Too hot to go far today. There's no way I'm putting Sylvester in the car or on a commuter-packed train. So instead we stay local and venture across the road to see if our neighbour Lloyd fancies a walk around the block.
We take a stroll most days, Sylvester and I, to take the air as it were and watch the trees go by. (Do trees go by if you're sitting in a pram or is it you who goes by them? I think of the Pacific tribe we saw on TV recently whose peripatetic philosophy is to let the mountain come to them rather than visit it.) Anyway, I digress; on a stroll with Lloyd, The Knowledge on anything Forest Gate, we also get a guided tour.
We proceed through the Woodgrange Estate where, he tells me, several large manor houses once stood among pasture and parkland. Three streets up and we're on Wanstead Flats.
The next leg of our journey is the semi-circumnavigation of a copse of oak trees by the park warden's hut; if you're after a feast of parasol mushrooms, X marks the spot. We discuss whether laws made last year, protecting against the collection of fungi in Epping Forest, stretch down to Wanstead Flats. Either way the mushroom cupboard is bare, so we are spared the temptation.
I ask if this is the circle of trees that mark where the bandstand used to be. Lloyd points, in response, to the far corner of the flats by Angel Pond and the 'Beware Cattle' sign on the corner of Capel Road (cattle grazed freely here, under the Epping Forest Act 1878 and the right of common pasture, until the BSE crisis in 1996). According to Lloyd the bandstand circle of trees is comprised of 56 London planes, the exact same number as there are Aubrey Holes at Stonehenge.
Apparently the dude responsible for planting the bandstand trees was a bit of a solstice fan and came over all druidic when he put the planning proposals through. Shame he didn't organise a music festival at the same time.
I must go and count those trees at some point.
Friday, 30 September 2011
Thursday, 29 September 2011
Hips and haws
I'm spellbound by hawthorn 'berries' at the moment. As we journey up to Tom's studio at Blake Hall in Essex, we see them hanging like vampiric chandeliers, heavy and abundant in the labyrinth hedgerows. There is no escaping the bloody metaphor, from first cut scarlet to congealed ruby red. The orange rose hip looks positively chirpy next to this bunch. Opera and pop music.
We're lucky to have a hawthorn tree in our garden, Crataegus monogyna. In early May it affords us nostalgic views of its beautiful white lacy blossom, an early sign of summer. In the hedgerows further out of town it divides fields with its virginal blooms, although do not confuse it with the blackthorn, which blossoms earlier in spring. Hawthorn: leaves first, then blossom with red fruit; blackthorn, blossom first, then leaves with bruise blue sloes. It's amazing that I only learnt this recently considering how ubiquitous and sentimentally appreciated both these hedgerow species are.
It also came as a surprise that you can eat the hawthorn berry, turn it into jam, jelly, wine or a flu and cold tonic. Indeed, the haw is not technically a berry at all but a pome, a type of fruit produced by certain flowering plants in the Rosaceae family. Other examples of pomes include apples, quince, rowan, pear and whitebeam.
Not only is the haw fruit beneficial for human consumption, being rich in antioxidants, it's also a major autumn staple for a host of wildlife including blackbirds, thrushes, greenfinches, yellowhammers, chaffinches and starlings. If only the numerous cats and foxes in our garden would let a bird near a tree to feast.
We're lucky to have a hawthorn tree in our garden, Crataegus monogyna. In early May it affords us nostalgic views of its beautiful white lacy blossom, an early sign of summer. In the hedgerows further out of town it divides fields with its virginal blooms, although do not confuse it with the blackthorn, which blossoms earlier in spring. Hawthorn: leaves first, then blossom with red fruit; blackthorn, blossom first, then leaves with bruise blue sloes. It's amazing that I only learnt this recently considering how ubiquitous and sentimentally appreciated both these hedgerow species are.
It also came as a surprise that you can eat the hawthorn berry, turn it into jam, jelly, wine or a flu and cold tonic. Indeed, the haw is not technically a berry at all but a pome, a type of fruit produced by certain flowering plants in the Rosaceae family. Other examples of pomes include apples, quince, rowan, pear and whitebeam.
Not only is the haw fruit beneficial for human consumption, being rich in antioxidants, it's also a major autumn staple for a host of wildlife including blackbirds, thrushes, greenfinches, yellowhammers, chaffinches and starlings. If only the numerous cats and foxes in our garden would let a bird near a tree to feast.
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
The lunacy of oology
I love the Observer's series of books, especially when a little gem turns up for pennies in an Epping secondhand shop. To date the wonderful Sue Ryder Care has afforded me several of the series including Wildflowers and Birds, the first titles to be published in 1937.
