Happy as a clam… South Pacific Adventure, part 4

Posted on November 10, 2017 by Becca

The sun smiled on Martin and myself as we headed off on our Sunday-afternoon scooter tour of Aitutaki. We passed very few other people on our circuit of the island: Sunday is very much a day of rest here, so apart from the odd local going fishing everyone seemed to be either in church or relaxing with family at home.

Our first port of call was the Aitutaki Marine Research Centre at the northern tip of the island. This sounds impressive, although once you get there it’s basically some big round tanks full of seawater under a netting canopy, which are full of native clams Tridacna maxima (called pāua in Cook Islands Maori).

Aka the ‘small giant clam’, these pāua have been classified as a conservation-dependent species; which basically means that they will probably be wiped out by over-collecting and pollution, unless their long term future is safeguarded by active conservation measures. On Aitutaki, this takes the form of cultivating baby clams in these tanks, on square slabs on concrete. Once the clams are big enough, these slabs are taken out to sea and placed in a ‘clam nursery’ in the island’s lagoon.

These clams do not rival their bigger cousins, the introduced species of giant clam Tridacna gigas, also found in the surrounding ocean: typically pāua grow to a maximum size of 20 centimetres. But they have traditionally been a much-prized food source to locals, and lately have also become the target of the aquarium trade, because of their gorgeously-coloured and patterned mantles. This amazing colouration is caused by the presence of tiny single-celled algae in the clam’s mantle – plants which produce food by photosynthesis, supplementing the clam’s filter feeding process.

Pāua were once abundant in the reefs and lagoons of the Cook Islands. Nowadays, if you want to find these little clams offshore around the more populated and tourist-visited islands such as Rarotonga and Aitutaki you have to look very hard. I did discover one whilst swimming off the beach at Vaikoa (see photo below)… But when I reported this back to Mama she said that she and her family would go fishing for the pāua if they knew it was there! Mama originally came to Aitutaki from Kiribati (a group of Pacific islands which were a UK colony until 1979). Her husband chose the land at Vaikoa and taught her to fish, because he said he wanted her to be able to survive in old age from being able to find her own food. I sympathise with this: as ever, it’s the complicated issue of the needs of local people being balanced against the ability of the local ecosystem to tolerate the demands being placed upon it. As a wildlife conservationist I was firmly in the little clam’s corner, but I think local people should be involved in decision-making about how marine ecosystems are managed and used; and they should also be paid to carry out the conservation work to preserve these beautiful creatures.

After seeing the clams we continued our tour: via Vaipeka to view the ginormous fig tree that spans across the road (see my photo at the end of the last chapter of this blog); past Neibaa’s grocery store (the only one on the island which stays open on Sundays); and on down to Vaipae wharf, where Martin sets out for his lagoon fishing trips with local friend Itu.

This eastern shore of the mainland of Aitutaki is very different to the western side where I was staying at Vaikoa. A mud and sand beach stretches out shallowly into the lagoon, looking across towards the islets that fringe it and the island’s popular northeastern-most finger of land, O’otu. In Cook islands Maori, o’otu means “to burn” or “to cook”: I wondered wryly if all the tourists sunbathing on the gorgeous white sand lagoon beaches there knew that. Martin commented that he rarely goes to that part of Aitutaki, because it harbours legions of mosquitoes. (The insects breed in the little pools of water trapped in the leaves of pandanus trees Pandanus arapepe, which grow in that part of the island.)

A sign on some trees at Vaipae gave me the chance to have another local language lesson. Meitaki is Cook Islands generic Maori for “Thank you”, but each island has its own language variant for “Thank you very much”: here in Aitutaki it is meitaki atupaka. I loved the sound of Maori and did my best to learn a few phrases beyond the ubiquitous kia orana (“May you live long”, the Cook Islands equivalent to “Hi there, cool to see ya”)… But it’s definitely a language that takes time and much practice to acquire. I’m of the opinion that if you travel in other people’s home countries it’s both respectful and fun to try to communicate with the locals at least a little in their own language. Whether I actually make myself understood or just make them laugh isn’t really a big deal.

All over the beach at Vaipae there were little tracks and spherical balls of sand, interspersed with small round holes tunneling down into the ground. These it turned out had been made by Narrow-fronted fiddler crabs (Uca tetragonon), local name koro’iti. The males of this characterful little crab species sport a garish large pink claw which they flourish to impress their lady-crab friends. Allegedly. Personally I think any male waving something that flamboyantly pink around might be secretly getting in touch with his own feminine side, which can only be a good thing.

We concluded our clockwise island scooter tour by swinging by Tautu wharf and back through Arutanga and past Ziona Tapu church, on so onward back home to Vaikoa… Where Mama kindly greeted us with a cup of tea and some banana cake, to celebrate Father’s Day, for Martin! Later we made sure we also observed the important ritual of Beer O’Clock on Martin’s beach hut verandah, where a typically stunning sunset put the finishing touch on what had been a wonderful Sunday.

After my day of rest, it was high time I did something useful: so on the following day Martin gave me a lesson in the art of coconut husking and making coconut cream. Firstly, you find a ripe coconut (or ariki). This is never difficult as they are lying on the ground all over the place, and no-one minds if you help yourself to one. Next, you use a metal or wooden spike that’s firmly fixed in the ground to prise off the coconut’s hairy brown husk.

Once husked, you pierce the coconut through two or three of its eyes (using that otherwise pointless sharp poky tool thing on your trusty Swiss army knife), and upend it over a glass to drain out the coconut’s sweet fruity water. Drink this yummy juice (with or without the addition of rum).

Take a machete that Crocodile Dundee would approve of, and very carefully use the back of it (i.e. the blunt edge) to strike the coconut smartly on its equator. A few hits like this, rotating the coconut between each blow, will crack it more or less neatly in half.

The next bit of hi-tech you’ll need is a coconut grater: traditionally they are made from sea shell, but this recycled door hinge screwed onto a bit of plank does the job.

Grate the coconut’s flesh from the shell, starting at the coconut’s top outer edge, then working your way gradually round and into the shell until you’re nearly down to the husk (when you’re done you can ingratiate yourself with the local chickens by giving the husk to them to feast on). Collect the grated coconut flesh in a clean cloth placed below.

Once you’ve filled your clean cloth with grated coconut, you simply twist it up to squeeze out the coconut cream.

Coconut cream is yummy and unctuous and all things good. It goes beautifully with banana, pawpaw, pineapple, mango or other tropical fruits; or added to curries and stews. The leftover grated coconut is nice with your breakfast cereal – or in jam sandwiches!

Sadly Martin left Aitutaki the following morning (although with the typical generosity of everyone I met while travelling, he insisted on leaving all his leftover food provisions with me). I serenaded him on his way with a traditional Celtic blessing song; then after breakfast it was time to head off on a long-anticipated lagoon trip.

I joined six other tourists (five Kiwis and a German lady) on the funky little Aitutaki Adventures boat, whose skipper is Puna: an enthusiastic and upbeat local whose knowledge of Aitutaki and its marine wildlife is excellent.

Travelling in a boat at sea always gives me a buzz, so I was already feeling uplifted as we headed out from Tautu wharf into the lagoon… But once we got a little way out to sea I was pretty much blubbing over how beautiful the lagoon was. Imagine the bluest thing you’ve ever seen, then times that by a thousand. Absolutely stunning.

Puna motored out to close by the motu named Maina, where we jumped over the side of the boat for our first bit of lagoon snorkelling. Our first marine wildlife encounter was with a giant trevally (Caranx ignobilis), a fish that was approximately as long as me. It swam around the boat and those of us snorkelling in the water for quite some time, occasionally eyeing us in a manner that suggested it was assessing our edibility. This seemed only fair: many of these magnificent fish are caught by tourists and end up as someone’s dinner. Being large was a bit of a theme here: I also swam over some giant clams (the non-native species, Tridacna gigas), which were similarly gargantuan. The ones in the photo above were around a metre across. These mighty molluscs have an average lifespan of 100 years; and like their smaller cousins are vulnerable to overexploitation by humans for food and the aquarium trade.

Right next to Maina is a beautiful sandbar which has been named (rather unoriginally) ‘Honeymoon Island’ by tourists. Its pink-white sand and turquoise sea are stunning to look at though.

It’s not just fish that use the lagoon: we saw turtles as we travelled out from the mainland, and here on the sandbank many birds use it and Maina as a refuge. I walked past a couple of ngōio, black noddies (Anous minutus) who seemed pretty unruffled by a handful of trespassing tourists. This motu is also home to the rare Red-tailed tropicbird or tavake (Phaethon rubricauda), and we saw a few of these flying with terns.

Beautiful though Aitutaki lagoon is, you realise as soon as you visit these little motu up close what a difficult environment it is for wildlife to survive in. The sand was almost too hot to walk on barefoot; there is no fresh water (other than rainfall), and tropical storms can whip the sea over these low-lying islands and snap off coconut palms.

No Pacific ocean voyage though would be complete without being marooned on a desert island… So before Puna headed further across the lagoon he left those of us who were up for the challenge on a sandbar: from there we walked and waded through the shallow warm lagoon waters to Tapuaeta’i (One Foot Island), our lunch time stop.

Tapuaeta’i is the motu that all tourist lagoon trips go to (and you can even get a foot-shaped stamp in your passport there), but Puna’s trips in his small boat mean you get a bit of space to yourself. You also get a mouth-wateringly delicious lunch, which was waiting for us on a nice secluded and shady deck. I unashamedly gorged myself: four kinds of salads; pawpaw; fried aubergine, onion, pumpkin and courgette; savoury rice with carrots and beans; and grilled mahi mahi fish (dorado, Coryphaena hippurus) which literally melted in my mouth. I should also mention that before this paradisical feast, there were fresh bananas and watermelons and doughnuts served out to us on the boat after we’d been snorkelling… Presumably in case we grew faint from hunger before our sumptuous lunch! And all washed down with Puna’s chilled ‘fruit squash’ made from fresh lemons, a glorious citrusy zingy hit.

After lunch Puna entertained us by relating stories of the time the TV series Survivor! was being filmed on Aitutaki’s lagoon motu in 2006. The TV crew took over all accommodation on the island for three months, created a new channel at Tautu wharf, and generally made a good impression on the locals. Puna got a chopper ride over Aitutaki’s lagoon which he loved, and spent a lot of time with the series producer, who was very interested in local history and culture.

