Home Ground
An Englishwoman, an Irishwoman, a Welshman and a ‘British’ woman were all sitting around their respective dinner tables having a Zoom meal. It was the time of the Rugby Six Nations tournament and the conversation between the Welsh and Irish contingent was animated, emotional, patriotic, fervent and loud. Suddenly Irish turned to English and asked why we didn’t exhibit the same degree of loyalty to England. There was quite a long, deep pause as we marshalled our thoughts.
While we are waiting, I will just mention that the ‘Briton’ present is so-called because she is linked by birth, domicile, emotional connections and genetics, not only to Surrey, but also to the Isle of Wight, Yorkshire and Ayrshire. In the interests of balance she is often pigeonholed as the token Scot, but on this occasion she adopted an English perspective (current domicile and birthright). As another aside, we are all white and British or Irish born.
Much of what came out of the pregnant pause will be picked up again in future blogs. I’m referring to things like never thinking we were the underdog, not having to fight for (in this case) Celtic identity, culture, language or independence; things like guilt over the empire (so often identified with the English if not, actually, factually correct); things like the adoption of the cross of St George by football fans; things like being economic migrants within our own country and having lost our roots or strong feelings of identity for a particular region.
The final question, from Ireland, was, ‘Well, where is home for you, and with what area do you identify?’ It was a sudden, light bulb moment for England. The answer is Kent. It is the land of my fathers (most of my mothers came to London from the Midlands). Kent is not known for its prowess in rugby, but it is where I instantly feel at home and is the only county where I don’t have to spell my surname.
As a child I visited deepest Kent regularly. We were allowed free range of the local countryside as long as we rocked up at our grandparents’ cottage in time for meals. Somehow, I absorbed an innate emotional, ecological, botanical, geographical, historical, architectural, cultural, literary, agricultural and (being Kent) horticultural afinity, and a deep appreciation of Kentish landscape and community. Many, many years later, on a visit to Hughenden Manor (which is in Buckinghamshire), we walked down an avenue of beautiful coppiced hazels. I instantly felt a warm rush of comfort and nostalgia for Kent. I instinctively knew their shape and form and what they stood for in the history of the Kentish landscape. You may think this is bizarre, but it was a wonderful feeling of coming home. Snowdonia does it for the other half of Terroir. So it’s not romantic tosh after all?
Coppiced hazels used as an ornamental avenue along the drive to Hughenden Manor
The hazel coppice, backed by the brick and flint wall, could easily be taken for a Kentish ensemble, rather than the entrance to Benjamin Disraeli’s home near High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire
This feeling was revived, when we went for a walk in a National Trust Woodland on the Surrey side of the Kentish border. No, we’re not purists; English Terroir feels pretty comfortable in Sussex and the Kent/Sussex/Surrey borderlands too, despite greater difficulties in surname spelling.
Walking into Hornecourt Wood feels like slipping on a favourite old glove and, in landscape terms, you instantly recognise every aspect of the history and ecology of the space around you. But you don’t have to be a local or an ecologist to appreciate the delicate beauty of a deciduous wood in spring. The wood anemones were at their best, low-lying but proud, massed but not in your face, stunning but delicate. The beefier bluebells were doing their best to catch them up and already a blue miasma was creeping over the ground, but the bridal wind flowers (Anemone nemorosa) were the stars of the show.
This is ancient semi-natural woodland, defined by being consistently shown as woodland from the earliest maps to the present day (1600 is taken as the starting point). At Hornecourt, it’s a southern classic: a mix of hornbeam which is easily coppiced to provide small ‘round wood’ for poles, fencing, hurdles and so on, and, at a lower density, oak ‘standards’ which grow up as single massive stems to provide construction timber. It’s been a while since that management system has been in operation in Hornecourt, and the hornbeams are growing bigger while the oaks are falling, creating a horizontal sculpture park, studded with their star-like roots. Even the occasional hornbeam has toppled over.
The sculpture park effect is also turned to vertical effect by many of the standing oaks displaying a spectacular range of burrs which are outstandingly visible in springtime.
The hornbeam is as delicate as the wood anemones at this time of year and their opening buds are hanging down like tiny, lax, cocktail umbrellas, while their catkins fatten, lengthen and release their pollen, to the disquiet of Terroir’s hay fever sensitive receptors.
Hornbeam bark is smooth to the touch, a simple garment, elegantly worn.
Hornecourt Wood isn’t all fairy glades, catkins and picturesque burr oak, however, and its topography hides some interesting and alternative evidence of former times. As background, you should know that the wood is just a small part of a large agricultural estate, donated to the National Trust around the middle of the last century; there are five main farms spread over three parishes. To a public which is used to the Handbook listings of heritage buildings and spectacular countryside, this is a side of the National Trust which is less well known. The estate is located in the farmlands of the Low Weald and the wood tumbles down a low escarpment to the sticky clays of the Weald below. A classic Wealden gill also tumbles through a steep-sided valley within the wood, and low-key plank bridges provide pedestrian access.
