Change of Management
With an ever growing image library, this blog was meant to be a comparison of spring 2020, 2021 and 2022, based on Terroir’s photographs of our favourite urban landscape, The Moors, near Redhill in Surrey. Those new to Terroir can catch up on the back story in Blogs 1, 11, 16, 31, and 54.
We discovered - the hard way - that unless you can indulge in fixed point photography and keep excellent records of camera settings, view points etc, taking and comparing before and after images can be at best frustrating and at worst, useless. Take a look at the disastrous attempt below!
Above: ‘before’ on the left (2020), and ‘after’ on the right (2022). Well, maybe that islet has moved, but as the photographer’s location and camera settings are different, it is impossible to verify!
The changes which were most obvious, however, were not those necessarily linked to seasonal variation. It was the changes which had occurred to this post industrial landscape over the (nearly) three year time span of the pandemic.
Here is what we found.
A hugely expanded clump of dogs mercury: usually regarded as an indicator species for ancient woodland; so good to see it not just hanging on, but now thriving.
During the pandemic, there has been little active maintenance and management at the Moors. This isn’t necessarily bad - just different. At the moment the wild flowers which thrive on the edge of hedgerows are blooming, providing a range of colour and form. The summer grassland flowers, however, may not be so copious this year as the scrub is slowly extending over the grassy verges, alongside the paths and cycle way. But already a healthy growth of young willowherb, and some spikes of common agrimony, pressage a blaze of pink and mauve, with yellow highlights, later on in the year.
From left to right - top row: common sorrel, common forget-me-not, and a young teasel
Middle row: red campion, bugle and white dead nettle
Bottom row: garlic mustard (the tangy leaves are delicious at this time of year), meadow buttercup and cuckoo flower/ladies smock, a lover of ditch sides and damp rough grassland.
Thankfully, the encroaching scrub is not without interest either: flowers, fresh foliage and tinges of red on some newly opened leaves are all welcome accessories to a late spring walk.
From left to right - top row: holly in flower, a sycamore sapling and an alder - the latter another wetland lover.
Bottom row: a wild rose, buddleia (a naturalising garden escape) and the soft, glossy leaves of young brambles
The blackthorn is over but other shrubs and trees are adding to the spring time vibe. And, as is usual these days, the May (hawthorn) is fully out in April.
From left to right - top row: hawthorn hedge in flower, elderflower and gean or wild cherry: with its straight branches, awkwardly angled from the trunk, the gean flowers always make me think of handkerchiefs on a washing line or stars on a Christmas tree.
Bottom row: willows, and a rogue horse chestnut complete with candle
Sadly, the ash dieback is very obvious (below).
Despite the lack of rain, water levels are still high, the main footpath/cycle way is still partly flooded and the seasonal wetlands are inundated. This excess of water is possibly why the swan pair have moved their nest; still close to the path but further to the west of last year’s location. A beady-eyed heron stands very close. We’ve not heard of herons taking eggs but they certainly eat ducklings and cygnets.
The brook itself has also changed. Some of the mature trees have been felled or partly felled, presumably for safety reasons, and more light is reaching sections of the water course. The partly felled ‘totem’ trees look bizarre but the organisms which will inhabit the slowly rotting wood will be a welcome addition to the area’s biodiversity.
The ‘offline’ balancing pond has turned a rusty brown colour - an algal bloom? - and there are traces of it along the edge of the shadier, slower flowing, sections of the stream (image below left). Some green waterweed still remains, however (below right), but the areas of yellow flag (centre) have extended enormously and will be spectacular later in the month.
We have given up on fixed point photography, but we will report back later in the year on how the Moors post-pandemic (is that tempting fate?) summer of 2022, compares with its lock down predecessors.
Changes to Terroir
Terroir blog had a long gestation period but eventually went live in October 2020. It was the perfect lockdown project and a weekly post seemed ideal. Thankfully, our life styles have changed and now that we are ‘learning to live with Covid’ we will be travelling more often and more extensively than we were able to, in the previous two summers. For the next six months at least, therefore, the Terroir blog will be appearing on a fortnightly basis. Blog 81 will appear as normal on Thursday 12th May but blog 82 will not be posted until Thursday 26th May. Further postings will follow at two week intervals.