Puna himself is a cool dude. He spent five years working up on the island of Manihiki in the northern group of the Cook Islands. Manihiki, also known as ‘island of pearls’, is over eight hundred miles north of Rarotonga: about as remote as you can get in the South Pacific. Puna said five years was as long as he could cope with living there, working on the pearl trade. Most of the technicians there are Japanese, some from as young twelve years old learning the delicate science of seeding pearls in oysters. This craft is passed on within families and not shared with outsiders. Apparently these Japanese pearl technicians can tell what type of pearl an oyster will produce simply by looking at its shell – i.e. black, green, white, gold… Manihiki pearls are often black or green.

After we’d digested lunch Puna took us in the boat to another area of the lagoon to get a last bit of snorkelling in, before the dark rain clouds which a north-westerly wind had fetched on the horizon reached us. All kinds of brightly-coloured fish darted about over the coral: wrasse, butterfly fish, the inevitable Picasso triggerfish and humbug damsels, and the electric blue starfish that were a common coral reef denizen here.

Another creature caught my eye, lurking under the edge of one of the coral bommies we were snorkelling around. I swam down for a closer look, then put on the brakes: it was a giant moray eel (Gymnothorax javanicus). Torn between wanting to ogle this amazing predatory fish up close, and vaguely remembering that moray eels are reputed to be somewhat grumpy, I hovered a couple of feet from it… Whereupon it slowly turned its head and gazed steadily at me like a malignant marine sock puppet. Unlike a sock puppet however it appeared to be armed with a mouthful of stubby sharp fangs. I considered my options, and decided to give the moray some space. Subsequent research confirmed that I made the right decision: the giant moray grows to three metres long, and most definitely does not fall into the cuddly sock puppet category. (Wikipedia helpfully comments, “This species may be hazardous to people… It has been implicated in provoked and unprovoked attacks on scuba divers.”)

Surviving unscathed from my moray encounter, I returned to the boat… and Puna delivered us all safely back to the mainland. The threatening clouds dispersed and I was able to enjoy another lovely evening back at Vaikoa, watching the sun slide into the sea.

All good things must come to an end: and sadly it was time to move on from Vaikoa, with the lovely Mama, Junior, Terangi and Joel. I packed up my bags and walked the short distance northwards along the road, to my next temporary home: Matriki Beach Huts.

I’d found Matriki’s website while researching lower-budget places to stay on Aitutaki, and immediately liked the sound of it: and from the moment I walked along the sandy drive I knew I was going to have a great time there. The accommodation is basic but stunningly located right on the beach: wooden beach huts with funky painted murals and little verandahs looking out over the beachfront.

I’d booked a week’s stay in the ‘Beach Hut’, which was as Robinson Crusoe as it sounds. Well kitted out (fridge, cooker, mosquito-netted comfy bed, electric lights, outdoor shower) and cosy, it was just what I’d hoped for: a basic (i.e. affordable) but stunningly-situated little shed by the sea. Not being a fan of luxury resorts (or being able to afford them either), I’d chosen to stay at Matriki because of all the nice things previous travellers said about it… And they were absolutely right.

I wasn’t the only guest at Matriki: there are two other beachfront huts (and also an option to stay in a self-contained garden unit attached to the house), but everyone has a bit of space. If you wanted to hang out with folks and barbecue or share food on the big picnic table that was an option… Or you could just chill on your deck and gaze at the sunset. I sat on my deck for a while and just drank in the view. Not for the first time, I felt incredibly fortunate and full of gratitude to be in such a beautiful place.

Matriki was quiet and peaceful, my first evening there. I spent the afternoon snorkelling, then had a (sun-warmed!) outdoor shower, before wandering along the beach. I didn’t pass a single soul: just a reef heron picking its long-legged way along the sea’s edge. The ever-present soft roar of surf against Aitutaki’s fringing reef underscored other sounds: mynah birds chirping and squawking; a gecko ticking; a cockerel crowing; a riffle of small fishes hurling themselves airborne as they were chased into the shallows by something bigger. I could just see the surf breaking on the reef, a rolling line of white forever uncurling on the coral’s encircling edge… And beyond, the wild indigo blue of the Pacific.

The sand still felt warm at sunset, giving softly under my feet. Scents of sea and bonfire smoke and evening cooking drifted past: frying onions, mosquito coils, something sweet. As the sun sank into low cloud it found a chink and lit up a golden path on the sea, which the heron followed as it fished in the shallows. Just eight more days, to enjoy Aitutaki.

Coming up next time, in South Pacific Adventure part 5:

Cat therapy; climbing the hill that was once a mountain;
and how a Japanese anime made me an underwater geek.

…And if you’d like to read about my South Pacific travels from the beginning, go to the first chapter: Travels in the Cook Islands.

Bush medicine, cursed hotels and Rarotonga by bike… South Pacific Adventure, part 2

Posted on February 7, 2016 by Becca

There were very few activities or trips I booked in advance of arriving in the South Pacific, preferring to take advantage of opportunities when they presented themselves rather than being tied down to a schedule. The one exception was booking a place on a Storytellers Eco Cycle Tour on Rarotonga, for the morning after I arrived on the island. My logic for this was that (a) I like cycling, (b) it sounded like a good way to explore the island and get an introduction to Cook Islands culture and (c) when you’re travelling solo somewhere ten thousand miles away from home, it’s quite nice to have at least one planned thing to give you a bit of structure.

Getting up at seven a.m. bleary-eyed with jet lag was a bit painful, but several mugs of tea helped revive me (as did the morning chorus provided by Rarotonga’s several million chickens). I was picked up from Aremango Guesthouse by Dave from Storytellers, who cheerily ferried me and half a dozen other tourists staying at various points around the island to the start of our tour. There we were kitted out with helmets and sturdy bikes, before getting a safety talk and introduction from tour guides Natavia and Jimmy to our 4-hour cycle trip which would take in Rarotongan agriculture, traditional uses of plants, and some Cook Islands Maori history and culture.

Many Rarotongans still grow a lot of their own food (this is called ‘planting’ rather than ‘farming’). Growing plots have been cleared from the bush inland for planting vegetables and fruit, with the odd grazing animal such as goats and horses (and of course, chickens). Our first stop was by a taro patch: taro being a tropical plant in the Araceae family and one of the staple crops grown by Cook Islanders (it’s also used in Africa and southern India). Typically the starchy roots are boiled and used like potato; the leaves are also cooked with coconut milk to make the local dish called rukau.

Taro is a versatile crop, growing both in waterlogged swampy soils and in dry ones (although our local guide Jimmy explained that dry taro is not as tasty). A sackful of taro roots could be sold for NZ$100 – 120 and a good taro patch will yield 60 – 70 sackfuls. But cultivating taro is heavy work: first the soil in the taro patch must be dug over with a long-handled shovel, then a giant wooden ‘dibber’ (weighing 30 – 40 kg) is used to make holes for each individual taro plant. In a tropical climate weeds grow fast, so locals mulch their taro patches to prevent this. Formerly black polythene was used, but environmental concerns have led to people reverting to using biodegradable materials such as old cardboard with rito (coconut leaves) laid on top… Which looks far nicer than plastic.

Only locals can own land in the Cook Islands, and land is passed down within families. If a favourite son is getting married, a father will plant a taro patch for their wedding. Jimmy explained that many people do their own planting on Rarotonga but not everyone: if someone was to steal crops from another person’s taro patch it would not be regarded too severely, provided the thief was taking it for food and not to sell. He told us that if he spotted someone raiding his patch he would duck down out of sight so they didn’t realise that they had been seen… And then he would casually say to them a few days later, “Hey, how’d you like the taro?”

There is a general atmosphere of trust on Rarotonga and little crime, except for occasional opportunistic theft from tourists careless enough to leave valuables temptingly on display at the beach. Drink driving is also regarded more leniently than in other countries: police who stop drunk drivers will generally just confiscate their car or motorbike, telling them to walk home and retrieve their vehicle once they’ve sobered up. Recently however a local youth had died in a drink-driving accident, so there was a move towards trying to better educate people about the dangers of drink driving. I personally found cycling on the Ara Tapu pretty pleasant, as the vast majority of locals pootle along at an average speed of fifteen miles per hour… Very civilized.

The next staple crop we saw was cassava (aka maniota, arrowroot or tapioca). The advantage of cassava is that it is relative easy to propagate: you just chop the stem into short lengths and shove them into the soil. The disadvantage is that in its unprocessed raw state it contains cyanide, which makes you wonder who got the bright idea of eating it in the first place. To render cassava edible it has to be soaked for twenty-four hours and cooked. You can boil and then fry it to make tasty chips, or grate it and mix it with coconut cream and ripe bananas to make the yummy local dish known as poke.

As well as starchy root crops we saw plenty of fruit being grown as well, including pineapples. Natavia explained that two main varieties are grown on Rarotonga: the smooth-leaved pineapple and the spiky-leaved variety. The latter was introduced more recently and only produces for fruit for 2 – 3 years before you have to replant it; whereas the smooth-leaved pineapple is a perennial that keeps on producing for a longer period (and apparently yields sweeter-tasting fruits, too).

Bananas are another staple food here, usually grown on 3-stemmed plants. Natavia explained that once a few rows of bananas have started to form, the purplish-red flower is removed so that more energy will go into plumping up the fruits. As it was technically only early spring on Rarotonga, some of the banana plants still wore large plastic mesh bags covering their fruits and flowers, to shield them from low nighttime temperatures.

For the more carnivorous side of things, most households on Rarotonga keep a few pigs. These are typically kept penned or tied to a halter, so that they can’t wreak havoc on growing crops (a single pig can push over and destroy several banana plants in a single night, to get at the fruits and juicy water-filled stems). They are fed on coconut and usually end up being slow-baked in a traditional umu ground-oven, perhaps as part of a family celebration – or a meal for tourists!

It’s not just the pigs who have coconut on the menu, though. Jimmy described it as the tree of life: a plant from which people can get most of their needs, including food, clothing, timber and roofing material. He showed us the three different stages of a coconut: the immature young nu or green coconut (which largely contains coconut water with a little jelly-like flesh); the mature akari coconut (the one we’re most familiar with, with its brown outer husk and solid layer of white inner flesh); and the sprouting uto coconut (where the creamy white interior has become mostly dry and fibrous, with a texture like marshmallow).

Jimmy demonstrated how to strip off the husk and open each of the three different coconut types, so we all got to try the different stages. I personally liked akari the best, maybe because that was what I’m most familiar with. The fresh sweet juice of nu was deliciously refreshing, but I couldn’t help thinking it would be even better with rum added to it. Nu are the coconuts which fetch the best price when sold locally to tourists. As a rule of thumb, if a coconut is lying on the ground it’s yours to eat: nobody gets possessive about the fruits because there are quite a lot of them about.

