The Darling Buds
This time last year, the ‘darling buds of May’ were unshaken by rough winds and were sunning themselves in our much appreciated parks and gardens. Terroir’s plot was full of weeds, of course, but also colour, butterflies and bees.
Mid May 2020
This year the garden is a wonderful fresh green, a delight to behold but distinctly monochrome and very damp. The aquilegias are providing spikes of red, blue and purple, the bluebells are hanging on, but the apple trees are so behind that one is still in flower and none have set fruit yet. Otherwise, it is a mosaic of verdant foliage. I have never seen such a gigantic crop of cleavers (Galium aparine). The bees are making the best of a bad job but the butterflies are few and far between. Too cold, too wet, too windy and garden development is seriously delayed. The photographs (above and below) make an interesting comparison - same plants but different years.
Late May 2021
This weather has also been a big factor in our (lack of) outdoor exercise, but now the rain has ceased and the wind dropped, it is time for another visit to the Moors (see 29/10/20 , 7/1/21 and 11/2/21 for the back catalogue of Moorish blogs). How has the weather impacted on our local wetland nature reserve?
The walk reminds us a little of those horticultural shows where size matters. Here we have the biggest shoals of cow parsley (seen below peeking over a railway bridge, almost as tall as Terroir), the tallest stands of dock spears and the widest ‘spades’ of burdock leaves that I can remember. The cleavers are pretty upstanding too but I still think that chez Terroir will win the cup for longest and fattest sticky willy (aka goosegrass, catchweed, stickyweed, sticky bob, stickybud and many, many more highly descriptive names).
On a smaller scale of leaf but larger scale of structure, the freshness of the tree foliage still allows the sculptural quality of the trees’ wooden skeletons to be admired. It will be a while yet before the ‘spring greens’ pass to the heavy, stately, dark greens of high summer.
Underneath the branches, the bluebells are overblown and fading but still manage a hint of that blue miasma which brings magic to every spring bluebell wood. Bedraggled forget-me-nots and self heal add to the blues, but there are just a few stands of red - or perhaps startled pink would be a better description - campion that suddenly pounce on you from behind a clump of grasses. The willow herb has a way to go yet in terms of height, let alone flower and last years dead stems (bottom row, left) indicate just what it has yet to do to match last summer’s blaze of colour. The garlic mustard and buttercups are irrepressible, of course, but the biggest surprise is a clump of daisies, raising their faces to the light and smiling like cheeky children at the shock they are creating by their presence.
The blackthorn has finished flowering of course but the guelder rose is holding up its lace cap flower heads like doilies on a tea tray (below, left). The hawthorn has also managed to bloom within its eponymous month of May. Did the ‘darling buds of May’ refer to the month or the hawthorn flower, and did Shakespeare consider May time to be summer? The answers to these questions are probably irrelevant as I’m pretty sure that a good rhyme was more important to Shakespeare than consideration of phenology or calendar. You try finding a decent rhyme for ‘June’.
There are still some willow catkins but the alder and hazel have moved on and are quietly presenting the next generation of cones and nuts for whatever super-spreader (wind or animal) will be required to complete their lifecycles. There is excitement at the site of a young oak sporting what appear to be red berries, but which we assume are a type of gall. Does anyone know which sort they are?
The horse chestnut candles are bedraggled but finally blooming bravely. It’s at this time of year that the non-natives become obvious, in this case with a red blossomed horse chestnut tree. The American oaks, which also adorn the Moors, become distinctive in the autumn with their dramatic red fall colours.
As with the rest of Surrey, the ash is late and very hesitant. Whoever penned ‘ash before oak – we’re in for a soak; oak before ash - we’re in for a splash’ needs to define their time frames. We had a pretty thorough soaking this spring before the ash appeared, but if it refers to summer weather, then there is still time for the old saying to ring true. Ambiguity is so good for successful weather forecasting.
But, as usual, it is water which steals the show on the Moors. For those who are new to the blog, the Moors is a local, Surrey Wildlife Trust, nature reserve sandwiched between a railway line and a landfill site, and exploiting an exsiting brook and former sand and fullers earth excavations. It’s hard to read the former landscape in the riot of habitats which now abound here.
Inevitably the water level in the seasonal lakes and ponds is high, but the floods have retreated and the footpaths and cycleways are passable if muddy.
It’s easy to see the regular users here - walkers, dogs and cyclists - although the burdock is doing its best to obscure the prints and narrow the path.
The wetland vegetation is growing fast, although only the yellow flags have started to flower. On the lake edges there is space for the water mint to take hold and flourish before the reeds shade it from view.
The swans on the upper lake are watchful but there are no cygnets and their nest is now hidden in the reeds. A great crested grebe and a mallard (both males) are both showing off but there is no sign of their respective mates. We just can’t get a picture of the grebe with its ruff extended in full Elizabethan splendour, but the mallard is happy to give us a ‘daffy duck’ shot. The tufted ducks are absent but a couple of coots are on the water. All in all, though, it’s quiet on the duck front today. On the other hand, two juvenile cormorants are drying their wings, perched on the old fence posts which cross the upper lake, while a heron stalks the shadows.
Further upstream, a sodden meadow currently bears more than a passing resemblance to an 18th century English landscape park, in miniature. Not bad for an old mineral extraction landscape and a wet and windy spring!
