Birds of a feather

We're standing at the window of Tom's mum's kitchen, wondering where all the birds have gone. Tom spots a magpie in the apple tree where several bird houses are placed, perhaps the culprit behind the grand exodus of blackbirds, tits and other smaller feathered friends. Liz laments the loss of her usual chirping flocks.

A cat once occupied the whole of one birdhouse – goodness knows how it got in there – hence the extra 'railings' along one side of it. The railings don't deter squirrels however. Wherever a tiny bird wishes to perch there seems to be a predator. Only the odd brave robin dares to tread where other birds may only dream.

And then, just as we have given up hope of ever seeing the old regulars again, I spot a long feathered tail behind a ripe, pendulous apple. The tail is black and grey where it catches the light, giving way to a softly blushing breast and dusky pink flashes above its wings. 'A long-tailed tit,' announces Liz.

At this point we would have been happy with just one bird. But before we know it, the tree has more tits than apples. A whole flock of long-tailed tits has landed – a family of parents, children and nest-builders – and brought with them some blue tits to boot. Friends. They are noisy and excitable, spreading the news as they jump from twig to twig. Last orders at the bar: maggots ahoy.

They are temporary visitors, gone as quickly as they arrived as these flocks are oft to do, but the sight really does make us smile. The magpie has been told.

Watch long-tailed tits building their funnel like, feather-lined feathers...

The bean tree and the garden within

The Serpentine Gallery Pavilion 2011 by Peter Zumthor

It's a beautiful autumnal day – bright blue sky and kaleidoscopic trees – and we're heading over to the Serpentine Gallery for the launch brunch of the Garden Marathon, hosted by DLD, where are friends the Cyclones are playing.

We walk down from Lancaster Gate tube station, through the gate of the same name that leads into Kensington Gardens. The Italian Gardens are shrouded by scaffolding; it's not the most attractive vista to mark our entrance to the park but work is afoot to restore the stonework, flint walls, benches and formal promenade of the five small fountains and the monumental Tazza Fountain. Apparently an eco-friendly water system is also being installed to benefit the Serpentine and attract wildlife.

Within seconds we are past the scaffolding and walking along the bank of the Long Water as this stretch of the Serpentine is called. I haven't been in this park for several years, I forgot how easily urban London fades away thanks to the rolling parkland, trees and resident wildlife: ducks, swans and even a heron. We stop for a while to admire its ruffled neck feathers and elegant pose before heading past the Peter Pan statue and across to the gallery itself.

There is much mingling going on. I try to balance a bowl of kedgeree in one hand while holding our blooming bundle Sylvester with the other. It's quite a job so we leave Tom to it and go outside to check out the trees and this year's Serpentine Gallery Pavilion.

Indian Bean Tree

I'm pleased to spot a couple of Indian Bean Trees, proudly displaying their large heart-shaped leaves and long pod 'beans' which are actually nuts. We first noticed this tree outside of the swimming pool in Leyton, around the time our tree obsession truly kicked in. Its leaves are so big and floppy I wondered if it was a relative of the handkerchief tree that my friend Charlie once showed me in Regents Park.

The Indian Bean, however, does not come from such exotic shores as the Handkerchief or Dove tree – which hails from China. It originates from America, and should perhaps be named the Native American Bean Tree. Either way it is a gorgeous thing to stand under, especially with such a powder blue sky against which to throw a silhouette.

Beyond the Indian Bean Trees, the 2011 pavilion stretches black and forbidding. I have not read about the context of this year's architectural installation so I am amazed when I walk inside. Providing inspiration for the weekend's garden-themed talks and events, Peter Zumthor's hortus conclusus (originally developed in the core of medieval monasteries as self-contained gardens that would act as safe places for both plants and thought, gardens to inspire silence and observation) comprises a garden within a garden, a haven from the chaos of London.

The exterior does not embrace the park as other  pavilions have done, but neither does it fight with it. It draws you in – and once inside, what a sight: the sweetest greeting of wild and ornamental flowers running the length of the pavilion under an immense skylight that appears to hover above, cut to size by the pavilion's black sloping walls. Around the edge of the garden is seating from which to enjoy and observe the space and flowers within.