Coconuts are not just yummy and nourishing, the flesh can be grated and squeezed to make coconut cream (more of this in a later chapter). The oil is wonderful for treating burns, eczema and dry skin. Jimmy described how his relatives make monoi, a scented oil for use on hair and skin, by fermenting chopped coconut flesh with the leaves of the cinnamon tree. Monoi scented with different herbs and flowers is used across the South Pacific, and I can vouch for the fact that it’s wonderfully soothing.

After our introduction to coconuts we cycled onwards, following inland tracks that threaded between planting fields and the occasional grassy pasture where goats or horses grazed. Rarotonga’s volcanic origins mean that as soon as you head inland the terrain gets hilly. Jimmy explained that before European missionaries arrived in the Cook Islands, the majority of people lived up in the highlands, to be safe from possible raiding parties arriving by sea. The Christian missionaries somehow persuaded folks to descend from the heights, and now the lowland areas near the coast are where everyone makes their home.

We stopped to look at a Rarotongan marae, a hundred yards or so from the track. A marae is a meeting ground or sacred place, usually a rectangular cleared area of land (sometimes slightly raised), bordered by stones or wooden posts. Jimmy described how a marae is traditionally where a chief, tribal leader or elders pass judgements, settle disputes or have discussions to sort out tribal affairs. This marae had three stone seats: the central one for the tribal chief, the other two for the chief’s advisors. Marae must be treated with respect and no-one should set foot on one, unless invited by the appropriate tribal representative. In the past, women were not allowed onto marae at all, but this is one of the things that has changed over time: some tribes now have a woman chief. Marae used to be located high up in the hills, but most have been relocated to the lowlands so that local people don’t have to walk long distances when they need something resolved.

Our next stop was a grove of noni trees. Noni, which also goes by the charming names of Indian mulberry, cheese fruit or vomit fruit, is regarded as something of a panacea. It is claimed to have antioxidant, anti-ageing and even anti-cancer properties, although to date there are no scientific studies confirming this. Anecdotally, Natavia said she drank a small amount of noni juice (made by fermenting and pressing ripe fruits) every day, and has found that it cures sore throats and protects her from viruses. Jimmy also related how he had cured himself from a bad case of ciguatera (a thoroughly nasty and painful type of food poisoning caused by eating certain types of fish) by drinking a herbal cure made from noni leaves, so the plant evidently has some benefits.

Natavia found some ripe fruits on the ground and split them open, inviting us to have a smell. It immediately became obvious how noni got some of its alternative monikers: the other tourists on our cycle trip recoiled with noises of disgust, while to my perhaps hardier nose the fruit had a strong smell of blue cheese. Drinking a glassful of noni juice every day suddenly seemed less appealing, despite its promised health benefits.

Cycling further into the bush, we next encountered some of the wild plants used locally for medicine and first aid. Yellow hibiscus or ‘au grows everywhere in the Cook Islands: its seeds can survive for months in salt water, colonising new islands, and the ‘au tree is hardy enough to grow even along sandy beaches.

Jimmy demonstrated why locals never carry a first aid kit with them when planting or working in the bush: cutting a branch from an ‘au, he proceeded to peel it and then strip out the soft inner bark, to show how it could be used as a bandage. Scraping the peeled branch produced a juicy pith which he said was used to pack cuts and wounds, over which the inner bark strips would be wrapped and tied, the bark tightening as it dries to keep the wound clean and prevent infection.

Doctors at the local hospital are happy for people to use this natural remedy which is very efficacious… And it’s why all a local will take with them when working in the bush is a machete or knife for gathering the necessary plants.

Two more plants which can be useful are miri (or tree basil) and mile-a-minute vine (or American rope). Both of these are alien plant species, accidentally introduced and now ramping away to the detriment of native Cook Island plants and habitats.

Miri comes in handy when there are mosquitoes about, which is pretty much all the time when you’re inland away from sea breezes. Simply scrunching up the leaves and rubbing the brownish juice on your skin makes an effective insect repellent, and one which I used more than once in my travels. A single leaf placed in a bottle of water flavours it nicely, too.

Mile-a-minute vine as its name suggest grows prolifically: sometimes as much as nine centimetres a day. Like the ‘au, it is very good for healing cuts, wounds and sores: the leaves are scrunched up to make a pulp and then applied to cover the injury. Natavia related how she had sustained a nasty wound after a fall from her cycle, which she applied this magical herb to: not only did her injuries heal quickly, but with virtually no scarring.

The next leg of our cycle tour took us to the site of the notorious Hilton Rarotonga Resort Spa. This ghost hotel was originally launched as a project back in 1990, when the Cook Islands government teamed up with an Italian bank and the Sheraton hotel chain to build Rarotonga’s first 5-star luxury hotel development. Unfortunately much of the NZ$52 million loan needed to make it happen allegedly disappeared into the pockets of the Mafia and other dubious parties, resulting in the hotel project being abandoned after a few years, despite construction being 80% completed.

Various attempts have been made over the years to relaunch the project, most recently a bid by two New Zealand companies in 2014, but to date nothing has got off the ground. Some believe that this is because Vaimaanga, the site on which the hotel stands, is said to have a tapu upon it. In 1910 the land’s owner, More Uriatua, was shot dead during an argument with New Zealander William John Wigmore who leased some of the land for his copra plantation. More Uriatua’s daughter Metua placed a curse on the land, dooming any business upon it to failure. Wigmore’s copra plantation was the first to go under; followed by unsuccessful pineapple growing, a failed plant nursery, and a doomed citrus farm.

Vaimaanga does have an eerie feel to it. Some of the site’s fixtures and materials have been recycled by locals, and the crumbling buildings are now host only to paint balling and wildlife. It’s a great shame that the project has left the Cook Islands government with a mountainous debt and an unattractive derelict site, but as the original project included plans to blast channels through Rarotonga’s coral reef and build an exclusive private beach and marina on what is otherwise a totally free public access coastline, I personally felt inclined to side with Metua and let the land revert back to wilderness.

Coasting downhill from Vaimaanga led us past a large candlenut tree or tuitui. The large walnut-like fruits contain oil-rich nuts which were used, as the name suggests, as a source of light: several nuts would be threaded onto a thin spike and burned like small candles. Soot produced from burning candlenuts was also used in traditional tattooing methods. Like British conkers, candlenuts are high in saponins so should not be eaten raw… Unaware of this I sampled one. I don’t recommend you follow my example.

Luckily the lunch that was waiting for us at the end of our cycle ride was a lot tastier. Dave greeted us at a beachside picnic table spread with a proper feast: fresh tuna steaks, taro and cassava chips, macaroni cheese, salad with lettuce and tomato and pawpaw, and oranges and bananas for dessert. After four hours of off-road cycling I was ready to refuel, and tucked in with enthusiasm. It was the perfect end to a fascinating and entertaining morning: I would recommend the Storytellers cycle tour to anyone visiting Rarotonga, and Natavia and Jimmy and Dave are all lovely folks to boot.

Back at Aremango Guesthouse I took a remedial stroll along the beach to help my enormous lunch go down, followed by a remedial nap in one of the hammocks in the garden to deal with the return of my let lag. After this I wrote up my travel journal, and mused upon the fact that I had only two more days’ stay on Rarotonga before heading northwards to the smaller islands of Aitutaki and ‘Atiu. Two days wasn’t long enough to do this friendly and diverse place justice, but it would have to do. Tomorrow I decided to explore on foot and do some snorkelling, feeling that it was high time I tested out my new mask and waterproof camera. As the mosquitoes began to rally their forces I retreated inside for supper and bed, leaving the tropical night to the cicadas, accompanied by the ever-present opera of chickens.

Coming up next time, in South Pacific Adventure part 3:

A desert island just the right size; undersea explorations; and getting scrubbed up for church on Sunday. I say goodbye to Rarotonga… and hello to Aitutaki.

…And if you’d like to read about my South Pacific travels from the beginning, go to the first chapter: Travels in the Cook Islands.

Travels in the Cook Islands… South Pacific Adventure, part 1

Posted on January 17, 2016 by Becca

In September 2015 I went on an awfully big adventure. I flew halfway around the world, to go traveling for five weeks in the South Pacific. As I had never been traveling before, this was something of a departure from my normal routine, to say the least.

In the months before I set off, an oft-repeated question directed at me by curious folks was, “Why the South Pacific?” My answers varied depending on the mood I was in, but usually comprised some or all of the following: (1) good snorkelling, (2) friendly and safe for a lone woman traveller, (3) desert islands, palm trees, sunshine, lagoons, coral reefs… And (4) as a child I got more than slightly obsessed with the South Pacific as a result of reading three books: Let’s See If The World Is Round (Hakon Mielche), South Sea Adventure (Willard Price), and The Kon-Tiki Expedition (Thor Heyerdahl).

From my childhood reading (blissfully oblivious of the rampant colonialism in all three books) I received the impression that the South Pacific was a magical and exciting place, teeming with wildlife, populated by quirky and amiable locals, and rich in natural beauty and ancient culture. Here was a place where you could swim with sharks, lie under palm trees listening to ukulele music beneath the stars, see stunning lagoons and coral reefs, and live a simple life in a tropical paradise.

So: off to the South Pacific I went. And for the next few installments of this blog, I will be recounting my traveller’s tales. For the record (spoiler alert), my expectations were exceeded. Coral reefs and lagoons are indeed heart-stoppingly beautiful. I inadvertently swam with sharks several times, as well as with humpback whales and manta rays. There was a lot of ukulele music but don’t ever lie under a coconut palm to listen to it unless you’re wearing a suit of armour. And the South Pacific may look like paradise, but living there requires hard work, ingenuity, strong community and – in the face of climate change and seismic unpredictability – large amounts of luck.

To get to the South Pacific from the UK requires a very long plane journey, whether you fly east via Singapore, or west via Los Angeles. I opted for the latter, with a purgatorial six-hour layover in LA airport. US immigration officials have had their sense of humour surgically removed, and the queues were epic. Quite why our American cousins think anyone is desperately keen to sneak into their gun- and God-infested country is anyone’s guess, but Uncle Sam’s guardians were scrupulous in grilling every sleep-deprived traveller over the minutiae of their journey plans. I caused them no small consternation by wearing glasses, as in my passport photo I don’t have them on. Once we’d established that I was actually me (by the simple act of removing my glasses), I was allowed through to a deserted chilly air-conditioned barn of a boarding gate waiting area. I curled up on the carpet with my back against a wall and cat-napped for a few hours, lulled by announcements at regular intervals inviting US servicemen and their families to make full use of the exclusive airport facilities for serving personnel.