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Water Works
Lockdown 3. Winter. Essentials: vaccine, open space, Wellington boots.
Terroir’s first ever blog focussed on the importance of open space. No matter how quirky, no matter the surroundings, no matter the back story, an accessible open space is the very best shot in the arm, barring the vaccine itself. In October I described the explosive summer benefits of our local lockdown open space -The Moors, in Surrey. There was colour, vibrancy, life, excitement, space, variety, views and well being, all based on a leg-stretching splinter of land wedged between a railway line, a landfill site and a housing estate. Here is that post’s parting shot:
“‘Seasonal wetlands’ means seasonal change. Different birds (snipe in winter), different berries, different colours, and always water – more water, less water and sometimes, when the footpath floods, just a little bit too much water.”
Winter landscapes don’t always get a good press unless covered in snow. But a wet winter landscape has jewels aplenty. You just have to look a little bit differently. There are no leaves to get in the way - the landscape is revealed in its wet and skeletal glory.
So let’s take a look. Wearing a hood, sou’wester, beanie hat (they were known as tea cosies when I was a kid), snood or balaclava can give you tunnel vision. So, if you want colour, shape and pattern, look out through that tunnel at the details.
Fruits: the Moors can do a veritable visual feast of winter fruits (better botanists - please correct any detailed mis-identifications).
Fruit just a bit too obvious for you? Then please try our menu of assorted vegetables. Strictly visual treats only. Mosses and fungi are too specilaised for Terroir’s identification skills, so any nomenclature suggestions gratefully received.
Abstract arts: the lack of distracting fresh leaves and flowers reveals many other treats. Push back the hood. Discard the balaclava. Look up and out. Enjoy the patterns, the colours, the reflections and the scuptural skeletons which summer hides from us.
But, for the Moors, the Unique Selling Point is water. On cessation of sand extraction and processing, and in parallel with construction of the housing estate, the existing damp areas were re-engineered as seasonal wetlands, a new lake established on the edge of the housing, and the whole caboodle designated as part of a larger wetland Nature Reserve (https://www.surreywildlifetrust.org/nature-reserves/nutfield-marshes-moors-spynes-mere). Depending on your age and interests one of the small pleasures, or great excitements, of walking the Moors is to see how high, or low, the water is. There are various indicators which allow intimate interaction with the wetland landscape, weather and climate, and ecological process. How much of the old fence posts are visible above the water in the upper lake? Is the revealing, muddy, high water mark visible along the fence at the bottom of the railway embankment in the lower lake? Can you cross the path between the two lakes dryshod? Has the surface of that path been removed by an energetic overflow (that’s a new one for this year)? Is the foot of the fence adjacent to that path above or below water level? Is the Brook flooding into the lower lake or is the lower lake flooding into the Brook? Does the ‘heritage’ green footpath sign indicate the walking, wading or sailing options along the alternative track to the Pooh Sticks bridge? As an aside, this track is seldom walkable unless you have waders or a machete - in winter the Brook takes over at one end and in summer the waist high nettles and burdock, loving the nutrient rich, damp soils, take over everywhere else.
But the ultimate marker, the great question upon everyone’s lips, the burden of the bush telegraph is: has the cycle path flooded? Upon this information depends the length and comfort of everybody’s walk, run or cycle. It is Surrey nature at its most untamed! Can we get through? The path floods sufficiently often for pedestrains to have created an alternative path on slightly higher ground, hard against the landfill fence. Surrey is not short of tenacious and inventive walkers - it is a response to an oudoor challenge, a little bit of wilderness in our manmade county. If you can tolerate a rough and muddy passage, then this is for you. The ill-shod, those with pushchairs, or those not fancying off piste travel will usually turn back. For cyclists, the decision is more technical. Depth of water, length of leg, size of wheel and frame, and confidence, have all to be considered. The taller and stronger cyclist, who doesn’t object to wet feet, will pedal though with an impressive bow wave. The smaller but daring cyclist will probably make it, with only a telling off from Mum ar Dad for getting wet trousers. Bur for the smallest or more timorous cyclist disaster awaits. We have watched Dad cycle though with a certain confidence and panache, eldest son take it at a run and make it to the other end, wet but triumphant, while small son panics in the deepest part, puts down a foot and topples over in spectacular slow motion. Dad, panache now resembling soggy papier mache, comes to the rescue, as only a good Dad can.
Too much water? Many attempts have been made to stop the cycle way from flooding. In my view, the present solution (let it flood) is without doubt the best. This is a nature reserve which is based on seasonal wetlands. Water rises, water falls. Nature thrives. Some find it frustrating that walkers and cyclists are kept to the edges - but what stunning edges they are. Many, many visitors come - the place was both flooded and thronged last Sunday. The crucial benefit is that all users actively interact with their changing environment. Can we get through? How deep is the water? Oh look! That’s how deep it was last week. What’s that bush? Can you see the swan/ducks/gold crests/long-tailed tits? All that rain last week has really made a difference.
And, no matter what the weather - there is always some delighted individual who makes it through! To misquote Dylan Thomas’s ‘Under Milk Wood’, one year I saw the Snipe when I wasn’t looking for them, but I’ve never seen them since, even though I’ve been looking all the time.
