a child where I would spend holidays skimming stones, swimming in the cold dark water, swinging on a rope and creeping under the bridge to glimpse the dipper's nest. They have held a special place in my heart ever since these magical close encounters. It felt reassuring to see one the other day, a reminder that all is not lost, that there is some resilience in nature and that given half a chance survival is possible. Thankfully in my lifetime dippers are doing alright. They are unusually sensitive to acidity and water pollution but in cleaner, more neutral streams they breed successfully and are in only moderate decline. Decline nevertheless. 

It is true that some of the devastation we have caused is reversible; recent projects to restore the habitat of the Bengal tiger have resulted in a 20% rise in a species that came frighteningly close to extinction and conservation efforts around poaching and habitat protection have also lead to an increase in the population of the Giant Panda, the symbol of the World Wildlife Fund. It's too late for some species but many others could be saved if we are prepared to make some changes and this should give us all hope. I think we need that hope in order to feel that it is worth trying to make some changes.

I don't mean to preach and I hate to write a depressing piece but the facts I have heard and the implications of them have left me compelled to think more deeply about the shocking reality we are facing as a species and to contemplate what small changes we each can make to halt or even reverse this seemingly unstoppable downward spiral. Last week Nick got the children she was working with to spend a few minutes collecting litter from the beach and in a short time they had filled a bucket with mostly plastic paraphernalia. She pointed out to them the power of numbers; that she alone could collect a few pieces in a few minutes but by working together they could multiply this by a significant factor. Back at the centre the plan is to create a visible collection of all the waste that the visiting groups can collect on their weekly trips to this small North Devon beach. I think it will make quite a spectacle, a non-degradable art installation showing the human impact on our oceans and how that affects our own bit of coastline because it's not all about faraway exotic animals and places we cannot identify with, it is happening everywhere and we are all responsible to some degree.


I think it all goes back to our relationship with the natural world and how a fundamental connection has been lost. In our pursuit of 'progress' somehow we have lost sight of our place in the balance of ecology and of how our actions are inextricably linked with the world around us. We are newcomers to this planet and yet we act like we own the place! 

By far the worst offenders are the multi-national companies responsible for producing and transporting plastics and chemicals along with those producing our food and the waste that goes with it but we cannot hide from the fact that we as consumers drive demand for these products and therefore we can also drive change. There's only one way to deal with feeling helpless and hopeless in the face of something massive and apparently insurmountable - to tackle it with one small step at a time. The first step is simply caring. Conscientious consumerism I guess you could call it. Convenience has become everything to us and the price we pay for that is starting to become very evident. 

I have no personal connection with the Orang Utans whose forests succumb to the ubiquitous need for palm oil and there is nothing I can do about those PCBs that are no longer produced and yet continue to cause devastation but I love those Dippers, I know the family of Roe deer in our woods intimately and I need to think of them when I shop as well as when I throw things away. I personally don't chuck plastic in the sea but the more plastic I use the greater the demand and therefore the more that will inevitably end up in the sea. As I walk around the woods or explore the moor it's easy to forget that all is not well in the world. While I'm happy in my little corner of this island, feeling connected to nature, witnessing food chains functioning pretty well, seeing birds, fish and mammals producing their young I could easily turn a blind eye to those alarming statistics. Except that the evidence is everywhere if we stop and think; we've seen a marked decline in cuckoos here in the last 12 years and my dad used to talk of 'flocks' of cuckoos when he was first obsessively watching birds as a child in the early 1940s. I haven't seen a yellow hammer or heard a grasshopper warbler since I was a child and we see far fewer butterflies every summer.

So I will try to do my little bit to help no matter how insignificant that feels, I will stay closely connected to the natural world because this not only reminds me how precious it is but also keeps the hope in me alive every day. I doubt any of us could live a plastic free life but I am committed to reducing the amount I buy, use and waste for sure. Everything is complicated; 'don't use palm oil' we are told but not only is palm oil hidden in many products without our knowledge it is also just one of many oils responsible for the destruction of massive swathes of forest habitat, if we avoid palm oil we'll be unwittingly choosing another guilty product. So 'sustainable' seems the best we can do along with eating stuff with fewer ingredients that we don't know the origin of. We've been focussed on recycling for many years but now we hear that much of what we send to the recycling plants is either transported overseas to be dumped, or possibly recycled, or is left to pile up in warehouses because local councils cannot afford to recycle it. So perhaps the focus should shift and we should use less in the first place and try to reuse as much as possible. None of these ideas are new of course but the urgency of making it happen is very real. 