I’d opted for a direct flight to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, rather than going via New Zealand, so twenty-six hours after I’d left the UK I was seeing my first South Pacific sunrise from the window of my plane. It looked very beautiful. And once my plane had landed at Rarotonga airport and I’d been ferried by minibus taxi with a bunch of other bleary-eyed travellers to Aremango Guesthouse where I was staying, I lost no time in going exploring. First project: catch the island bus into Avarua, the main town on Rarotonga, to buy some food.

Rarotonga, like many South Pacific islands, has a mountainous (volcanic) interior, fringed by coral reef and lagoon. The only flat bits of land are largely along the coast, so the Ara Tapu (main road) runs all the way round the edge of the island (as does the older Ara Metua, which runs just inland of the Ara Tapu). As the road goes in a circle, this means there are only two bus routes to keep track of: clockwise and anticlockwise. The whole circumference is only twenty miles, so you can trundle round it in an hour or so on the bus (or less if you go by car or scooter). The buses are battered but comfy old single deckers that appear to have made in China, if the interior is anything to go by.

The bus drivers are an entertaining bunch: my personal favourite was Mr Hopeless, who keeps a running commentary going for the entire journey about landmarks, local politics, tourists and his family and neighbours. When he runs out of things to say, he sings. I feel all British bus drivers should be sent on sabbaticals to Rarotonga, where they will learn from Mr Hopeless that keeping your passengers entertained is far more important than sticking slavishly to a timetable.

By the time I’d returned back from Avarua with the basics (bread, cheese, tea and beer) it was afternoon and time to investigate the beach. A hundred yard walk through some gardens and there I was: standing on coral sands, looking out over a turquoise lagoon. It was warm and there was the sound of surf breaking on the reef; and despite acute sleep deprivation, I suddenly felt intensely blessed to be there. Halfway around the world from where I lived, in the South Pacific at last.

I explored westwards along the beach, past the little motu (islet) called Taaoka, which lies just offshore. Aremango is on south Muri beach, an area of Rarotonga popular with visitors. So popular in fact that sewerage run-off into the sea from tourist accommodation is causing environmental problems, with increased nitrogen levels resulting in algal blooms hazardous to marine life and human health. The problem has been acknowledged and some measures (e.g. improving septic tank sewer systems) have been put into place, but much more work still needs to be done.

On my first day there I was unaware of this issue, and you certainly couldn’t tell from looking at the lagoon that there was a problem. But a couple of days later I found the information display pictured above, and it was a timely reminder that those of us who are wealthy enough to travel and holiday in other people’s countries are responsible for the impact our stay has there, whether that be on the local environment, the economy or the culture. Flying over ten thousand miles to the Cook Islands is no small carbon footprint, so I was keen to stay in simple accommodation and to explore and enjoy the islands by as environmentally-friendly means as possible… Which on Rarotonga meant getting about by three of my favourite methods: bus, cycle and on foot.

As well as trying to address the sewerage pollution issue, there are other initiatives being enforced on Rarotonga to conserve the environment and wildlife. One of these is the designation of ra’ui: a ban on fishing or harvesting foods either in a specific area, or of a specific animal or plant species.

Ra’ui (or rāhui) are a traditional part of Maori culture, whereby a tapu (spiritual edict or prohibition) is placed restricting use of or access to a place, e.g. for gathering food. In the Cook Islands the ra’ui concept was revived in the late 1990s, to protect the island’s lagoon habitat. The Aronga Mana (traditional tribal councils) have placed ra’ui on several areas around Rarotonga’s lagoon. These ra’ui are not enforced through legal channels but instead rely on respect for traditional authority, with infringement dealt with by “rebuke and community pressure”.

The other initiative that seeks to protect the marine environment in Rarotonga and elsewhere in the Cook Islands is the designation of a Marine Park. Although it was formally announced as policy by Cook Islands Prime Minister Henry Puna in 2013, the Marae Moana marine park has yet to be set up. As ever, funding and fishing interests are in the mix… Hopefully these won’t prove insurmountable obstacles for this project, because the lagoon surrounding Rarotonga certainly deserves protection of the highest standard and is a beautiful and diverse environment… As my photo below of threadfin butterfly fish, taken whilst snorkelling, shows.

As well as the occasional ra’ui notice, there were other signs repeated at regular intervals along the Ara Tapu that certainly caught my notice. You know you’re in a interesting part of the world when roadside signs inform you not of speed limits or dual carriageways, but instead tell you which way to run in the event of a tsunami. This disconcerted me at first, but the rather jolly signs are reassuring in a low-tech sort of way. The knowledge that you’re in a place where seismic activity occasionally means that very big waves come ashore is a bit worrying… But no need to panic, there is a plan to cope with this: i.e. run fairly smartly up the nearest hill that presents itself. Which given that Rarotonga just inland of the Ara Tapu is all hill, doesn’t prove too difficult.

Whether or not I needed to make use of a tsunami evacuation route during my five weeks of travelling in the South Pacific will be revealed in a later chapter of this blog. In the meantime, I knew that I needed a good night’s kip because tomorrow I was going to be up early to head out on a cycle tour to explore Rarotonga’s interior. I had reached the end of my first day in the South Pacific: happy, hallucinating slightly from lack of sleep, stuffed with bread and cheese and beer and bananas, I fell asleep to the sound of the island’s three billion chickens serenading the sunset. Sweet dreams.

Coming up next time, in South Pacific Adventure part 2:

Off-road cycling; bush medicine and plant First Aid; everything you ever wanted to know about coconuts; and why building a hotel on cursed land is not a good idea, even if you’re the Mafia. Plus chickens. Lot of chickens.

Feeling sinister

Posted on February 6, 2015 by Becca

At the time of writing this blog entry, I am in sinister mode… In the sense that I am largely left-handed, owing to having fractured my right wrist! This was something of a surprise to me, because I actually did the damage at the end of December (when I elegantly toppled sideways off my bicycle on an icy towpath during a frosty winter ride). Being an old school stiff-upper-lip British stoic, at the time I sprang nimbly back to my feet and cycled on homewards, with only an aching shoulder for a few days afterwards as a memento. But while driving to teach at a London school three weeks later, my right wrist started to ache. Luckily I have a GP who is excellent at injuries and it took him all of two seconds of prodding to diagnose a suspected fracture of the scaphoid bone… Which an x-ray at Newbury hospital later confirmed.

Having not even heard of the scaphoid bone before, I was somewhat dubious about the need for wearing a splint, particularly as I’d been carrying on as normal for the best part of a month after my bike accident. But it turns out that this little cashew nut-shaped bone (located at the base of the thumb where it joins the wrist) is annoyingly tricky to heal once you’ve damaged it. Hence the fetching velcro and metal splint which I currently have to wear all day. If all goes well I should be healed and splint-free within a few weeks: in the meantime as I can neither cycle nor drive, I’m doing a lot of walking. I’m keeping my fingers crossed (on my left hand, anyway) that there will be no complications, so I can return to normal functioning by the time my busy teaching season starts in early March.

Fortunately I’ve had good things happening in January too. I belong to the Natural Voice Practitioners’ Network, an organisation for singing teachers, choir leaders and voice workers. In early January the NVPN holds its annual gathering, which usually takes place at Wortley Hall near Sheffield (see one of my earlier blog posts, Digging ponds and singing songs for an account of my visit to Wortley Hall in 2013). However, the NVPN membership has grown in recent years to such an extent that the main gathering was oversubscribed and a ‘mini gathering’ was organised for those of us who left it too late to book for Wortley. The venue for this smaller gathering was the beautiful Elizabethan Kinnersley Castle in Herefordshire.

Kinnersley Castle is still a family home, which can be hired as a venue for events. It is full of character – I was chuffed on reaching my room to find I would be sleeping in a four-poster bed! Our meals were home-cooked and plentiful, and the hospitality from hostess and NVPN member Katherina Garratt-Adams was warm and welcoming. The space that we used for our singing workshops and group sessions had a huge fireplace with a log fire that we all took turns toasting ourselves in front of (including Coco, Katherina’s friendly black labrador).

I always get a huge amount from these NVPN gatherings: not just song material for teaching with Sing The World, the Newbury-based choir that I co-lead, but also lots of useful ideas and guidance for all the issues involved in being a singing teacher. Having suffered from laryngitis and lost my voice completely back in September, I found the sessions on looking after our voices and developing our singing range particularly helpful. The NVPN largely follows a community of practice model for sharing expertise, which is an extremely effective way to support our professional development.

Staying at Kinnersley Castle was a fantastic experience and a great way to ease back into the working year after the festive break. It’s a venue with tons of character and welcoming hosts (including the lovely Katherina and Caius, pictured above).

Chilly winter weather doesn’t generally stop me from going exploring. We’ve had some glorious bright sunny midwinter days and I took advantage of one to go for a walk with my friend Will along the downs in the Vale of Pewsey. It was a route we hadn’t done before, up onto the Tan Hill Way and then round Gopher Wood and Oare Hill, finishing with a loop over Giant’s Grave, an Iron Age hillfort and settlement.

We were glad that we had done our route in a clockwise direction, as the final descent from Giant’s Grave down into the village of Oare was precipitous enough that I had to run down it with my arms outstretched and making whooping noises. (A vital strategy for obtaining maximum speed with the minimum of risk to myself or other walkers coming from the opposite direction.)

There is something about sunshine in the depths of winter that is particularly restorative, even in the Arctic winds that were blowing that day. And the landscape of chalk downland always holds a special magic for me, growing up as I did in the Chilterns. The walk route around Oare is one I will definitely revisit, perhaps in early summer when orchids may be about. Even in early January it was beautiful, with red kites and buzzards wheeling on the wind currents high above the hills.

Winter can feel like a bit of a miserable time, especially if the weather is wet and grey. Fortunately there are opportunities to dispel the darkness: Newbury hosts an annual Festival Of Light, a midwinter celebration where locals make lanterns from willow and tissue before joining together in a parade through the town. There were lanterns of all shapes and designs, including stars, fish, boats, spaceships and even a dalek and a Darth Vader! At the end of the parade there were hot chestnut sellers, brightly-burning braziers to warm your hands at and a lively band to keep everyone warm. There was a great energy there, definitely an inspired way to ward off the winter blues.

Another winter event which got people together was the Thousand Voices evening. Local choirs (including Wacapella, our Sing The World performance group) sang separately at various locations across Newbury town centre, before joining together by the Christmas tree in the market place for a mass sing. It was great fun to take part… I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard The Twelve Days Of Christmas sung quite so loudly before!