But there are warning signs of alternative or additional uses. It’s like stubbing your toe on a stone which shouldn’t be there. A rhododendron clump and a few cherry laurels are out of character; stands of birch regeneration, standing out like sore thumbs, have probably taken root in an area cleared but not restocked; there is the shock of an inner core of conifers, including what looks to me like western red cedar, a native of the Pacific coast of north America; new plantings of native hardwoods stand in regimented rows, even-aged and as yet un-thinned – the tell-tale tree shelters still lurking in the light-loving bramble undergrowth.
A quick chat with the National Trust confirms these findings. Apparently the wood was once managed for pheasant rearing – no doubt as an additional source of income at a time when local biodiversity was not sufficient justification in a working landscape. Pheasants are not lovers of draughty copses and the laurel may have been encouraged to provide cover and shelter.
The Trust experimented with ‘commercial’ plantings of conifers again, no doubt, following the practice of the time and chasing the available grants. Thankfully, they were limited to the interior of the woodland and the gill valley, no doubt to conserve the visual amenity of the ancient wood within the landscape.
Again, management aspirations and grant funding changed and much of the coniferous timber appears to have been felled to be replaced by native hardwood species, with the pioneer birch trees leaping in to colonise peripheral open spaces. No doubt the pandemic has entirely destroyed the timetable and budget for any plans to manage these young trees, such that they can integrate into the classic habitat which gives the rest of the wood its richness and beauty.
The National Trust has Terroir’s every sympathy. Woodland management is wonderfully rewarding on all fronts except financial. Until we can adopt a Natural Capital approach, whereby the ‘stocks’ and flows’ of natural resources and services can be assessed in monetary terms, and accounted for on a par with traditional evaluations of goods and services, mangement of magical places such as Hornecourt Wood will be an uphill (pun intended) struggle.
Terroir will leave you with two thoughts. The Zoom dining quartet (particularly the Celts) wish it to be known how much they appreciate living in England, despite their apparent fierce attachment to their mother lands!
Meanwhile those with a fierce attachment to their English forefathers delight in the sculptural impact of the historic remnants of a neglected, south east English, hornbeam-and-hawthorn hedge.
Walking the Line
As Chris Baines (environmentalist author and campaigner) once said, “Whoever heard of the Society for the Protection of Slugs”?
We are suckers for the eye catching and the beautiful. Take birds: in the UK, the largest nature conservation membership organisation is the RSPB, with over a million members, all prepared to stump up an annual membership fee to protect and enjoy just one small segment of the biosphere. On a global level, we also have the example of the WWF, which started life in 1961 as the World Wildlife Fund, campaigning with huge success under its delightful image of a panda. Although WWF was always committed to ‘protect places and species that were threatened by human development’ (https://www.worldwildlife.org/about/history), it was the panda that caught my attention and imagination, and I am sure I was not alone in that.
Why is this? Why do these appealing species create so much enthusiasm, loyalty and support? Why is there so much less attention given to the world of say amphibians or even wildflowers and so little attention to say, spiders or worms. What follows is purely anecdotal, based on observation, and has no scientific backing, but it seems to me that there are a number of factors.
The first is the teddy bear factor: pandas are cuddly and cute. We fall for them every time. The second is the human perception of wild beauty: I doubt the female blackbird will ever top a bird beauty contest, but there are many other British avian species which take our breath away, an obvious example being the kingfisher. [Stop press: regular followers will be pleased to hear that there is at least one on The Moors, flashing its feathers in fine style].
Thirdly, there is the human perception of wildlife repulsiveness, into which category fall the aforementioned slugs, spiders and worms and may also include close encounters with snakes or ants.
Fourth, and thanks to lockdown, we all know that being outside makes us feel good, and watching something alive and cuddly or beautiful makes us feel even better.
Picture credits, left to right: Kingfisher - Vine House Farm; Wasp spider - © Nigel Jackman 2021; Ant - Maciej; Blackbird - Wildlife Terry
And fifthly, there is the human love of the chase. Call it hunting or list ticking, human beings have been doing this for a very long time: train spotters (gricers), bird watchers (twitchers), butterfly or egg collectors (dodgy), trophy hunters (controversial), sporting hunters (commercial?), wildlife managers (cullers). Much of this love of the hunt has now been channelled into benign pursuits and scientific study but, whether peaceable or more destructive, it has been around a long time - and is a key factor in the growth of the conservation movement. I hesitate to say that it may also be a largely male pursuit, but observation suggests that, in the past, this might be so.
Ironically, the RSPB started, in 1889, as an organisation to stop the trade in feathers and plumes which late Victorians used in lavish quantities to adorn ladies’ hats. The Society consisted entirely of women, and cost tuppence to join. The rules were:
“That members shall discourage the wanton destruction of birds and interest themselves generally in their protection [good to see this first in the list]
That lady-members shall refrain from wearing the feathers of any bird not killed for purposes of food, the ostrich only excepted.” https://www.rspb.org.uk/about-the-rspb/about-us/our-history/
I’m not sure what happened to the ostriches, but some influential ornithologists (men) joined in, the Society grew rapidly, got its Royal Charter and, in 1921, the Importation of Plumage (Prohibition) Act was passed, forbidding the import of plumage to Britain. Result!