Monks hood, wild parsnip, aster, tufted hair grass, rusty foxglove, masterwork, bugbane, Joe Pye weed, milkweed, wax flower, purple moor grass, knot weed, soft shield fern, hyssop skullcap, milk parsley, betony, poor man's orchid and meadow rue – I read the common names of Piet Oudolf's planting with delight from the accompanying book and the fact that many of the chosen flowers attract bees and butterflies.

Planting by Piet Oudolf, a walk through a summer meadow

Purple, pink, bronze, white, green, gold, yellow, misty, swaying, hazy, gentle, breezy, trumpet, constellations, meadow, summer, stop, don't stop. This is a message transmitted from somewhere inside my own head, a telegram from my retina. I would like to see Piet Oudolf's High Line in New York too.

In Peter Zumthor's own words: ' A garden is the most intimate ensemble I know of. It is close to us. There we cultivate the plants we need. A garden requires care and protection. And so we encircle it, we defend and fend for it. We give it shelter. The garden turns into a place.

'Enclosed gardens fascinate me. A forerunner of this fascination is my love of the fenced vegetable gardens on farms in the Alps, where farmers' wives often planted flowers as well. I love the image of these small rectangles  cut out of vast alpine meadows, the fence keeping the animals out. There is something else that strikes me in this image of a garden fenced off within the larger landscape around it: something small has found sanctuary within something big.

'The hortus conclusus that I dream of is enclosed all around and open to the sky. Every time I imagine a garden in an architectural setting, it turns into a magical place. I think of gardens that I have seen, that I believe I have seen, that I long to see, surrounded by simple walls, columns, arcades or the facades of buildings - sheltered places of great intimacy where I want to stay for a long time.'

I would like to stay here for a long time. It comes down today, to make way for next year's pavilion, so I will have to keep it tended in my mind.

'Long Boat, Narrow Boat, Short-flying Boat'

'Long Boat, Narrow Boat, Short-flying Boat' – so reads the cast iron plaque on the back wall of the Victoria Miro gallery in East London. Created by the artist and poet Ian Hamilton Finlay, the inscription is an ironic reflection on man's idea of progress and a watery nod to the canal in the gallery's back yard. It's also a slice of Finlay's polemical garden Little Sparta located in the Pentland Hills, southern Scotland.

It's Frieze week in London, when the annual Frieze Art Fair in Regents Park brings together more than 170 galleries from around the world; and artists, collectors, curators, writers and generally interested parties with their hands on an invite swarm into numerous private views and after dos around town. This after is the opening of three exhibition at Victoria Miro – Doug Aitken, Tal R and Maria Nepomuceno – and we are standing outside in the garden for a spot of fresh air and a breather after climbing the vertiginous stairs that scale three floors.


It's a treat to visit a gallery that has a garden, and such a beautiful one at that. A unique, landscaped space on a restored stretch of the Regent's Canal at Wenlocks Basin it provides the backdrop for a revolving programme of events and exhibition pieces, but is also worthy of view in its own right.


Set at the back of the 8,000-square-foot former furniture gallery that is now occupied by Victoria Miro and the Parasol Unit, the garden is a world away from the shove and scramble of nearby City Road and its resident Macdonalds on the corner of Wharf Road. A huge birch tree hangs over the pond, water lilies drift on the surface, spiky foliage whispers of water iris that bloomed over summer. The tree is a magnificent specimen, its trunk available for inspection at the water's edge, its canopy currently invigilating Tal R's Science Fiction show on the third floor through the huge picture window. Shimmering leaves and dark rainbows of pigment and hare skin glue.

When Ian Hamilton Finlay's show Definitions opened in Spring this year, two nautical works were placed in the garden: Homage to Villa d'Este (1975) – a fountain spewing aircraft carrier referencing the elaborate foundation in the Renaissance gardens of the Villa d'Este in Tivoli – and Evolution of the Boat (1995), the cast iron plaque mentioned above. Homage to Villa d'Este was placed on the pond when local water fowl were nesting on the banks of the canal; one intrepid moorhen attempted to nest on top of it, a true meeting of nature and culture that would have made Finlay proud. Not sure if the moorhen hatched any chicks while on board but hopefully they didn't get confused about which service they were in – the air force or the navy...