An Autumnal Jumble
Two days ago, I received this photograph from the North Wales section of Team Terroir. The accompanying message read “Very late foxglove … maybe another blog on late flowering plants?”
Three journeys were precipitated by this idea. The first was a visit to The Moors (English Team Terroir’s local green-escape, and frequently featured in this blog). The second and third journeys circumnavigated Terroir’s gardens (one in north Wales and one in southern England). Like our modern climate, the results were confusing.
Let’s start with the gardens. Both had been frost free until the start of November. Both are fairly sheltered. Both have fairly similar elevations (the Welsh garden at 80 m and the English at 100m). Of course the Welsh garden is further north than the English garden, but also considerably further west, and only 20 miles from the sea. You also need to know that the Welsh team are the better gardeners!
Here is a sample of the late flowers in the Gardd Gymreig.
You may say that it is hardly surprising to have nerines or fuchsias flowering in the autumn, but in this garden, all the above have been an unexpected, if welcome addition, to the November display.
The English garden is less floriferous but the message is the same: we are surprised to see you.
The hydrangea heads are normally well coloured until after Christmas, but it is unusual to get a fresh bloom in November. The Salvia Hot Lips is technically a cheat, as it is cheering up the front garden of a neighbour, but the element of surprise is the same, although the profusion of flowers has probably been helped by the prodigious quantities of rain which have fallen recently.
Assuming that there would be an equally surprising range of flowers in bloom along the path through The Moors, Terroir set off in anticipation of a stimulating stroll. Unfortunately this assumption was utterly erroneous, and the herbaceous colour palette was based almost entirely on an array of green/brown leaves and seed heads. After some searching, a few late flowers were spotted lurking in the undergrowth (see below), and there may have been others even better hidden. Indeed, on turning back to take a better photograph of the single red campion flower, I was totally unable to find it again. Why this contrast with the exotics of the garden? We would appreciate comments and suggestions in the box at the end of this blog. If you can’t find it, click on ‘read more’ and scroll back down to fill in your thoughts.
The walk was not without interest, however. The variety of seed heads and berries provided a varied and sculptural and/or colourful display.
But it was the trees which were most varied and unpredictable. Considering that it is already early November, many seem slow to lose their leaves.
The English oaks were still in full leaf with plenty of late summer greens and only a few turning to autumnal yellow.
The American oaks which someone has planted here (probably Red oaks, see below left), were anything but red, having already lost many leaves whilst of a pleasant but unspectacular yellow/brown colour. The equally non-native Norway maple (second from right), which usually puts on a spectacular show of brilliant yellow at a bend in the path, is still green; the native field maple (below right) has gone totally autumnal.
The willows and poplars are a mixed bunch. The poplars (see below, upper row, left and centre) are either bare or have retained their upper most leaves. The sallows (upper row right) are still late summer green but their long leaved, weeping, cousins (lower row and immortalised in William Morris’ willow bough design) seem to have lost the plot completely .
The self-seeded forest of alders is largely denuded of leaves, but those with space to expand (below left) still retain their summer leafy glory. The dogwoods just seem to be confused.
Down by the laid hedge, the hazel has regrown vigorously and retained the enormous leaves which the wet weather seems to have encouraged. A neighbouring blackthorn , also in full leaf (below right), is clinging to a last remaining sloe. As with the holly, this year’s cornucopia of fruit has already been eaten.
Sadly, the chaos which is autumn 2021 feels like a metaphor for COP 26 in Glasgow. Already we have lost our ash trees (below left and centre: a dying ash and the lesion caused by ash die back disease). Is it too late to retain the stately beech (below right)?
Can it be a fair COP?