But conservation focused on a single species, no matter how attractive or repulsive, was never going to be really effective. The importance of the ecosystem approach, which aims to manage the whole habitat for the good of an appropriate range of species, became increasingly recognised as the way forward. The more habitat-based ‘Society for the Promotion of Nature Reserves’ was set up by Charles Rothschild in 1912, but it wasn’t until after WWII that this style of conservation really got going, with the expansion of county Wildlife Trusts, in the 1940s and 50s. This was reinforced by significant legislation, starting with the ground breaking National Parks & Access to the Countryside Act in 1949.
It took until the 1970s, however, before the WWF began to look seriously at holistic habitat protection as well as species specific work, (it kept the Panda logo though) and it was 2010 before the RSPB started its ‘landscape scale’ conservation programme, and 2013 before ‘Birds’ magazine became ‘Nature’s Home’. Oh, and another black and white cuddly image (of a badger) became the Wildlife Trusts poster animal from 2002.
Conservation organisations which concentrate on single species or species groups still thrive however, including The Bat Conservation Trust, Buglife, The Mammal Society, and Plantlife (wild flowers, plants and fungi) to name a few. Typically memberships are in the thousands or tens of thousand, however, and the RSPB still leads the way in terms of sheer size.
How do these organisations cope with habitat wide issues? Let’s take a look at Butterfly Conservation, a classic in terms of life-affirming study of beautiful creatures, with the added bonus that those creatures tend to grace our landscapes in the warmer months and during daylight hours. In addition, there are only 59 butterfly species in the UK (depending on how you count) compared to 3,000 or so moth species, which makes the annual challenge of seeing them all much more achievable. Happy hunting.
Adons Blue Butterfly
© Richard Stephens 2021
Butterfly Conservation (BC) has four very laudable aspirations and I hope they will forgive me for my ‘holistic habitat approach’ comments:
Conservation - including the recent Brilliant Butterflies Project, a partnership between BC, London Wildlife Trust, Natural History Museum and funded by a Dream Fund Award (Post Code Recovery Fund/Lottery). Sounds good: specialist knowledge teamed with area based knowledge.
Reserves – BC owns over 30 reserves around the UK ranging from Devon to Norfolk and the Scottish Highlands, all managed for the benefit of the butterfly/moth home team. Terroir needs to know more on the management issues before commenting.
Recording – including some seriously useful Citizen Science (see below).
Education – many, many field visits for BC’s local membership groups (this is serious butterflying with, in Terroir’s experience, only a smattering of wider habitat input!) (and yes, a few women attend!). Also initiatives such as a ‘Munching Caterpillars’ programme for Primary schools; I assume this is more along the lines of Eric Carle’s ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ than an Australian bush craft diet for the stranded human.
Why would you not want to come out and look at these beauties? Their names are as picturesque as their wing formations. But their context is important too: why are they there, what do they feed on, what do their caterpillars feed on, do they cohabit with equally important but less beautiful plants and animals which are also deserving of conservation?
Terroir’s favourite Butterfly Conservation activity centres on the citizen science end of things - knowing what is going on is key to understanding just about anything. BC has set up a series of transects – fixed lines through all types of habitat - which are walked weekly by enthusiastic members, between April and September. Whoever is walking the line, records butterfly sightings (species and numbers) according to a standard set of rules. The data is then uploaded onto The UK Butterfly Monitoring Scheme (UKBMS) website (https://www.ukbms.org/ ). It is then available to those who, one hopes, can interpret the trends and offer appropriate conservation management advice. There are over 3,000 monitored sites and transects across the UK with over 100 butterfly transects in the Surrey and South West London branch area, alone.
The Box Hill/Dukes transect in Surrey crosses chalk downland, and up to 33 butterfly species have been recorded there by the line walker. Thankfully, this site is owned and managed by the National Trust, who have the tricky job of trying to balance the needs of butterflies with the needs of the species rich chalk grasslands, of reptiles, of birds, of arachnids, of archaeology, of history and, not least, of the many human beings who exercise (pun alert) their ‘right to roam’ across these open access areas, to walk their dogs, improve their health and lift their spirits.
The images below show just a small selection of the butterflies recorded on the Box Hill/Dukes transect.
So, is there a role for all these different types of wildlife and conservation organisations? Of course there is, specialist knowledge is always valuable, but there is also a constant need to adapt to changing circumstances and to listen to the views of others, whether scientific or social. Just as the WWF and RSPB adapted their approach to conservation, so species experts like BC are having to adapt their approach to banging their particular butterfly, bug or bat drum.
At the moment partnership is vital, as exemplified by BC’s collaboration with holders of a different sort of specialist knowledge such as the London Wildlife Trust, the British Museum or the National Trust. No organisation is, or should try to be, an island.
Don’t forget to log your own wildlife sightings on iRecord (https://www.brc.ac.uk/irecord/ ), and yes, I know, yet another recording website.
And if you join Butterfly Conservation, and start transect walking, remember Johnny Cash’s immortal lines:
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Because you're mine, I walk the line
He was referring to his wife, not to his passion for butterflies. The butterfly widow is not yet extinct.