It's so hard to make these changes a priority in our busy lives but every little helps and as long as we don't lose sight of that we can hopefully start to turn this thing around before it really is too late for us.

Leaving the larch

Have you ever heard the gentlest pattering of larch needles falling in autumn? It's the closest sound to silence I have ever heard, rivalling snowfall in its utterly peaceful and virtually soundless sound. If you are ever lucky enough to hear this you can be sure that the world around you is otherwise silent, no wind moving through the trees, probably no birdsong and definitely no traffic. You will be standing below the only deciduous conifer native to Europe. It's a pretty special experience. 

Around 70 years ago my dad worked for the Forestry Commission planting trees in North Staffordshire. This post-war planting of conifers for timber in place of the ancient broad-leafed woodland was widespread but his patch was Hanchurch Woods or simply 'the forest' as we have always known it. This is a sprawling area of hilly woodland interspersed with fields and hedgerows, home to pines, spruce, larch and of course the ubiquitous silver birch along with the remaining oaks and other deciduous species. I'm sure the work was physically hard but I never heard dad mention that; he was a young, fit man and couldn't have been happier than spending his days out in the fresh air in the company of the birds and wildlife about which he was so passionate. He knew every inch of those woods, every rabbit warren, owls' nest and squirrels' dray, where the fallow deer crossed the tracks leaving tufts of wiry hair on the barbed wire fence, where to dig for pig-nuts and where we could find holly with berries at Christmas. We grew up following his long confident strides around the woods, down sandy tracks littered with smooth round pebbles (marvelling that this had once been the seabed), along grassy rides beneath swaying trees, picking bilberries in summer and following animal tracks in winter. Sometimes we would listen for owls at dusk feeling excited but also pleasantly nervous about being out in the wood as night closed in, wrapping us in a darkening blanket of chilly air and the dashing by of bats. We went there at dawn too, on frosty mornings as the world was waking up to find itself glistening with icy crystals reflecting the pale winter sunlight. It was easy to imagine the nocturnal activities of the badger, fox and other small mammals when we found evidence of their feasting, their chasing and their dying. I once dropped my woolly hat down a badger's sett and we always wondered what the poor badgers made of the black and white striped Port Vale Football Club bobble hat which was full of fir cones I'd been collecting! 

At some point on one of these visits to the forest around 40 years ago we found a tiny self-set larch tree pushing its way up through the rich loamy soil on the edge of a plantation where just enough light penetrated the dark canopy. We carefully dug up this specimen, the offspring of a tree planted by dad we liked to think, took it home and planted it among the shrubs alongside our drive where it grew slowly from its original 6 inches (maybe mum nurtured it in a pot for a while, I don't remember but I always remembered the day we found it).

 Anyway, there it stayed until I finally had a garden of my own with space for a tree. In 2002 when Nick and I bought our second house, 'Dragons', mum and dad dug up the larch tree, now about 5 feet tall, and we found a place for it in a gap in our leylandii hedge. This wasn't an ideal spot for it as the hedge greedily took any available moisture leaving little for the poor larch which meant that it hardly grew at all in the four years we lived there! In hindsight this was a blessing in disguise as it meant that we were able to bring the tree to Exmoor with us where it spent a year in a pot where its cramped roots meant that it still didn't grow until we bought our current house and my beloved larch found its forever home. 

Eleven years on and that once spindly little sapling is 30 feet tall with a strong trunk covered in lichens and mosses and a wide healthy canopy spreading in all directions, low branches tickling the ground and the highest ones swaying in the wind. It can't be moved now, its roots are deep and wide and it belongs here thriving in the Simonsbath soil. The goldfinches feast on its sweet pink cones and our flock of resident sparrows fill its branches, squabbling and gossiping from dawn to dusk. Surrounded by mature trees on all sides it truly feels like part of the landscape now but we are moving soon and I have to say goodbye to this most special tree that has been in my life since I was a little girl kicking through the fallen larch needles of the forest. It has quietly watched me grow up, maybe missed me in the 14 years we were apart, it has given shade and shelter to our chickens as well as the birds and wildlife of our various gardens. It was helped on its way to greatness by some of my dad's ashes scattered beneath it when he died almost 7 years ago. The majority of his ashes have gone back to the earth in 'the forest' at Hanchurch of course. All those years ago when dad worked there he made a lifelong friend in Eph Dyke who farmed the land adjacent to the forest for the rest of his long life. His son George lives there still, has raised his family there and now sees his grandchildren explore the forest, the fourth generation of his family to love that land. On a summer day in 2012 our family walked into the forest to scatter dad's ashes knowing George and some of his family would meet us there. What we didn't know was that he had hewn a huge log into a simple bench and his daughter had engraved dad's name into it. Since then this log seat has become part of the woodland, greening with algae and moss, carved into by young lovers, rested upon by weary walkers and an old friend even hung bird feeders around it so that dad would always have his beloved birds around him.