Other works of note that have graced the garden include Narcissus Garden by Yayoi Kusama, a work dating back to 1966 when Kusama first participated in the 33rd Venice Biennale. Hundreds of mirrored spheres were let loose on the water in what the artist called a 'kinetic carpet'; just one of several reincarnations of the piece that have been unveiled since its first reveal at the biennale where Kusama attempted to sell off each ball for the equivalent of $2. The bienalle organisers put an end to her enterprise, allowing the artist the opportunity to critique the mechanisation and commodification of the art market at the time through her work. I didn't see Narcissus Garden when it was here, so I'll have to be content with my imagination, in which the late autumn sun has turned the spheres golden, and each is worth a small fortune.

The current outdoor exhibit is by the Brazilian artist Maria Nepomuceno. Entitled The Force, it spills over the decked terrace and a wooden rowing boat, a rambunctious sprawl of brightly coloured woven ropes, baubles, beads and ceramic forms. Each of the materials used is meant to represent the four elements in nature – water, fire, earth and air – and together to achieve a delicate, rhythmic equilibrium.

I'm not sure how I feel about the installation per se. It is meant to balance feminine forms and aggressiveness as it appears to drag along a boat found in its path and apparently references Yemanjá, a divinity worshipped by the Afro-Brazilian Candomlé religion, known as the Queen of the Sea. I am more swayed by the fact that the rope used requires brute force to sew by hand (a sadistic streak uncovered?) but in the end maybe I have just visited too many soft play areas recently and can't draw a line between the two. Sylvester is looking longingly at the balls and I am thinking about taking a siesta in a hammock and kind of wishing one of Doug Aitken's smashed mirror installations was swimming in the pond like a wayward MagiCam in search of a displaced moorhen...

The lasting conclusion is, more galleries should have gardens. Visit this one if you have a chance.

Bindwood and lovestone

Ivy (Hedera helix) flowers and berries

Bindwood and lovestone might sound like a detective series but both words are common regional names for that ubiquitous woodland and architectural creeper, ivy.

I've become a little obsessed with the plant of late. Two friends were recently planning the flowers for another friends wedding; whether or not one should include ivy in a bouquet or table arrangement became a bone of contention. Ivy was duly dismissed from the proceedings as common. Without further ado it was sent to the back of the class along with that other romantic underdog the carnation.

I'm always quick to jump to the defence of a beleaguered flower or plant, annoyingly so some might say, especially when they're trying to out irksome weeds from the garden. In this respect, ivy has now joined plants such as the dandelion and buttercup that must be defended at all cost and in all conversation.

On preparing the case for ivy, or hedera helix (the word helix from the Ancient Greek meaning to twist or turn) as Britain's most common species of ivy is known, there has not been a tree, wall or building that has escaped my notice if it has even the tiniest bit of ivy growing upon it. I have become fundamentally sensitised to its windings ways and its evergreen prowess. And ivy, for its part, has put on a fabulous show.

Even if I hadn't been on the lookout for case-making facts and features, this autumn's display of ivy flowers has been nothing short of spectacular. Maybe I haven't noticed them with such diligence or perhaps they are one of a number of flowering plants that have bloomed for a second time or with greater abundance thanks to a warm spring and wet summer (in this group I must also give a quick mention to the strawberries that are flowering in our garden for the umpteenth time).

For those in my vicinity, there is an amazing display of ivy flowers on the side of Barclays Bank in Bow. The flowers here are literally climbing the walls, hitching a lift on a cascade of large glossy leaves that grow in dense, whirling clusters. Here, ivy lives up to its name as a 'living curtain'.

The flowers, the larger unlobed leaves and the independent stems, in addition to its impressive climb up the entire side of a two-storey building, are a sign of a mature specimen that has been allowed to grow in full sun; juvenile ivy of this type, often found in shadier spots and closer to the ground, has smaller palmately lobed leaves and climbing stems that put out small aerial roots that affix to the bark or wall below.