But Bird's Eggs (reprint 1962) is my favourite so far (although I was tempted by Aircraft for some reason, which I later find was first issued during World War II as a guide for spotting enemy planes).
As explained in the publisher's note of this particular edition, there was at the time, still a regrettable amount of egg stealing going on. This book was compiled in the hope that, 'with a pocket guide to identification for use in the field, which also provides a pictorial and, furthermore, a life-size record of eggs, the observer will be content to study eggs and nests in their natural surroundings – and to leave them there.'
Strangely what I like most about the book are the pages of 'white' eggs, which look (in their artist's representations which I trust to be true to form and 'life-size' as described) almost exactly the same. Give me something to sort, group and categorise and then deconstruct again and I'm as happy as larry for some reason. I could stare at the moon-like orbs of the little, long-eared, short-eared, tawny and barn owl for hours. Perhaps that's it, it's like staring at the moon; a pocket-sized companion to lunacy disguised as oology.
But Bird's Eggs (reprint 1962) is my favourite so far (although I was tempted by Aircraft for some reason, which I later find was first issued during World War II as a guide for spotting enemy planes).
As explained in the publisher's note of this particular edition, there was at the time, still a regrettable amount of egg stealing going on. This book was compiled in the hope that, 'with a pocket guide to identification for use in the field, which also provides a pictorial and, furthermore, a life-size record of eggs, the observer will be content to study eggs and nests in their natural surroundings – and to leave them there.'
Strangely what I like most about the book are the pages of 'white' eggs, which look (in their artist's representations which I trust to be true to form and 'life-size' as described) almost exactly the same. Give me something to sort, group and categorise and then deconstruct again and I'm as happy as larry for some reason. I could stare at the moon-like orbs of the little, long-eared, short-eared, tawny and barn owl for hours. Perhaps that's it, it's like staring at the moon; a pocket-sized companion to lunacy disguised as oology.
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Easy spider
I really need to clear the garden before the weather turns and the magnolia and prunus leaves fall. But every time I try to make progress I'm stopped in my tracks. Not by my own procrastination. That's a symptom of summer that autumn cannot afford (although saying that, it unseasonably hot this week!).
No, I am stopped in my tracks at every turn, down every pat, in forced limbo, by our ubiquitous friend the common garden spider – diadem, orb-weaver, cross spider, araneus diadematus, whatever you want to call it – and it's deathtrap web.
It's a very clever number the garden spider. Not only does it construct the most intricate and sticky web with which to catch it's prey, and does so on a daily basis if required, it appears to be something of a master curator.
Every web I come across is placed, just so, to catch the evening light, presenting a breathtaking exhibition of spun gold. It's a running show with a daily performance; garden spiders have been observed eating their web, catch and all, of a night before spinning a new web in the morning.
Inside each filigree masterpiece stands the artist, proud and predatory, with the characteristic white cross on its fat back and yellow and black stockings that glow translucent in the sun. The webs are said to be spun by the larger females, a last stance before they die in late autumn having done their duty as mates and mothers, keeping safe precious bundles of eggs – often carrying them around in specially spun silk sacks – until they are unable to hunt or feed anymore.
If you want to get a better insight into how the garden spider spins its web, click on this clip of Chris Packham interviewing spider woman Emma Shaw. Or, as he says, find a spider in the first throws of a weaving, settle down for an hour and watch in wonder.
The silk is spun from spinnerets located on the underside of the spider's abdomen and skilfully woven by the garden spider's third pair of legs which are not so useful on the ground (a bit like our hands perhaps!). Observe how she lays the first lines down, often three or four feet up in the air, temporarily balancing the super strong thread – stronger by weight than steel – on a centre point if she cannot jump from desired starting and ending point. The spoke threads come next, using non-sticky silk so she can move around without getting stuck. And finally the orb threads, the highly adhesive magnum opus.
Beware fly, wasp, bee or even butterfly. One ill timed or badly navigated flight into the spider's pantry and you're chutney. We even witnessed a naive red admiral turned into a kite by a single thread of steely silk, though in this case we did intervene and set the poor thing free. Death by bondage, not my ideal way to die, but at least I could appreciate the art while waiting for my reckoning.
In trying to shoot the moment where the late evening sun hits the spider's orb, I'm virtually transported to the graveyard acid trip scenes of Easy Rider. Which reminds me of experiments on spiders 'using' drugs, first by a German pharmacologist, PN Witt in 1948, and later in 1984 by NASA. The first experiments tested spiders with a range of psychoactive drugs including amphetamine, mescaline, strychnine, LSD and that old household favourite, caffeine. Apparently the initial study was on request from a colleague, HM Peters, who wanted to shift the time when webs were usually spun – between 2am and 5am – which annoyed him, to an earlier slot. Unfortunately for Peters the experiments found that the size and shape of the web was altered, not the time when it was built.