In contrast to the gloomy and soggy winter of 2013/2014, December and January have brought a good share of bright days, perfect for getting out and about in. In mid-January I went for a walk across Snelsmore Common, a nature reserve on the edge of Newbury now managed by local wildlife trust BBOWT. This is a site both popular with locals and rich in wildlife and interesting habitats (including bogs with carnivorous plants known as sundews). Going back over a decade, I lived up a tree at Snelsmore for a short time, along with a host of other hardy souls seeking to prevent the dreaded Newbury Bypass from being constructed. The Newbury Bypass protest is well remembered by locals, whether or not they were involved in either the activism or the road building. I lost my heart to this lovely stretch of ancient woodland and like many of my friends it was gut-wrenching to be there when the bailiffs and bulldozers finally rolled in and destroyed a swathe of this amazing place forever.

Happily, activism and opposition to environmental destruction and social injustice is still going strong in the UK. As the media and political parties crank up their apparatus for the General Election campaigning season we’ll no doubt have more coverage than we want of democracy in action… But mindful of what’s going down in other areas of the world (Ukraine and Russia, for instance) it’s a good time to remember that we’re lucky to have a democratic system at all, flawed though it is. Being something of an anarchist/libertarian I’m not a huge fan of our current set-up, but I’ll certainly be voting on election day. The good news is that the Green Party is fielding candidates in every ward of Berkshire, which at least gives me an opportunity to vote for someone whose politics reflect my own interests. And for those who say that voting for the Green Party is a wasted vote because it will allow the Tories back in, my considered response is: thhhbbppppt. *blows raspberry*

There is a lot of brouhaha written and said these days about non-participation in democracy. Personally I think there is just as much radicalism and engagement as there ever was; it’s just that people have many more ways to express how they wish their locality and country should be run. Also the majority of us seem to be utterly unimpressed by the posturing of politicians and the ponderous workings of government, which these days looks increasingly like an old boys’ club of ex-Eton pupils.

If as some pundits seem to think our political system is in the throes of change, it may not be a bad thing. (It’s worrying that a few folks seem to think that UKIP is an answer, but I suppose all those sulking ex-Tories had to go somewhere.) My response to all of this is to get back into activism, so I will be going to the Time To Act climate change march in London on Saturday 7th March. The climate change debate continues but it’s evident that we can’t go on living as if we had a spare planet as well as this one, so why not come along too and make some noise in London this spring – if only to communicate to those currently hitting the political campaign trail that the environment is not only the concern of a minority bunch of tree huggers.

Rather than finish on a strident note, I will end this blog entry with a photo of a particularly magnificent winter sunrise. I never stop being grateful for this world in which I live… That’s kind of why I feel compelled to look after it.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed the day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

– ‘What A Wonderful World’
Bob Thiele & George David Weiss

Not months but moments

Posted on August 6, 2013 by Becca

‘The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.’
– Rabindranath Tagore

I start this blog entry with the above quote for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that time recently has seemed in short supply. Summer term is always busy for me on the field teaching front, and in June and July I worked several fifty-hour weeks. At the time it seemed like a good idea… And I certainly enjoyed the teaching. But working silly hours catches up with you: and lo and behold, I am now feeling thoroughly frazzled.

As this is self-inflicted suffering, I’m not asking for sympathy. It’s taken me a fortnight of not teaching to realise just how ‘busy’ I allowed my life to become. While it’s always nice to be working (paying the monthly bills being the tiresomely necessary process it is), like other members of my family I have a tendency to be a workaholic. This is promoted by the fact that I do work that is generally fulfilling and positive – i.e. environmental education, wildlife conservation, and teaching singing in groups.

One remedy for this is to get away for a bit. Luckily, I’d arranged some weeks ago to go on a camping weekend with some friends in the Cotswold countryside. A group of us stayed at a peaceful campsite on an organic farm near Stroud. The weather was glorious, the people in our group lovely, and I did manage to defrag my hard drive somewhat.

About half an hour’s walk from the campsite, through some National Trust woodland, is a beautiful lake fringed with water lilies and humming with blue damselflies. Several of us from the group, including children, spent two afternoons swimming here. One of the women whom I swam with, who is German, remarked on how curious it is that so few British people swim in outdoor places such as lakes and rivers; whereas in Europe it is a totally normal and common activity.

While ‘wild swimming’ has recently started to enjoy a revival in this country, it still seems to be regarded as an eccentric fringe activity, or even as something trangressive or reckless. I’m not sure exactly why this should be, but I suspect it has to do with two possible factors. One is exaggerated fear about safety. I fully accept that swimming anywhere (including in a pool) carries risk, and there were a few tragic fatalities during the recent heatwave where unfortunate people went swimming in dangerous places. But provided that one follows common-sense guidelines (such as those recommended by the Outdoor Swimming Society), the risk can be managed.

The other issue seems to be access, or lack of it. At the lake where we swam we did have a minor confrontation with a thoroughly unpleasant and aggressive angler who took grave exception to the fact that we were planning to swim in the lake – this despite the fact that the said lake was almost a kilometre long, and there appeared to be ample room for swimmers and anglers alike. After failing to intimidate us (although he did succeed in frightening some of the children in our group) he stomped back into the bushes, while we walked on and found a pleasant and safe swimming spot that was nowhere near any fishing activity.

Being something of a bolshie I tend to be strengthened in my determination to do something if someone authoritatively attempts to dissuade me from doing it. Nevertheless, I am disturbed by the fact that someone feels they should enjoy exclusive access to a body of water simply because they have paid a fee to fish in one small corner of it. Provided that wild swimmers act safely, treat swimming sites with respect (including respecting wildlife) and do not disturb other people, what’s the problem?

The angry angler incident was soon forgotten in the pleasure of swimming in cool water in such beautiful surroundings. The campsite itself was a lovely place, woodland-fringed with spacious tent pitches and few campers (the farm has a policy of limiting the numbers of people who can stay at any one time). There were eco-showers, washing up areas and very upmarket compost toilets: lah-di-dah loos, as a friend of mine might call them. With potted geraniums, mirrors, soft loo roll and a view down the wooded valley… Who could ask for more from a humble campsite bog?

As we’ve been blessed with long weeks of unusually hot and sunny weather, I’ve been able to indulge in wild swimming on a semi-regular basis. I was lucky enough to find a good spot in the River Kennet just west of Newbury, where on several scorching summer afternoons I enjoyed cooling down whilst surrounded by nature: trees, reedbeds, damselflies, fish and birds all doing their thing unbothered by me paddling about mid-channel. I encountered a few other local people enjoying the same part of the river, which was encouraging. One man asked me if I wasn’t frightened of attack from savage pike, to which I smiled and replied “No… I’ve got shoes on.” Perhaps I was being cavalier in my attitude to pike-related human maiming incidents: feel free to let me know if you have documented evidence.

One very real threat in the River Kennet has been a recent pesticide pollution incident near Marlborough. Someone somewhere released a tiny quantity of the organophosphate pesticide chlorpyrifos, which was enough to kill all the aquatic invertebrates living in a stretch of the river. The pollution effects were spotted by volunteers working for ARK (Action for the River Kennet), and the incident is still being investigated by the Environment Agency. Fish and birds that feed on the river invertebrates will of course be adversely affected too. I sincerely hope that whoever did this is caught: they may have been careless, stupid or ignorant but above all they should be stopped from doing it again. The Environment Agency is appealing for information, so if you’ve got any why not give them a ring on 0800 807060. And please always dispose of any pesticides, herbicides or other chemicals carefully: never pour them down a drain.

On a happier note, during September I’m running some wildlife gardening morning workshops at Five A Day Market Garden in Englefield. The photo above was taken of participants on my wild flower and insects course in mid-July, on a truly sweltering hot day. It was a great session with some lovely people, and I’m looking forward to more of them: Trees and Shrubs for Wildlife (14th September), and Garden Birds and Mammals (28th September).

My sessions at Five A Day Market Garden are not just for adults, either: there are two family activity sessions coming up in the October half term holiday: Animal Magic! on Tuesday 29th and Thursday 31st October. A good opportunity for families to come for nature-themed fun, and to get creative with arts and crafts. Both sessions are booking up in advance, so if you fancy coming along to either these or my adult wildlife gardening workshops, best to email me at becca@fiveaday.org.uk as soon as possible.

As well as holiday sessions I’ve been working with Thatcham Young Rangers, the environmental youth group that runs at the Nature Discovery Centre in Thatcham. Sadly the RSPB funding that enabled me to work with the group has come to an end, with my last session with the kids being in early September. (The Young Rangers group itself is continuing, under the great leadership of co-leader Becky O’Melia, supported by staff from BBOWT, the Berks Bucks & Oxon Wildlife Trust.) I will miss the children hugely: they’re a fabulous bunch, and hugely knowledgeable about wildlife. There were a few wobbly lips (including mine) when I told them I was leaving, but hopefully I’ll be invited back as a ‘special guest’ from time to time.

Partly as a result of recent changes (the RSPB ending their involvement at Thatcham, and BBOWT negotiating a working arrangement with West Berkshire Council to take on responsibility for managing several local nature conservation sites, including Thatcham Reedbeds and Greenham Common), I’ve been spending some time taking part in more voluntary conservation activities locally. As part of an ongoing conservation project, BBOWT organise regular moth trapping sessions at Greenham Common and Thatcham Reedbeds. I’ve managed to get along to a couple of these during the recent warm weather, when moths have been abundant. I’ve spent a fascinating few hours peering at the moths coming in to light traps, in the company of local moth experts and BBOWT staff. Moths range from the tiny and drab to the large and spectacular, such as the Elephant Hawkmoth pictured above. Well worth dedicating a few hours to, as long as you don’t mind a late night (most moths generally come out to play around midnight or later) and the odd mouthful of midges.

Of course, not all moths come out at night. I photographed this 6-Spot Burnet Moth during an afternoon butterfly transect up on Greenham Common, where it was enjoying the sunshine and 32ºC temperatures (unlike myself and the other two volunteers carrying out the butterfly survey!). These stunning moths, with their dark metallic green wings spotted with scarlet, are often present in large numbers in open flower-rich habitats. The adults feed on nectar in wild flowers such as thistles and knapweeds, whilst the caterpillars munch Bird’s-foot trefoil Lotus corniculatus.