Look closer still and the yellowish starburst flowers, that make the ivy appear variegated from afar, are multi-stemmed affairs. Each flower is actually an umbel – an inflorescence of short flower stalks that are arranged like the spokes of a parasol, coming out from a central point. They are rich in nectar, and at this time of year, a valuable source of food for bees and other insects: holly blue caterpillars (which feed on the flower buds), wasps, hornets, hoverflies, red admirals, small tortoiseshells and peacock butterflies cite the RSPB. The flowers also give way to blackish berries, that provide an important winter feast for birds including blackbirds and thrushes.

By this point, I've already sold ivy to myself. It's right up there in the, well, the Ivy League. But not everyone will be so easily swerved from ivy's dark side. It has a reputation, not only as a much maligned bridal flower, but as a strangulating imposter; the cuckoo of woodland flora, implanting itself of its own freewill and sapping the strength from unsuspecting trees until they eventually topple over. Or a vine with a mind of its own that ravages walls and buildings and tramples through ornamental gardens.

In fact, woodland ivy cannot grow with wild, tree-toppling abandon unless it has enough sunlight. Many of the trees it curls itself around have a thick enough canopy for a good part of the year to suppress ivy's access to light and keep it in check. Ivy has its own root system that absorbs water and nutrients from the ground; unlike mistletoe –  parasite proper – that sucks the life from its host. As for attacking buildings, a structural default such as a crack or loose mortar must exist in its own right for the ivy to exploit. Ornamental gardens, well they need gardeners who are willing to keep ivy at their beck and call; if tended with care, it will reward.

Ivy also provides vital food and shelter for nesting birds and roosting bats. For some creatures, it is a much loved high-rise home. As for the ground-creeping infant ivy, its foliage can protect the earth from the elements and help to retain some moisture for understory animals.

I could go on a bit more in the name of ivy but I think I've made my point – and anyway I have some more bee-friendly ivy flowers to salute.

In search of the wild service tree

Found a copy of The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady (Edith Holden, 1906 - first published in the UK by Michael Joseph in 1977) today at our local secondhand bookshelf (which could never be described as a bookshop, nor would I want it to be).

Writing exactly 105 years ago on 10 October 1906, Miss Holden marvels at a vision of wild service trees as their leaves begin to turn, the upper part of the tree 'crimson and scarlet' and the lower 'deep orange'.

I know there are wild service trees in Epping Forest and will make it my mission to find one this autumn before its fiery show is over. With leaf colour like that, it shouldn't be too hard...

So what of the seahorse

We are standing on the deck of HMS President, Maritime Reserve Unit, on the invitation of Tom's Uncle Howard and Aunty Val. The occasion is a happy one – a 50th wedding anniversary – and we are outside in order to pose for a group photograph. As we look westward from our spot on St Katherine's Dock, admiring the view of Tower Bridge and beyond, Tom's mum Liz tells us the news that seahorses have been found in the Thames. The idea that these murky waters harbour such a magical, affectionate visitor seems fittingly romantic considering the premise on which we are gathered here.

Indeed the potentially monogamous seahorse (for at least the duration of a breeding season even for the low fidelity species) could be an inspiration to us all. Add co-parenting and male gestation and I'd say the seahorse is definitely a keeper. From their pre-dawn dance, in which a male and female seahorse wheel around in unison gripping the same strand of seagrass with their tails, to the true courtship dance that can last for as long as eight hours and allows the male to open his pouch for the female to deposit her eggs, and finally the fertilisation, gestation and birth – some seahorses give birth to an incredible 1,200 fry in one go – the couple stay together and support each other. Throughout gestation, which can last between two to four weeks, a female seahorse will visit her pregnant partner daily for morning greetings, interacting for about six minutes. Sweet, loving courtship, regular space and the male swells up while the female stays slim during reproduction. The perfect relationship!