NASA's experiments showed that spiders on marijuana lost concentration halfway through; benzedrine made them spin like the clappers but without much direction leaving massive holes everywhere; chlorate hydrate, an ingredient of sleeping pills, sent the spider to sleep before it even got started; and caffeine, on which many humans like to start the day and tank up on throughout, left the spider incapable of spinning anything better than a ripped stocking. Although I feel for the spiders being spiked with such substances rather than getting high, low or manic of their own free will, I am pleased to note that caffeine has the same effect on the garden spider as it does on me!
NORMAL WEB
No, I am stopped in my tracks at every turn, down every pat, in forced limbo, by our ubiquitous friend the common garden spider – diadem, orb-weaver, cross spider, araneus diadematus, whatever you want to call it – and it's deathtrap web.
It's a very clever number the garden spider. Not only does it construct the most intricate and sticky web with which to catch it's prey, and does so on a daily basis if required, it appears to be something of a master curator.
Every web I come across is placed, just so, to catch the evening light, presenting a breathtaking exhibition of spun gold. It's a running show with a daily performance; garden spiders have been observed eating their web, catch and all, of a night before spinning a new web in the morning.
Inside each filigree masterpiece stands the artist, proud and predatory, with the characteristic white cross on its fat back and yellow and black stockings that glow translucent in the sun. The webs are said to be spun by the larger females, a last stance before they die in late autumn having done their duty as mates and mothers, keeping safe precious bundles of eggs – often carrying them around in specially spun silk sacks – until they are unable to hunt or feed anymore.
If you want to get a better insight into how the garden spider spins its web, click on this clip of Chris Packham interviewing spider woman Emma Shaw. Or, as he says, find a spider in the first throws of a weaving, settle down for an hour and watch in wonder.
The silk is spun from spinnerets located on the underside of the spider's abdomen and skilfully woven by the garden spider's third pair of legs which are not so useful on the ground (a bit like our hands perhaps!). Observe how she lays the first lines down, often three or four feet up in the air, temporarily balancing the super strong thread – stronger by weight than steel – on a centre point if she cannot jump from desired starting and ending point. The spoke threads come next, using non-sticky silk so she can move around without getting stuck. And finally the orb threads, the highly adhesive magnum opus.
Beware fly, wasp, bee or even butterfly. One ill timed or badly navigated flight into the spider's pantry and you're chutney. We even witnessed a naive red admiral turned into a kite by a single thread of steely silk, though in this case we did intervene and set the poor thing free. Death by bondage, not my ideal way to die, but at least I could appreciate the art while waiting for my reckoning.
In trying to shoot the moment where the late evening sun hits the spider's orb, I'm virtually transported to the graveyard acid trip scenes of Easy Rider. Which reminds me of experiments on spiders 'using' drugs, first by a German pharmacologist, PN Witt in 1948, and later in 1984 by NASA. The first experiments tested spiders with a range of psychoactive drugs including amphetamine, mescaline, strychnine, LSD and that old household favourite, caffeine. Apparently the initial study was on request from a colleague, HM Peters, who wanted to shift the time when webs were usually spun – between 2am and 5am – which annoyed him, to an earlier slot. Unfortunately for Peters the experiments found that the size and shape of the web was altered, not the time when it was built.
NASA's experiments showed that spiders on marijuana lost concentration halfway through; benzedrine made them spin like the clappers but without much direction leaving massive holes everywhere; chlorate hydrate, an ingredient of sleeping pills, sent the spider to sleep before it even got started; and caffeine, on which many humans like to start the day and tank up on throughout, left the spider incapable of spinning anything better than a ripped stocking. Although I feel for the spiders being spiked with such substances rather than getting high, low or manic of their own free will, I am pleased to note that caffeine has the same effect on the garden spider as it does on me!
NORMAL WEB
CAFFEINE WEB
LSD WEB
Monday, 26 September 2011
Not much going on in the way of nature today
A friend wants to meet at Westfield Stratford City to buy some maternity clothes. I cordially oblige (I know that feeling when you wake up one morning and your emerging bump says no to all of your clothes) and suggest we meet on the big 'rusty' bridge that links the Ye Olde Stratford with shiny new Stratford City; i'm not one for shopping but I like to ruminate over the new view the bridge provides over the railway tracks: Stratford to Paris.