So we will always know where dad is and I guess I will always know where my larch tree is and whenever I drive past this garden I will be able to see its uppermost branches reaching skywards. 

A few years ago when my tree was still trapped in the leylandii desert and it was hard to imagine that it would ever grow, we travelled to Scotland and visited a famous larch tree. This tree in Dunkeld is known as The Parent Larch. It is the sole survivor of five larches brought to Scotland from the Austrian Tyrol over 250 years ago and made famous as the seed source for the extensive planting that took place across the Perthshire hillsides in the 18th and 19th centuries. These five trees gave life to 14 million larch trees which served to stabilize the soil of these hills which were not fit for farming and create a rich habitat for wildlife that still flourishes today. The Parent Larch is a beautiful tree, now around 275 years old, with a distinctive huge low branch that extends horizontally from the trunk before turning upwards through ninety degrees resembling a strong arm held proudly aloft. It exudes an air of calm, its work is done and it can rest easy, proud of what it has achieved.

I would love my larch to produce seeds to carry on its lineage but its cones are few and far between and unlikely to germinate as there are no other larches nearby. However, I have recently learnt that it is possible to take cuttings from a larch so that is my plan, to grow more trees from my own 'parent larch'. I don't know how easy this is to do but I figure this is a pretty tough specimen; not only did it grow from seed without support on the forest floor which is quite an achievement in itself but it has also survived two journeys of over 200 miles, lived in dry and cramped conditions for several years and not been beaten by the harsh weather of Exmoor. I am hopeful that we can nurture a few offspring from this offspring of my dad's trees which he loved until the day he died. I feel that would be a fitting tribute to the man who planted trees...

Fields of fungi

When the rain finally came after the drought of 1976 there was an unprecedented glut of field mushrooms, swathes of glowing white, growing from the grass that had been parched for so long. Life from beneath pushing up and out, smooth round virginal buttons becoming flat, brownish saucers carpeting meadows and sports grounds. I remember that summer well, the standpipe in our village where we queued to get water, the water fights in the street, the scorched earth and famous drought but I don't specifically remember that bumper crop of mushrooms. 

This year we have picked field mushrooms on Exmoor for the first time since moving here 12 years ago! In previous years we have spent the shortening days of August creeping below ancient beech hedges searching for the golden treasure of chanterelles. This delicate little fungi has always been a reliable yet priceless crop at the end of summer, growing on the steep mossy banks and looking to the untrained eye like a poisonous toadstool. You do have to be careful not to pick the masquerading 'false chanterelle', the slightly darker evil cousin whose gills stop short of the stem and who lack the distinctive apricot scent of the true edible variety. At over £30 per kg chanterelles, or girolles as they are known in France, are no poor man's mushroom but are worth their weight in their own beautiful gold! We have them mostly for breakfast with scrambled eggs, sometimes in risotto along with other foraged fungi dried and stored for the purpose. Once we cooked them as soon as we'd prised them from a remote hedgerow. We found the rusty shell of a WW2 bomb high on the moor, lit a small fire in it and fried the chanterelles on the tin foil our sandwiches were wrapped in. Those sandwiches with hot velvety chanterelles tucked inside and melting the cheese were about the best I've ever eaten! 

But this year, after the long, hot, dry weeks of summer there are virtually no chanterelles to be had. We've visited all of our regular spots and only found a few specimens in a particularly damp and dank deep combe where a boggy stream gurgles and the sun rarely penetrates. I'm guessing there weren't any in 1976 either. Instead we have been blessed with field mushrooms now the rain has come. I can't say it's been a glut exactly but the yellowing grass is turning green again and is revealing the fruits of Agaricus campestris, the humble field mushroom. Oddly these most familiar of fungi can be amongst the most difficult to confidently identify in the wild, being easily confused with several other (inedible) white mushrooms including the poisonous Yellow Stainer. Look for pinkish gills turning brown as the fruit ages and opens, the scent of earthiness.