This blog premiered last year with a visit to ‘The Moors’, and we make no apology for having re-visited on a roughly quarterly basis. A wetland, urban nature reserve in north east Surrey, the Moors is a marvellous example of what humans and the planet need, to remain healthy and low carbon.
With the recent publication of the latest International Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) report one hopes that the whole world is reading and thinking about just that - climate change. One also hopes that the contents of the report will be fed into national government policies around the planet, with lots of trickle down impacts to deliver action right at the roots of local communities. Hope is cheap. Action is not. Riches are unequally distributed.
The IPCC was set up in 1988 by the World Meteorological Organization and the United Nations Environment Programme. ‘The objective of the IPCC is to provide governments at all levels with scientific information that they can use to develop climate policies. IPCC reports are also a key input into international climate change negotiations.’ (https://www.ipcc.ch/about/).
The Panel’s latest report, published earlier this month, is entitled ‘Climate Change 2021, The Physical Science Basis’. The title sounds a bit like an advertisement for hair products, but just skimming through makes for a heavy and uncomfortable read, although it is not totally without hope. Below are a few key headlines, although you have probably already heard them via the press and media.
“It is unequivocal that human influence has warmed the atmosphere, ocean and land.
Widespread and rapid changes in the atmosphere, ocean, cryosphere and biosphere
have occurred.”
“Human-induced climate change is already affecting many weather and climate extremes
in every region across the globe. Evidence of observed changes in extremes such as
heatwaves, heavy precipitation, droughts, and tropical cyclones, and, in particular, their
attribution to human influence, has strengthened.”
“Many changes due to past and future greenhouse gas emissions are irreversible for
centuries to millennia, especially changes in the ocean, ice sheets and global sea level.”
But
“Scenarios with very low or low GHG emissions … lead within years to discernible effects on greenhouse gas and aerosol concentrations, and air quality …”
https://www.ipcc.ch/report/ar6/wg1/downloads/report/IPCC_AR6_WGI_SPM.pdf
Looking at the Moors, trying to think globally and act locally, it is depressing how very obvious climate extremes have become. In 2020, we had a prolonged spell of very warm and dry weather. The wildflowers bloomed profusely and provided massed stands of vibrant colour.
This year, as noted in Blog 31 (The Darling Buds), spring was late and, apart from a brief dry spell, rain has been exceptionally plentiful. Growth has been lush and massive - huge leaves, oversized trees - and the overwhelming palette of The Moors has been very, very green. Now, in August, as we shiver in our pullovers while drying sodden umbrellas, the greens are still the dominant hue. Spring’s hint of white has been replaced by over-tones of yellow, blue and red, but the contrast with last year is still remarkable.
2020’s vibrant stands of tufted vetch are now battered and tired, the common agrimony and willow herbs are isolated and low key, and the latter (below right) weighed down by a flourishing growth of black bryony.
The ragwort continues to flourish but its normally ubiquitous companion, the cinnebar moth caterpillar, is notable by its absence. By this time last year the teasels had strutted their stuff and where dry and brown. This year they are only just getting to their peak.
Climate change does not necessarily mean plant extinction but may mean plant migration. At somewhere like The Moors, species which have not done well in 2021, may have a chance to return next year. Meanwhile other species, such as buddelia and water mint, have done better in the wet weather, and species which are much more unusual may appear, such as marsh woundwort (in this case, struggling with another vigorous black bryony) and chicory.
The sheer mass of growth has also changed the character of The Moors this year. Where paths are lined by trees, the canopy is thick and has already developed the dark green foliage of late summer. Shading has kept the cycle path remarkably open. Enchanters’ Nightshade has crept to enjoy the shadows and stinging nettles are thriving on the now damp areas of richer soils. Nearer the brook, and on a windy day, the vastly expanded willows do an excellent imitation of a William Morris wall paper. Between the lakes, where no tree has much of a roothold, the path is virtually hidden by the explosion of vegetation. The craft skill of last year’s hedgelaying exercise is now obliterated by substantial new growth.