Butterfly transects are part of the UK Butterfly Monitoring Scheme: a specific walk route is followed on a weekly basis between April and September, with the species and numbers of butterflies seen being recorded and data fed back to the UKBMS. On the two transects I’ve done recently at Greenham, the warm weather had brought out quite a few species – including a pair of Purple Emperors, which we watched gliding about in the tree canopy in the south of Greenham Common. Purple Emperors have a habit of sitting on animal poo to feed on the salts in it, not something that people generally associate with butterflies! I didn’t manage to get photos of the Emperors, but I did get right up close to this Grayling (above), while it pretended to be a stone. Grayling butterflies are found in southern coastal areas and heathlands but are declining in the UK, with numbers down 45% in the last 40 years.

Another butterfly we spotted during our transects were Common Blues, including this mating pair who very obligingly sat still for some time for me to photograph them. (I suspect they were rather preoccupied.) The male is on the left, the female on the right; while the plant that they’re sitting on is Bird’s-foot trefoil, one of their caterpillar food plants.

It was a bit of a treat for me to allow myself some time for volunteering, but I’m very glad that I did so. After last year’s dismally wet and chilly summer, when the heatwave hit the UK this year I was determined to make the most of it. Seeing so many of our native butterflies and moths on the wing has been a great reward. Hopefully I’ll get a bit more time for exploring and finding wildlife as the summer goes on.

When the summer school holidays roll around I often think I’m going to have lots of ‘spare’ time for doing things in, but as usual the time seems to be disappearing! I take advantage of office time at home to do lesson planning, including preparing music for the local community choir (Sing The World) that I co-lead in Newbury. It’s lovely to be listening to and choosing music, but now comes the task of learning it. I teach acapella harmony songs by ear, singing the parts to folks until they’ve learned them, so my brain has to file away quite a lot of music – in addition to the choir I’m also leading a Mellow and Magical singing workshop in October. My chosen method of learning songs is to listen to them on my MP3 player and practice each harmony part, so at certain points in the day I can be seen in queues at the post office or in the supermarket, singing along to a tune that only I can hear. No-one seems to mind, however.

As I seem to be flitting about doing all kinds of things, it seems appropriate to finish this blog entry as I started it: with a butterfly. While a great deal of my current workload is preparing for the months ahead, I will try to remind myself to stay in the moment, and enjoy each one for what it brings me. I hope that your summer brings you many magic moments, and plenty more sunshine.

Small Tortoiseshell butterfly at Five A Day Market Garden

Flowers, sunshine, showers

Posted on June 16, 2013 by Becca

The busy days of early spring and lambing have been followed by the equally busy months of April, May and early June, with my outdoor learning work filling most of my time. Despite our Arctic spring (courtesy of the jet stream’s wanderings), the seasons have been ever so slowly inching forwards, and although today is grey and rainy there are signs that we may have more of a summer this year than in 2012. Here’s hoping!

Most unusually, we did have a sunny and warm Bank Holiday Monday in early May. This was a great relief, as on the day I was paddling a home-made raft with a team of other volunteers down the Kennet and Avon Canal, taking part in the Crafty Craft Race to raise funds for Five A Day Market Garden where I work and volunteer. We paddlers worked in shifts to propel our catamaran-like craft the five miles eastwards from Kintbury to Newbury: you can see from the photo below that a fun time was had by all! (I’m the one paddling at the rear of the craft, in case you were wondering.)

Astonishingly, our ‘Ghostbusters’ team (hence the ‘spooky’ facepainting) won the race in our category! I put it down to all of us Five A Day Market garden volunteers getting lots of healthy exercise and fresh organic fruit and veg. (Plus having a superbly engineered craft, designed and built from an old swimming pool cover by Ghostbusters team member Dennis – kudos to him.)

Before the early May Bank Holiday weekend, warm days were rare enough that when they showed up I tried to get out to enjoy them as often as possible. One sunny weekend in late April I went out to see what spring flowers were in bloom, and discovered the most phenomenal bank of Cowslips Primula veris near Speen, thousands of plants in full flower.

Walking around Snelsmore Common the same weekend, I was struck by how many plants had been brought into simultaneous flowering by the warmth, after so many weeks of unrelenting cold. In Withy Copse, Wood Anemones Anemone nemorosa and Lesser Celandines Ranunculus ficaria were flowering together, starring the ground with white and gold. The large purple-blotched arrowhead leaves of Cuckoopint Arum maculatum were everywhere, while just the leaves of Bluebells Endymion nonscriptus were showing.

The trees were only just showing signs of waking up, with few buds opening to release the tips of new leaves, so there was still plenty of light reaching the ground layer where these fabulous woodland flora grow. In another woodland (Briff’s Copse near Hamstead Marshall) I found Moschatel Adoxa moschatellina, a diminuitive little plant that’s always been one of my favourites. Moschatel comes from the Greek word for musk, as the plant has a somewhat musky smell; its other common name is Town Hall Clock, so called because the five-sided flower is said to resemble the faces on a clock-tower.

Of course with the spring and summer flowers opening, there is finally some nectar and pollen for insects to find. With last year being such a dismal one for British butterflies, it’s even more pleasing than usual to see them on the wing on sunny days. I spotted this Peacock butterfly basking at Snelsmore Common in late April, before it swooped off at high speed as all the Vanessid butterflies seem to do.

Snelsmore Common was also the site for a singing picnic that I organised for local choir Sing The World, which I co-lead with my friend Tessa. We gathered down there on 3rd June to share food and drink, followed by an hour or so of harmony singing as the sun slowly set. A grand way to spend an evening, in my opinion. I love the way that singing unites people of all backgrounds and ages, there’s nothing quite like it. Currently I’m just starting to plan songs for my next singing workshop, which will be on 19th October at the lovely barn conference centre at Elm Farm Organic Research Centre near Newbury. I’m looking forward to it already!

With last year’s challenging weather it was nice to hear some good news about local wildlife conservation: the success of BBOWT’s Heritage Lottery Fund bid for the five-year Linking The Landscape project in West Berkshire. I attended a conference in mid-April organised by BBOWT, at which they were celebrating the previous five years’ conservation work done by BBOWT and West Berkshire Council on the local areas covered by the Living Landscape scheme. I had been involved both as a volunteer and as a freelance consultant in the Living Landscape scheme and the new funding bid, so I was very happy to hear the great news that all the sterling conservation work done so far by volunteers and professionals alike will not only be safeguarded but extended, for the benefit of local wildlife and local people.

The conference itself was an interesting day, with a fascinating speech on landscape-scale conservation projects across the UK by ecologist and Head of Planning and Environment for Forest Enterprise England, Jonathan Spencer. One of his points was that landscapes and wildlife are best protected when conservation is integrated with community needs, including economic needs – and vice versa. This is a message that I think many people, both environmentalists and developers, are still struggling to come to terms with. There’s often a sense in this crowded country of battle lines being drawn up, when actually it would make far more sense for conservationists, businesses and local communities to work together to develop ways of managing our land that allow for sustainable living and plenty of space for wildlife. Good food for thought!

During the afternoon of the conference we had the chance to take part in some workshops on a range of different topics: amongst other things I participated in a training session for monitoring the effects of grazing regimes on the heathlands and grasslands of the commons, with West Berkshire ranger Adrian Wallington and ecologist Thomas Haynes. The aim of this is to recruit volunteers to carry out simple plant surveys to help monitor the effects of the livestock grazing on vegetation on the commons, hopefully to improve management for all kinds of wildlife. What better way to spend an hour two on a sunny summer’s day, than sitting in the sunshine looking at flowers? If you agree, why not get involved by getting in touch with Adrian Wallington and asking him for more info.

Another highlight in April was going on a camp with Thatcham Young Rangers to Rushall Farm, in the Easter holidays. As the weather leading up to our camp had been pretty miserable, we kept our fingers crossed… And luckily, we were blessed with more or less dry days! The Young Rangers were total stars: most of them had never camped or slept away from home before, but they all mucked in and had a great time. We visited the farm animals, helped migrating toads reach their pond, built bivouacs in the woods, and sang so loudly round our campfire that they probably heard us in Reading! Because of the very cold night the kids pitched their tents inside the farm’s 300-year-old Black Barn, bedding down amidst much giggling. All of us adult helpers involved received beautiful handmade Thank You cards signed by every child, with the fervent request “Pleeeeeeease can we come and camp here again next year?”

We are now in the heart of the school visit season at Rushall Farm, with the field teaching team working at the farm most days of the week. In mid-May one of my fellow field teachers found some Early Purple Orchids Orchis mascula in Oaklands Copse at the farm, and was kind enough to tell me about them. Their spotted leaves had evidently been nibbled by deer or rabbits, but the pink flowers themselves had survived: a lovely sight amongst the trees.

Schools have also been coming to Five A Day Market Garden: Castleview School from Slough brought three classes of pupils on visits, which were great fun for children and adults alike. Not fazed by the showery weather, the staff and pupils got stuck into sensory and gardening activities, finally making three fabulous scarecrows, one of which is pictured here. The school brought a really positive and creative attitude with them that made working with their groups a total pleasure: I look forward to seeing them at Five A Day again next year!

On the gardening front, things are finally starting to get going on the allotment that I share with my friend Tessa. The rise in temperatures brought our strawberry plants into flower, which in turn brought out the honey bees from the hives in the corner of the allotment site. We’re hoping that this will be a better year for veg growing, as last year was pretty much a wash-out. So far the signs are promising: we’ve enjoyed our first crop of asparagus since creating our asparagus bed three years ago, our broad beans and sugarsnap peas are coming on a treat, and we finished off the last edible bits of last year’s brussels sprouts: the tender green tops and yellow flowers, which I discovered tasted jolly nice when incorporated into a sweet potato and feta salad.

As part of a planned new housing development, our allotments at Speen are threatened with possible relocation to a new site only 30 metres from the Newbury Bypass. Allotment members and the local community are currently being consulted about the proposals, with a public exhibition of plans for the suggested development at Speen Hall on 19th June. My feeling is that I support the provision of new social housing (of which some 40% of the proposed development is supposed to be), but no way do I want to be gardening on the edge of the bypass. Hopefully an alternative site for the allotments will be found which matches the peaceful current setting… Otherwise I may have to dust off my direct action techniques and dig out my D-lock! The plans are very much at the early consultation stage, so hopefully the feedback from allotment holders and others will produce a better solution for all concerned.

At least the slow start to the growing season this year has meant that I haven’t had to spend all my free time weeding the allotment, so I’ve been able to go out exploring for more wildlife. On a trip with the Young Rangers group to Padworth Common local nature reserve in late May, we were surprised to find a glowworm larva sitting on the edge of one of the corrugated iron sheets used as refuges by reptiles on the site.