Not much going on in the way of nature today, I think, as I make my way from Forest Gate along Earlham Grove, searching for something interesting to point out to Sylvester. The flaky 'camouflage bark' on the London planes that line so many of our London streets seems a good item for today's show and tell, until I realise that the pale yellow hue at the base of the particular specimen I'm pointing out is actually tinted with urine. Man, beast or both, I try not to dwell. Thank goodness the self-peeling plane can rid itself of pollution.
The good thing about being holed up in a pop-up glass city for the best part of a beautiful autumn day is that you just cannot wait to get outside again. We stop on the bridge to look at the view again before making our descent to what I understand as ground level (as opposed to the ground level at the top of the bridge three floors up; someone obviously had their head in the clouds when they did the signage).
Look east, look west, north or south (if you strain your neck), there's hardly a tree in sight, only a threadbare carpet of moss on the railway line to call green. It's hard to imagine the Lower Lea Valley as verdant pasture, marsh and wetland before centuries of human exploit reduced it to the urban jungle we see today. Hopefully parts of the proposed Olympic Park will go some way to restoring this part of the Lea Valley to its forgotten former glory. I'm not sure Anish Kapoor's ArcelorMittal Orbit counts as a tree...
We reach ground level and stop at the foot of Rust Bridge to read about the 'Shoal' - a giant kinetic sculpture of titanium 'leaves', project name Stratford Island - that will wrap its way around the old shopping centre and Meridian Square. How fish came into the equation I'm not sure, something to do with the island perhaps? I hope there will be some real leaves brought into the mix too. For the moment I can't quite lose the feeling that I'm standing in a huge fish tank, complete with plastic city, about to be attacked by man-eating goldfish.
A murmur of starlings mark their territory on the giant staircase that leads up to Westfield. There's a lot of feather puffing and wolf whistling going on. A group of males shed their uniform in a bid to impress the ladies who are adding extra shimmerings of green and purple. The resulting cacophony breaks the spell and we're out of the fish bowl. Bit early for a moot though I think. Isn't all that murmuring supposed to go on in mid-winter? Sylvester raises his eyebrows as if to signal the start of our journey home. Come on mum.
Watch and learn I say. A murmur of starlings is a force to be reckoned with. A flock once roosted on the hands of Big Ben and put the time back by nearly five minutes.
Sylvester yawns. Thought you said there wasn't much going on in the way of nature today he says.
Not much going on in the way of nature today, I think, as I make my way from Forest Gate along Earlham Grove, searching for something interesting to point out to Sylvester. The flaky 'camouflage bark' on the London planes that line so many of our London streets seems a good item for today's show and tell, until I realise that the pale yellow hue at the base of the particular specimen I'm pointing out is actually tinted with urine. Man, beast or both, I try not to dwell. Thank goodness the self-peeling plane can rid itself of pollution.
The good thing about being holed up in a pop-up glass city for the best part of a beautiful autumn day is that you just cannot wait to get outside again. We stop on the bridge to look at the view again before making our descent to what I understand as ground level (as opposed to the ground level at the top of the bridge three floors up; someone obviously had their head in the clouds when they did the signage).
Look east, look west, north or south (if you strain your neck), there's hardly a tree in sight, only a threadbare carpet of moss on the railway line to call green. It's hard to imagine the Lower Lea Valley as verdant pasture, marsh and wetland before centuries of human exploit reduced it to the urban jungle we see today. Hopefully parts of the proposed Olympic Park will go some way to restoring this part of the Lea Valley to its forgotten former glory. I'm not sure Anish Kapoor's ArcelorMittal Orbit counts as a tree...
We reach ground level and stop at the foot of Rust Bridge to read about the 'Shoal' - a giant kinetic sculpture of titanium 'leaves', project name Stratford Island - that will wrap its way around the old shopping centre and Meridian Square. How fish came into the equation I'm not sure, something to do with the island perhaps? I hope there will be some real leaves brought into the mix too. For the moment I can't quite lose the feeling that I'm standing in a huge fish tank, complete with plastic city, about to be attacked by man-eating goldfish.
A murmur of starlings mark their territory on the giant staircase that leads up to Westfield. There's a lot of feather puffing and wolf whistling going on. A group of males shed their uniform in a bid to impress the ladies who are adding extra shimmerings of green and purple. The resulting cacophony breaks the spell and we're out of the fish bowl. Bit early for a moot though I think. Isn't all that murmuring supposed to go on in mid-winter? Sylvester raises his eyebrows as if to signal the start of our journey home. Come on mum.
Watch and learn I say. A murmur of starlings is a force to be reckoned with. A flock once roosted on the hands of Big Ben and put the time back by nearly five minutes.