This August, filling pockets and bags, I have been carried right back to my childhood in Staffordshire when I would go out picking mushrooms with my Dad. Sometimes with Mum too but mostly I remember it just being me and him. That bumper crop of 1976 doesn't stick in mind, maybe because I was only six years old at the time but probably because we did it every year and in my memory it was always a bumper crop! We had a favourite field, on the edge of Hanchurch forest (our favourite forest); a huge field of several acres with two great mounds in the middle. There were usually cows who could be frisky and frightening and could take you by surprise by appearing from behind one of these mounds but their presence just added to the adventure because I had absolute faith that my Dad would keep me safe. That's more than could be said for my Grandma who was once left in the car with my Mum in a lay-by near this field while me and Dad strode off in a thunderstorm in search of the summer bounty we knew would've appeared thanks to the rain. Apparently she berated Mum for letting Dad take 'that poor child' out in pouring rain, thunder and lightning into a field of cows as it was going dark. I couldn't have been happier! 

So every time I reach my fingers into the wet grass to feel for the bottom of the stalk and carefully break it I am momentarily back in that most magical of fields. The surprising warmth around each mushroom, the smell of the gills, the hunt for the perfect specimen and the thought of the feast to come are all feelings that have lived in me forever, lying dormant through the year until the time is right like the mycelium beneath the ground waiting for the conditions to be perfect before sending forth its fruit.

And then to the eating....the inky blackness of wild mushrooms frying in the pan bears no resemblance to the cooking of shop bought mushrooms! The smell of breakfast cooking on recent days took me back to childhood breakfasts as did the toast made soggy by all that black juicy deliciousness. I do remember getting ill once too when Dad and me got a little over-confident adding puffballs to our mushroom collecting - we must have picked a slightly old one by mistake I guess but we lived to tell the tale! Roasted mushrooms for supper the other night with a garlic and cheese topping, these meadow dwelling treasures hold limitless possibilities, I'm hoping to pick enough for soup and stroganoff, maybe pate and pasties....but that may be wishful thinking.

A few weeks ago we found a wonderful supply of oyster mushrooms growing on a fallen beech tree about one minute's walk from our house. I'd heard this tree fall two summers ago, creaking and cracking as it fell bringing down branches of other trees around it, always a sad sound but now providing these exotic sounding mushrooms for us! And still to come hopefully are the Meadow Wax Caps, a meaty orange brown mushroom which again may appear unappetising to many people but is actually very tasty. These have always been our staple autumn fungus along with ceps which we usually dry for use in chinese meals and risottos so it will be interesting to see if they like the long, dry summer conditions. Part of the joy of foraging is the absence of certainty, the element of chance, the thrill of finding treasure in the wild.



As my Dad got older his taste for wild food dwindled but he kept the River Cottage book of edible fungi close to his wheelchair at all times. I was going to give this book to him for Christmas but for some reason decided to give it to him many months early and I was thrilled that he dipped into it with enthusiasm often. He died on December 4th that year. He will always be with me when we are scouring the fields, dodging the cow pats in search of a free breakfast. 

The peace of wild things

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
 and I wake in the night at the least sound
 in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
 I go and lie down where the wood drake
 rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
 I come into the peace of wild things
 who do not tax their lives with forethought
 of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
 And I feel above me the day-blind stars
 waiting with their light. For a time
 I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I have unashamedly borrowed the title of this beautiful poem for my blog because it resonates so deeply with me, with my feelings about the quiet, wild places I love and those I have yet to discover but already love. I have no idea where this blog will take me, who will read it, what the point of it is, only that I feel compelled to write and that I want to write about that which makes me, keeps me and will eventually take me back.

It is said that you should write about what you know. Well, I know this. Not in an academic, scientific knowledge kind of way but in a personal, spiritual, feeling kind of way. I know what it sounds like when a tree falls, how I feel when a fern's first fronds unfurl from the cold ground of winter, where the dipper most likes to bob up and down in the river, the thrill of seeing a barn owl hunting at dusk, which stones will be grippy and which will slither me into the water, how sad I'll be to see a bald, big-eyed baby bird fallen from a nest, why I have to catch falling leaves and why, when all else fails and I feel lost and afraid I go outside.

My relationship with the natural world is as important to me as the relationships I have with the people I love. It has always been a part of me, forms some of my earliest and most cherished memories and I know no other way to live than with this fundamental tug to the outside. Everyone has their church, their therapy, their cravings and addictions, a way to find calm or a place to find stimulation and drama. I find all mine by connecting myself to nature in some way; walking through the woods, running across fields, cycling on quiet hilly lanes, swimming in cold wild water, foraging for free food, sitting on a sunny bank in spring or even curled up in our cabin reading about someone else's love of similar things.

Thank you for reading, I welcome your feedback and I'm happy for you to share if you feel inclined to.