Glowworms are actually a type of beetle: the adult females have two brightly-glowing segments on the underside of their rear abdomen, which they use to attract the flying male beetles on summer evenings. They feed on tiny snails and although said to prefer chalky or limestone soils can be recorded anywhere with suitable habitat: open vegetation such as grassland or hedges. The peak for finding glowing females is usually July, so why not have a look at a few sites in your locality and see if you can find some.

Staying with the theme of nocturnal and crepuscular wildlife, at the end of May I went on a bat monitoring and moth trapping evening organised by BBOWT and Berks and South Bucks Bat Group, on the southern side of Greenham Common. As the evening was mild (and teeming with midges and mosquitoes!) we were hoping for some good numbers of bats, but alas all the bat nest boxes we checked were empty and there were few calls picked up by our bat detectors. We were lucky enough to catch a couple of Pipistrelle bats in the mist nets set up by James Shipman and other BSBBG volunteers. These tiny bats can each consume up to 3,000 insects in a single night! After spending several hours being bitten despite liberal amounts of insect repellent, I was silently wishing the Pipistrelles good hunting.

The bat action being less than stellar, I joined the moth trappers for a few hours of identifying the various moths and other night-time insects lured in by the lamps and white sheets placed around the common. I love moth trapping: there’s something quintessentially English about sitting in the dark peering at moth identification books and fluttering beasties in bug pots, periodically bombarded by bemused cockchafer beetles. I’ve yet to meet a moth enthusiast who isn’t also a thoroughly nice person. Enthusiasm is infectious, and frankly I find the geekiness of entomologists rather loveable. I’m well aware that this qualifies me for geekdom myself: it’s an identity I happily embrace, along with my many other guises. Oh, and moth trappers always make sure that good biscuits are conveniently to hand, as you can see on the left-hand edge of white sheet.

In early June I went on a dragonfly and damselfly identification course, one of the many Developing Your Skills workshops that BBOWT run across Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshire. If you volunteer for BBOWT these courses are free of charge, but even if you pay, at £30.00 these courses are excellent value for money. This particular day was led by local ecology consultant Adrian Hickman, a very knowledgeable naturalist who can communicate what he knows in a clear and accessible way. Adrian’s morning classroom sessions focussing on identification features were reinforced by an afternoon fieldwork session on ponds around Greenham Common. And once again the sun was shining, so we had good amounts of sightings of Broad-bodied Chasers, Emperor Dragonflies, Large Red Damselflies (pictured above) and Azure Damselflies to name a few.

I’m looking forward to a summer of exploring nature and putting some of my newly-acquired skills to use: but one of the perks of working in environmental teaching is that even when I’m at work I get lots of opportunities to notice and appreciate the natural world. Recently I’ve started giving illustrated talks to groups, about subjects including wildlife gardening, foraging for wild foods and environmental education. It’s a genuine pleasure to be able to share my enthusiasm for the natural world with even more people, adults and children alike. A love of wildlife is catching, but unlike other infectious things, it’s really good for you! It’s good to see the BBC promoting their Summer of Wildlife, which will hopefully get more people turned on to nature in their own locality. I’ll certainly be out there: peering at moths, sniffing plants, studying dragonflies. However you plan to spend your summer, I hope you enjoy it too.

Wood anemones at Snelsmore Common

Midwinter musings

Posted on December 26, 2012 by Becca

Well, it’s been a wild and wet few weeks leading up to midwinter. On the few clear frosty days we’ve had, I’ve tried to get out and about as often as possible to make the most of the winter sunshine. Even when it’s bitterly cold, sunlight is a valuable commodity at this time of year. Especially after the predominantly cloudy summer we’ve had: several of my friends have remarked that they feel sun-deprived, as if their bodies are craving a top-up. As one of the benefits of sunshine is that it enables our bodies to synthesize vitamin D, a substance important not only in bone health but also good immune system function, it’s not surprising that we’re all craving a bit of brightness at this time of year.

Luckily I have several friends who enjoy the great outdoors as much as I do, so I have had the opportunity to go on some lovely winter walks. The photo above was taken at the end of November at the RSPB’s Otmoor reserve between Oxford and Bicester. Three of us had been planning for some time to go and see the fabled winter starling roost there: a purpose thwarted in previous years by weather and work commitments, but finally achieved this winter… And it was truly worth the wait. I’ve seen photographs and films of starling roosts; watched a small one in London, over Wandsworth Bridge; but finally getting to see the Otmoor spectacle was a real treat. We were lucky with both the weather (freezing cold, but sunny and windless) and with the numbers of birds (around 30,000 starlings). A few birders with whom we watched the roost told us that most of the evenings they’d come out, the numbers of starlings had been smaller and the flying display very brief… But on that Friday we had almost an hour of watching what has to be one of the most magical wildlife displays in the UK.

Unfortunately you will have to take my word for this, as I was so busy watching the roost that I neglected to take any photographs. I did attempt to film a few parts of the display with my little compact camera, but the resultant blurry clips do more to capture my excitement (lots of off-camera “Whoa!” noises) than the beauty of the spectacle. Starlings perform these extraordinary massed aeronautical manoeuvres for a number of reasons: warming themselves up before roosting for the night; competing to gain the best perches amongst the reedbeds; foiling potential predators such as sparrowhawks with the confusing numbers and rapidly changing direction of their flock. But when I watch this display I am simply swept up in the beauty of it. The ebb and flow of birds, cresting and falling in dark waves against the winter sky. Thousands of individuals transformed into a single entity, turning as one; then suddenly dividing into two clouds of beating wings that form into a heart shape, a drop of water, a rising hill: one cloud passing in front of the other and being reabsorbed, before the whole flock rains out of the sky into the waiting reeds.

Otmoor is worth a visit at any time of year, not just when the starlings are doing their stuff in winter. Its reedbeds and wet meadows support a huge range of bird species throughout the year, as well as dragonflies and damselflies in summer. And it costs nothing to visit, although making a small donation to the RSPB to support their ongoing conservation work there and at other sites across the UK would be a nice gesture.

This winter I have been busier than usual in the run up to Christmas, with field teaching work continuing throughout November. The Young Rangers group that I help to run at the Nature Discovery Centre in Thatcham has continued to be popular with local children, even now that colder weather and dark evenings have moved most of our activities indoors. We had a fun time carving pumpkin lanterns for Hallowe’en, and also making models of rockhopper penguins – which later ended up being used in a noisy but fun game of penguin skittles! Northern rockhopper penguins are mostly found on the remote Tristan da Cunha islands in the Atlantic Ocean, where their numbers are declining catastrophically. The RSPB is carrying out research to try to establish the causes of this decline: possible factors include climate change, overfishing and competition from other animals. Again, money is of course needed to support this conservation work, so if one of your New Year’s resolutions is to help wildlife then consider donating to the RSPB’s UK Overseas Territories appeal.

In November I also had the opportunity to revisit the RSPB’s east London flagship reserve at Rainham Marshes. I and a colleague were shadowing the RSPB field teachers there for a day as they worked with a local school, getting some ideas for developing our own teaching practice back at Thatcham. When we arrived the site was cloaked in freezing mist, which cleared slowly throughout the day to give some atmospheric views across the Thames estuary to the docklands beyond.

Rainham is an interesting site to visit, not just for wildlife and the excellent education facilities (I had major gadget envy for some of their teaching resources!), but also for the history of the landscape there. Gazing out over the foggy marshes I found myself reminded of the opening scenes in Great Expectations, with a young Pip startled by the appearance of the convict Magwitch out of the mist. I’ve always found the juxtaposition of industrial and natural landscapes fascinating, and Rainham is certainly a place with stories to tell.

Closer to home, I’ve been exploring some of the woodlands around Newbury. My old hiking boots finally gave up the ghost and I treated myself to some new ones, so this gave me an opportunity to break them in on short rambles in the beech woods around Cold Ash. With all the rain we’ve had the ground was pretty much a quagmire underfoot, but curiously it hasn’t been a good autumn for fungi – at least not on the sites I’ve been visiting. I did however see quite a bit of spalted beech wood on my walk – timber with a characteristic pattern of differently-shaded areas separated by dark lines.

These markings are caused by different types of ‘white rot’ fungi growing through the wood, bleaching out some areas and forming dark boundary ‘zone lines’ where two fungi meet. It’s common in beech and other hardwood trees, forming attractive patterning in timber that can then be turned or carved into bowls and other objects.

As well as exploring on foot I’ve been cycling quite a bit, especially along the Kennet and Avon canal towpath. In early December I cycled to Kintbury for a pint at The Dundas Arms, not realising that for most of the last mile or two the towpath was not so much adjacent to the canal as in it. High amounts of rainfall and maintenance work on some of the canal’s locks meant water levels had risen over the banks, making for somewhat soggy cycling. By this point on my cycle ride I was pretty determined that nothing was going to stop me enjoying my pint so I persevered, discovering en route that the secret to negotiating flooded towpaths is essentially just to keep pedalling, no matter what. I made it through the mire with freezing wet feet and a soggy bottom, but nothing that couldn’t be remedied with some Good Old Boy and a bag of crisps.

After frequent rain the ground is fairly well saturated, with standing water and flooding to be seen pretty much everywhere around Newbury and Thatcham. We’ve been lucky enough to escape the serious flooding that has caused so many problems in other parts of the UK, for which I’m very thankful: it must be hard for a lot of people to celebrate Christmas this year, displaced from their homes or businesses by inundation. Once again we seem to be suffering from ‘extreme’ weather events. After bemoaning the serious lack of winter rainfall last year, with consequent knock-on effects on habitats, wildlife and agriculture, the current heavy rainfall and consequent flooding may seem a touch ironic. But solutions to both issues may lie in the development of more sustainable water management systems, for example rainwater harvesting (RWH) and sustainable drainage systems (SUDS). I recommend reading this interesting article by Brian Pickworth, which explains how both flooding and drought could be tackled by the adoption of integrated systems for managing our water resources at times of peak and lowest availability.

A major part of any strategy for regulating water and managing the increasingly serious problems of flooding and droughts in the UK will have to be ensuring that we conserve as much of our natural wetland habitat as possible, of course. Much criticism has been levelled at the drainage and development of our floodplains, whether that be for housing or for agriculture. As a nature conservationist my sympathies are of course firmly on the side of wetland wildlife, which is the main reason why I’m opposed to the development of the so-called ‘Boris Island’ Thames estuary airport. The only case the airport-building supporters seem to have is an economic one… Although given the long-term costs of flood damage and other issues associated with unsustainable developments like these, someone clearly hasn’t been doing the math.