Sylvester yawns. Thought you said there wasn't much going on in the way of nature today he says.
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Mesmerised
Talking autumn colours; reading Robert Macfarlane's piece on Kacper Kowalski's aerial photos of the autumnal Polish forest in Saturday's Guardian. Eloquently written and beautifully shot. I am reminded of email exchanges with Robert while compiling Nature Tales, in which he would always make me think deeper about a word or observation.
Upon commenting that I found the stillness of a lake in Sweden 'mesmerising' he returned with: 'I love the idea that stillness was mesmerising. I think automatically of mesmerism as a function of movement, and am now glad to think of it as also possibly a function of stasis.'
I remain mesmerised by the possibilities of mesmerising today.
Upon commenting that I found the stillness of a lake in Sweden 'mesmerising' he returned with: 'I love the idea that stillness was mesmerising. I think automatically of mesmerism as a function of movement, and am now glad to think of it as also possibly a function of stasis.'
I remain mesmerised by the possibilities of mesmerising today.
Golddiggers
Driving through the forest last Friday, Tom and I talk about the order of autumnal colour. Have we ever really thought about which tree turns first?
The horse chestnut, we note, has stripped off early and left the roadside trees of Epping and Woodford bare save for a lonely conker case or two. Exposed branches silhouette against the early evening sky, a sign for other trees to follow; limbs outstretched and bathing in the last of the sunshine like solar panels storing up heat for an anticipated cold spell.
But the beech, birch, oak and the hornbeam show no definite sign of losing their handsome green cloaks. As much of Epping forest is populated by these four trees, so our journey back home is awash with a luminous green glow thrown out from the abundant canopy on either side of the road.
Still, we keep hunting for a burnished leaf, a golden prize that must be won before we get home. 'There!' we shout. 'On the left!' But every time a 'bronzed leaf' turns out to be a bunch of leathery ash keys, sun-dried acorns shrinking from their cups before falling to the ground, or beech masts peeking out of their four-cornered burrs. Nuts and seeds. Fools gold. We feel cheated.
Thank goodness then for the lime, proffering the odd flash of acid yellow, as we turn into Wanstead Flats. Autumn is here at last, we can relax.
The horse chestnut, we note, has stripped off early and left the roadside trees of Epping and Woodford bare save for a lonely conker case or two. Exposed branches silhouette against the early evening sky, a sign for other trees to follow; limbs outstretched and bathing in the last of the sunshine like solar panels storing up heat for an anticipated cold spell.
But the beech, birch, oak and the hornbeam show no definite sign of losing their handsome green cloaks. As much of Epping forest is populated by these four trees, so our journey back home is awash with a luminous green glow thrown out from the abundant canopy on either side of the road.
Still, we keep hunting for a burnished leaf, a golden prize that must be won before we get home. 'There!' we shout. 'On the left!' But every time a 'bronzed leaf' turns out to be a bunch of leathery ash keys, sun-dried acorns shrinking from their cups before falling to the ground, or beech masts peeking out of their four-cornered burrs. Nuts and seeds. Fools gold. We feel cheated.
Thank goodness then for the lime, proffering the odd flash of acid yellow, as we turn into Wanstead Flats. Autumn is here at last, we can relax.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Grape harvest at Hazel End Farm
Enticed by the promise of a steak lunch, a couple of bottles of homegrown vino and the romantic illusion of standing knee deep in grape juice, we jumped at the chance to join the grape harvest at Hazel End Farm.
Friday, 23 September 2011
Raining acorns
Thank goodness the old oak tree has such a stout trunk and good, strong and wide branches to support the abundant crop of acorns this year.
So heavy is the load, it appears that the squirrel has forgotten to stock his larder.
And so we watch and listen as the forgotten fruit falls, one every minute, pelting the unwitting passers by.
So heavy is the load, it appears that the squirrel has forgotten to stock his larder.
And so we watch and listen as the forgotten fruit falls, one every minute, pelting the unwitting passers by.
So long summer
My dear friend Epping Forest on the first day of autumn, specifically High Beach (or High Beech depending which signpost you're reading). Where else to usher in the new season and happily put pen to paper again?
Although we didn't make it for the actual Autumn equinox, just after 9am this morning, we did watch the sun go down behind the ancient beech, birch, oak and hornbeam and so bid a poetic goodbye to summer on an otherwise perfect summer's day...
Although we didn't make it for the actual Autumn equinox, just after 9am this morning, we did watch the sun go down behind the ancient beech, birch, oak and hornbeam and so bid a poetic goodbye to summer on an otherwise perfect summer's day...
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