The seahorse of which Liz speaks was discovered at Greenwich; a rare short-snouted 5cm-long juvenile seahorse to be exact, suggesting a breeding colony may be present in the river. Short-snouted seahorses have previously been found in several spots on the south coast – at Dagenham, Tilbury and Southend according to monitoring by London Zoo between 2006 and 2008 – but this is the furthest upriver the species has been discovered to date. And according to Emma Barton at the Environment Agency: 'This is a really good sign that seahorse populations are not only increasing but spreading to locations where they haven't been seen before.' The Environment Agency also confirmed that the seahorse was alive when captured and was released unharmed.

So what of our new friend the short-snouted seahorse? Well, this is an endangered species that normally lives around the Canary Islands and Italy. Hippocampus hippocampus, as the species is also known – hippocampus from the Ancient Greek hippos meaning horse and kappos meaning sea monster – is also usually found in shallow muddy waters, estuaries or seagrass beds; conservationists believe that their presence in the Thames is a good sign that the water quality of the river is improving and becoming a sustainable bio-diverse habitat for aquatic life. So our little short nosed creature is also the bearer of good news.

Thankfully these seahorses are now also protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 and thus, conservationists are also more relaxed about telling the world they are here. Aquarists at the London Zoo are also studying their life history and behaviour so their wild habitats can be protected. And this, hopefully, means these amazing equine fish will hopefully be here to stay.

Watch Kate Humble observing British seahorses beneath the waters of Studland Bay in Dorset

Birds Britannia

I loved last night's rerun episode of Birds Britannia, produced by the lovely Stephen Moss who I had the pleasure of meeting last year when he co-chaired the panel discussion at the Nature Tales launch.

Sadly, it was the last in the four-part series, which included episodes on Garden Birds, Waterbirds, Seabirds and Countryside Birds.

Of particular interest was the section on skylarks, a bird that has seen a huge decline in numbers over the past 50 years primarily due to changes in farming practice. It now has RSPB Red Status, the highest conservation priority. I was truly amazing to see how commonplace these birds once were in the British countryside and learn how the skylark's song gave brief relief or torment to the trench soldiers of World War I; a sound of home, a sound of freedom.

Nearby Wanstead Flats is known for its skylark population, now the biggest in inner London, and vigorously protected by local conservationists. If you're lucky you can see skylarks hovering above the grassland, singing their little hearts out. Apparently they even sing when they dive-bomb back down to earth. I've yet to see one poking it's tufted head out of its tussock nest.

Wanstead Flats was also home to a PoW camp during WWII. I wonder if the skylarks also provided torment or solace to the German soldiers camped there...

If you missed Birds Britannia there's still time to catch the Countryside Birds episode on BBC iPlayer

Or buy the book, published earlier this year: Birds Britannia: Why the British Fell in Love with Birds by Stephen Moss (Collins, March 2011).

Stephen's latest book, an extract of which also appears in Nature Tales, should also be a good read: Wild Hares and Hummingbirds: The Natural History of a English Village by Stephen Moss (Square Peg, September 2011).

British Tree Week

British Tree Week (3-9 October 2011) began on Monday. Organised by Bosch Lawn and Garden and run in correlation with the Ramblers A Walk in the Woods Week, its launch survey highlights how many people are unable to recognise common or native tree species in the UK. The survey of 1,000 people found that one fifth of young people thought acorns grew on willow trees and a quarter of those surveyed couldn't name the trees in their garden.

I can relate to this survey without being judgmental. Although I do know the provenance of an acorn, a conker and a sycamore – and am pretty sure this was learnt as a very young child – the more I read about trees the more I realise how in the dark I have been. How little did I know about some of our most common species, the hornbeam and the hawthorn for example? Could I recognise a horse chestnut, an oak or an ash from their wintry silhouette? What's the difference between a coppice and a pollard?

I happened to be reading about trees earlier this year just as the trees burst into bud. The more I read, the more fascinating they became. Tree discussions became an everyday affair. Walks in the forest were insisted upon. Before we knew it, Tom and I were bonafide tree-spotting addicts.

In homage to British Tree Week I've therefore put together a list of essential tree books. Wildwood: A Journey Through Trees by the wonderful Roger Deakin has to be top of my list, with the Collins Complete Guide to British Trees firmly ensconced in our glove compartment for quick reference.

