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.
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
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.