Summer downpours have proved to be a heady mix at The Moors. The water levels thoughout the wetland are at winter levels, yet the vegetation is responding to summer temperatures and light levels. Although not currently flooded, the wetter areas of the cycle path are as muddy as in winter. All water bodies are full yet the eruption of vegetation growth has hidden the smaller seasonal ponds from view. Woe betide anyone who tries to take a walk through this apparent meadow of purple loosestrife, below right.
The Brook has vanished completely, except for one point where somebody has cleared a narrow track to the bank, as though checking that the stream still exists.
What will COP 26 and climate change 2022 bring?
‘And we shall have snow’
The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then? Poor thing
He’ll sit in a barn, And keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, Poor thing
Trad, Nursery Rhyme
The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, edited by those experts in children’s culture, Iona and Peter Opie, is silent on any possible ‘meaning’ of The Robin rhyme, although numerous websites suggest that it was used to ensure children associated home with security, as well as understanding how tough it was to be a robin. It is believed to be a British rhyme and may have dated back to the 16th century. The Opie’s earliest documentary reference is from Songs of the Nursery, 1805.
To be honest, Terroir is with the silence of the Opie’s on this one. Why would children need to be taught to associate home with security, or to pity the plight of the robin (or the blue tit or the thrush or any other fairly common and easily recognisable song bird)? Robins are, of course, especially obvious, and very sociable birds, particularly if anyone is turning over soil or dead leaves, which might reveal a few worms. Isn’t that reason enough to write a ditty about them? It’s a great song, very rythmic, majors on things we all understand such as cold winds, snow and keeping warm, and anthropomorphising a robin is a wonderful way to amuse children. Interestingly, the robin came eighth in the RSPB’s 2021 Big Garden Bird Watch’s top ten, but numbers are down by 32% since the Bird Watch began in 1979. So, please, pity the plight of the robin. And it’s habitat.
The point of quoting the rhyme was to introduce a blog entirely about snow, a topic which is current if not very original. We must replace the north wind with the Beast from the East, but there is plenty of other literature with which to celebrate a snow fall. Those who have recourse to shelter and warmth also have the resources to respond in verse to the extraordinary delight with which human beings respond to a white out. This exploration of literary snow will be based on a trip to The Moors, which regulars know is our local lockdown space. Terroir has reported on The Moors in summer and winter, but snow always reveals a new aspect to a familar landscape.
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below …
From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-1834
No wolves on The Moors of course but plenty of ivy tods and leaf skeletons lagging the brook. ‘Tod’ is also an addition to the Terroir landscape lexicon. For those of us with a passing knowledge of Rhyming Slang, ‘tod’ means ‘alone’ or ‘on your own’ derived from Tod Sloan, the American jockey. To be ‘on your tod’ was (maybe still is?) a common phrase in any south London childhood. But in landscape terms, a tod refers to a mass or bush, or a measure for wool. Dictionary.com describes it as an ‘English unit of weight, chiefly for wool, commonly equal to 28 pounds (12.7 kilograms) but varying locally', and ‘a load’’, or ‘a bushy mass, especially of ivy’. Thank you Coleridge.
Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian underwood
Opening lines of Of Solitude [not a great advertisement for the ecologically essential scrub]
Abraham Cowley 1618 - 1687
From troubles of the world
I turn to ducks,
Beautiful comical things….
… or paddling
-Left! right!-with fanlike feet
Which are for steady oars
When they (white galleys) float
Extracts from Ducks (written for F.M. who drew them in Holzminden Prison) [Ducks, both real and poetic, still provide tremendous therapy and enjoyment]
F W Harvey 1888 - 1957
Let Hercules himself do what he may
The cat will mew and dog will have his day
Hamlet, Act 5 scene 1 [or day-ly walk]
W Shakespeare 1564 - 1616
‘Oh look at the trees!’ they cried, ‘O look at the trees!’
London Snow [but still very appropriate to the Moors]
Robert Bridges 1844 - 1930
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:’
Snow in the Suburbs [spot on for the walk home from the Moors]
Thomas Hardy 1840 - 1928