TOP TREE BOOKS

Wildwood: A Journey Through Trees, Roger Deakin (Penguin, 2008)
Collins Complete Guide to British Trees, Paul Sterry (HarperCollins, 2007)
The Secret Life of Trees: How They Live and Why They Matter, Colin Tudge (Penguin, 2006)
Out of the Woods: The Armchair Guide to Trees, Will Cohu (Short Books, 2007)
Collins Tree Guide, David More & Owen Johnson (Collins, 2004)
A Year in the Woods: The Diary of a Forest Ranger, Colin Elford (Hamish Hamilton, 2010)
Beechcombings: The Narratives of Trees, Richard Mabey (Chatto and Windus, 2007)


The Woodland Trust also have a helpful section on their website that can help the lesser spotted tree lover match a leaf, seed or silhouette to its rightful owner. And for those with a smart phone there are a couple of great tree apps: try TreeId and WinterTreeId.

And so the understory

I wilfully plucked the word understory from the glossary of Colin Elford's book A Year in the Woods. As he writes: 'A shrub layer below the forest canopy that receives little light.'

Brilliantly, although I would not suggest this was Colin's desired effect, the briefness of this description (as befits a glossary) insisted that I go immediately and expand upon the definition; a minimalist movement.

Such is the ambience of the understory. It creeps up on you, a shrub here and a sapling there. It doesn't parade its strength or beauty as a great tree might. It exists in the shadows, in dappled light, in the shade of the overstory – the canopy of branches and leaves above.

As described in a previous post, the understory of Epping Forest includes seedlings and saplings of oak, hornbeam, beech and birch, holly, bracken, hawthorn, ivy and moss. In spring and summer there are also wildflowers such as bluebells, wood anemones and other native wildflowers. And within the understory, amid the rotting leaves and debris or snuggled in a carpet of moss or lichen live bacteria and fungi. The understory is a haven for insects, birds and animals; deer, squirrel, rabbits, voles, foxes... we've even seen a duck or too.

Many of the seedlings and saplings don't grow past a certain size. Their lifespan is determined by the canopy above. If they want to live a long life they must pick their spot well; choose an open spot or better still, nestle under a nurse tree that will provide optimum shade and sunlight and detract animals such as deer that might like nothing better than a tasty shoot for lunch. Nurse trees can be of a different species or the same and are often killed off by a pushy sapling that eventually takes the majority of its resources. When a nurse tree dies, it rots into the ground and delivers an even greater abundance of nutrients to it's charge.

I'm drawn to the understory for many reasons. To walk with Sylvester in the forest is to gain a new perspective on its many layers. Lying down in his pram he stares at the canopy above. Sitting up, he can choose from an eye level view, tilt his head to continue his gaze upwards or scan the ground to see what's on the forest floor as it glides past him. I am more aware of the understory simply because he is of understory height, at an understory age and in an understory world of sorts.

And then we have the understory, the backstory, the hidden or secondary tale. In novels, a backstory is often used to lend depth or verisimilitude to a primary narrative. In the same vein, the woodland understory tells us much about the forest above. It can be hidden and secretive but extraordinarily expansive upon closer inspection.

Out of the understory: emerge from it, belong to it, or leave it. I choose to keep one foot in it, at least, as a reminder to remember to look for the hidden depths and the details.

Cuckoo Brook

We are horrendously hungover after a rare night out á deux but Sylvester does not afford us the luxury of sleep. The only solution, the one that suits us all, is to go for a walk in the forest.

Granny Liz (Sylvester's granny, that is) who kindly let us stay for the night, lives right on the edge of Epping Forest, on the Chingford side, so we are fortunate to step out of the door and straight into our proposed hangover cure.

It works a treat. For starters, it's the most beautiful day. Up to 29ºC predicted the weatherman but surprisingly, and thankfully given our current condition, it doesn't feel too humid. We walk across a shimmering Chingford Plain – complete with a full complement of sea cadets taking part in a training camp (even though I feel ropey I envy them somehow!) – and into the shade of the trees along one of the old rides.

I glance back as we disappear under the canopy of oak, beech and hornbeam to catch a last glimpse of Queen Elizabeth's Hunting Lodge, originally known as the Great Standing and built by Henry VIII in 1543. I wonder if a monarch would also find refuge in the forest the morning after the night before; jump on a fine steed and gallop into the dappled glade. They'd probably have a couple of servants to bring them some refreshments though!

I'm dawdling behind Tom and Liz, willing the balmy light to take the edge off me. I look up at the hornbeam tassels, the winged seeds that easily differentiate this handsome tree from the beech, whose leaves are a similar size and shape. The tassels look brown and crunchy, ready to drop off and contribute to a new autumnal soundtrack on the forest floor. Whatever seasonal outfit they're wearing hornbeam tassels always make me smile. The smooth grey bark also looks as inviting as a swimming pool. I could nip off for a few seconds perhaps and stretch out along its twisted form.

The understory in this neck of the woods is primarily made up of young saplings of hornbeam, oak, beech and birch; bracken; holly, glossy-leaved and resplendent with bright red berries; hawthorn; brambles; ivy; and moss. We weave our way through it to get to Cuckoo Brook. It's one of the most magical places I know; a favourite stamping ground for three generations of Ellis family.

A natural stream that joins the overflow from Connaught Water and eventually flows into the River Ching, Cuckoo Brook is a meandering series of bends, with at least one ox-bow. According to Ken Hoy's book Getting to know Epping Forest, large flints known as pot boilers have been found here, reputedly heated in fire by early man and used to boil water. Well if I was an early forest dweller I would certainly settle here.

Trees bend and drape across the stream; water flows or trickles gently, depending on the time of year, rainfall and the overflow from the golf course and from land to the north of The Owl pub; and the dappled light dances across the winding dips and banks, plays in the stream and tickles the feet of surrounding tree trunks.

The general consensus is, we never want to leave.

October

M

A few weeks ago, a neighbour's little boy was given the task of presenting a 'show and tell' of his walk to nursery school. It's a relatively short journey (although both mother and son might sometimes disagree) but certainly not short on food for thought, especially for budding young naturalists urged to keep their eyes peeled.

On the week prior to the show and tell – the look and find section as it were – this young man proceeded to present me with various seeds, leaves, twigs and a few pieces of sensationally seasonal litter. I'm not sure he's ever heard the Shipping Forecast but he also did a pretty good job of a nature narrative in the style of: 'Claremont, Osbourne, Woodgrange: sun, slight breeze; piles of leaves, decreasing slightly on the road ahead. Hampton, Osbourne, Claremont; dog, cat, spider, moving east'

The more 'show' he gathered, the more 'tell' he obviously felt the urge to make. I advised him to get a pointing stick too so he could direct less enthusiastic observers to specimens of interest, and tap them gently on an arm or leg if they didn't comply. Sadly, no longer being of nursery age, I wasn't there for his final performance but I gather he swapped the shipping news for a pint-sized Bill Oddie repartee.

I recently stumbled across a collection of Shell Nature Studies, a series of advertising posters produced in 1955 by the controversial Shell Oil Company, and for many the quintessential backdrop to the school show and tell. This particular Nature Studies series comprises twelve 30" x 60" posters, each one corresponding to a month of the year with an illustrative and textual depiction of its seasonal pleasures. The copy is by James Fisher, ornithologist, naturalist, author and broadcaster, with illustrations by Maurice Wilson and design by Rowland Hilder.

I'll be posting each one up on the first of the month, largely because I love them but also with a view to undertaking that grown up strain of show and tell, the then and now. Herewith, October...

'At the oakwood’s edge a small tortoiseshell butterfly (1) flutters in a spider’s web; by the fly agaric toadstools (2) a great tit (3) and a robin (4) turn the autumn leaves for insects and worms. One year only is normally the life of the common shew (5); many lie dead in October.

'Acorns bring business to the red brown, gold-green forest. The jay (6) carries its acorns one by one to safe hiding-places, and may bury them a quarter of a mile away. From those forgotten, new forests grow. The grey squirrel (7) nibbles some, hides others in a winter store. Other customers of the forest fruit-crop are cock pheasant (8) and rooks (9), who, impatient of the acorn’s fall, flutter in the branches as they tear them off.'