I’ve noticed recently that economic arguments are increasingly being used as a justification for development decisions that make no environmental sense. If any greenie dares to query the potential impact of anything ranging from fracking to nuclear power, it’s suggested that they are collaborating in some kind of Luddite plot that will drag Britain inexorably downwards in an apocalyptic economic disaster. I hope that people aren’t cowed by this financial McCarthyism. Using fear as a tool to push their own agendas is a technique long beloved by governments, but I’m hoping that in this age of access to information most of you will seek the science behind the headlines and prevent the destruction of ecosystems that are, ultimately, what keep all of us alive. It’s lovely to be able to fly abroad and visit beautiful places, but not at the cost of accelerating climate change and destroying our own native habitats and wildlife.

Ho ho ho… ‘Tis the season to be jolly, so I’ll end on a less polemical note! The nicest thing for me about this festive time of year is that I get time off from the pressures of work to go out and explore the countryside, as well as to catch up with friends and family. So in that spirit, I wish all of you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year… And may you have a peaceful, healthy and prosperous 2013.

Sunset at Otmoor.

Three months later…

Posted on October 27, 2012 by Becca

If the title of this blog entry seems a trifle enigmatic, let me dispell the mystery: it’s been three months since I last wrote a blog entry. Lawks! How did that happen?

Well it happened, of course, because I’ve been a tad busy. All good stuff, many adventures and projects and work-related developments, but for several weeks other things (including this blog) have had to take a back seat for a while. The allotment that I share with my friend Tessa has also been somewhat neglected, or at least hasn’t received the kind of TLC that we were both able to give it the previous year. To be fair, the rather moist summer we’ve had has meant finding a spare half day to work on our plot when it hasn’t been siling down with rain has been virtually impossible. It’s also meant that an awful lot of veg that we planted did not do well: broad bean plants rotted and died, salads were a disaster area, peas were decimated by pigeons, even courgettes (which we’re usually reduced to putting in carrier bags and leaving anonymously on people’s doorsteps) fell prey to the slugfest that has been this year’s growing season. The only things that did well were our asparagus, Festival squash (pictured above) and some O’Driscoll drying beans (pictured below). These last are a Heritage Seed Library variety that grows like a runner bean, and is picked in late autumn, giving oodles of pleasingly white and purple speckled little round beans that I’m looking forward to eating. I grew mine from a few seeds donated by a kind friend.

With all the rainy weather I resorted to growing a few things on the windowsills of my flat (which helpfully face due south), including the biggest basil leaves I’ve ever seen in my life and a crop of ‘Apache’ chillies that are so spicy they are probably contributing to global warming. I am a chilliholic (I used to eat the ones that came pickled in jars of vinegar, then drink the vinegar) but these have given me a new respect for chilli-dom. They apparently score 75,000 – 80,000 on the Scoville Scale of chilli hotness: to give you some context, jalapeño chillies score about 2,500 – 8,000 on the Scoville Scale. I’m not sure whether to cook with the Apaches or stockpile them as lethal weapons.

Work has been full-on pretty much all summer and into the autumn, apart from a week off in early August to go to Voice Camp (of which more in a later blog). Despite the adverse weather conditions it’s been a good year so far for field teaching. I’ve especially enjoyed doing some Forest School sessions with the Thatcham Young Rangers youth group I co-lead. The Forest School ethos is that activities are hands-on and largely child-led: we leaders gave instruction in safe and correct tool use, establish some ground rules… Then let the kids choose their own activities. We’ve had den building, fire lighting, stick whittling, tree climbing – in fact, pretty much everything I used to do as a kid, but which most children today are usually not allowed to do. Even just getting messy was a novelty for some of them – though they soon got the hang of it, especially when they discovered how to make facepaints from elderberries and mud!

It’s been great being so busy, but because I’ve been teaching on Saturdays as well (running some wildlife gardening courses for adults) I have missed having weekends to go exploring. Last Saturday was free and I took advantage of the mild autumn weather to go on a yomp around Combe, a few miles southwest of Newbury. Amazingly I didn’t see a soul during the three-hour walk. I started high up on Walbury Hill, where the gorse and brambles lining the track were hung with cobwebs silvered with mist.

It was a perfect day for walking, cool and bright and still. There is something about being high up on hills and ridgelines that is wonderfully exhilarating. You’re about as far away from the sea as you can get in Berkshire, but there is something of the feel of the coast when you’re high up on the downs. It got me thinking about cliffs and the sea as I walked along… Maybe next year I will do some of the South West Coast Path when I’ve got a long weekend or a week free. In the meantime I was happy to be striding out over the hills, enjoying the autumn colours that are starting to show spectacularly in woodlands and hedgerows.

I know from my teaching at Rushall Farm that it’s been as tough a year for farmers as it has been for veg growers, so I was interested to see in one field a straggly crop of maize, interspersed with dense drifts of Scented mayweed Matricaria recutita. I wondered for a moment what kind of maize crop would have been gathered in after the cold wet summer – until I remember that maize is commonly grown as a cover crop on land where pheasant shoots take place. The mayweed was pretty, anyway.

My guess about pheasants proved correct. Once I cut into the woodland, the wretched things kept exploding from the undergrowth like demented banshees. It’s a mystery to me why pheasants sit quietly until they’re almost underfoot, whereupon they burst out in a flurry of scolding clucking and whirring feathers that causes any passer-by to suffer near cardiac arrest. I haven’t eaten pheasant for many years (although my maternal grandpa was a bit of a dab hand at poaching, family lore has it) but by the time I’d walked through the small woodland I would’ve quite cheerfully stuffed a few into an oven. The phrase “too stupid to live” kept coming irresistibly to mind. I know it’s not the pheasants’ fault that they’re here in such vast amounts in our countryside, and they are strikingly handsome birds… But boy, are they dumb. Maybe they have to be, for the purpose of pheasant shoots. I could be wrong, but I suspect that the average toff who goes pheasant shooting (and at a cost of around £1,000 per day, I’m guessing that most of the participants are toffs) prefers his flying targets not to be too quick-witted.

If I sound a bit jaundiced it’s because I am. It’s tricky; I work a lot in rural areas where being anti blood sports is not well looked upon, but it’s the ‘sport’ element of it that I dislike. I’d rather people shot and ate deer, if they have to shoot anything. We could certainly do with a lot less of those around, and in the absence of wolves I guess we could fill that ‘top carnivore’ niche. I don’t object to people knocking off pheasants and eating them per se. It’s the whole industry of it that bothers me – that and the way some gamekeepers and landowners see pheasants as privileged creatures to be protected at all costs, even if that means destroying actual native British wildlife. Our local MP and Minister for Wildlife and Biodiversity Richard Benyon controversially tried to introduce a programme for Defra to fund the capture of buzzards and destruction of their nests. Fortunately the resultant uproar from conservationists – not least because the proposed scheme was based on anecdotes of pheasant chick predation rather than any kind of scientific evidence – forced the government to back down. Or as Richard Benyon put it, “In the light of the public concerns expressed in recent days, I have decided to look at developing new research proposals on buzzards.” Mmm.

Buzzards are actually commoner than they used to be, largely thanks to the successful reintroduction of red kites (one pictured above) into England. A lot of work was done with landowners and gamekeepers to prevent the newly introduced kites from being shot or poisoned, with the result that buzzards have also benefited. I’m really glad that these large birds of prey are making a comeback: my heart never fails to lift when I see them wheeling and soaring over freshly-ploughed fields at Rushall Farm. And towards the end of my walk around Combe there were a few red kites circling above me, riding the air currents over the downs… A fitting end to a good day’s walking.

Speaking of Rushall Farm, I had a particularly pleasing moth moment there at the end of a field teaching day this week. I had just finished cleaning the toilets (the glamour of working in outdoor education!) and spotted a very spanking Merveille Du Jour moth sitting on the toilet door. This moth’s name translates as ‘Marvel of the Day’, and it pretty much was. It feeds on oak Quercus spp., of which there is a good amount at Rushall thanks to the well-managed semi-natural ancient woodlands on the farm. All supported by funding such as the Higher Level Stewardship scheme which Rushall succeeded in gaining this year: a good example of how farming can benefit the environment and wildlife.

This weekend has started clear and cold and sunny, so I made the most of yet another free Saturday to stomp around Snelsmore Common for a couple of hours. The wind was bitter but the woods were looking fabulous: full autumn colours and drifts of leaves bowling around in the gusts. I found an Amethyst Deceiver Laccaria amethystina among the beech leaves, looking like it had been put there by a set designer. Fungi are the coolest things: they recycle dead leaves and wood, and many form dense networks of underground root-like hyphae which grow in close association with the roots of trees and other plants, benefiting them enormously. Fungal hyphae are tiny: in one gram of woodland soil there can be an astonishing 100 metres of hyphae… Yet the largest (and oldest) living thing in the world is a fungus: Armillarea ostoyae (Honey fungus to you and me) in the Blue Mountains in Oregon, one specimen of which has hyphae covering 965 hectares. Epic. How can you not like fungi? Especially as when they do pop their fruiting bodies up above ground or out of logs, as the familiar toadstools or mushrooms we’ve all encountered, they manifest in such a funky range of shapes and colours.

Autumn being the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, the other good reason to walk through the woods at Snelsmore Common was to glean the ground underneath the many Sweet chestnut trees Castanea sativa that grow there. I was half expecting the squirrels to have got there first, but there were actually lots of nuts to find, especially when I rootled about under the thick litter of orange-brown leaves lying on the ground. I’m not sure yet how I’ll cook ’em up – maybe something involving mushrooms, which go well with sweet chestnuts’ rich earthy sweetness. Or possibly brussels sprouts, although it’ll be a while yet before ours will be ready on our allotment. Maybe I can cook and freeze the chestnuts in the meantime…

So by coming back to allotments and food, I’ve come full circle. Must be all this healthy outdoor walking giving me an appetite. My Festival squash are sitting cheerfully in a corner of my kitchen, from where I regularly choose one to roast or stew. I won’t be carving one for Hallowe’en, because they’re just too yummy to waste as lanterns… Though I might carve an ordinary pumpkin anyway, for a bit of fun. I’m looking forward to Hallowe’en – or Samhain, the old Celtic new year, as I celebrate it. In the half term holiday week I’ll be running some ‘Creepy Crafty Creatures’ family events at Five A Day Market Garden which will focus on bats, owls, spiders and other spooky wildlife; plus another wildlife gardening course for adults, so I’ll be keeping busy. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a photograph of a very gorgeous creepy creature found on our allotment this summer: a beautiful toad who’d made herself at home catching the slugs feasting on our strawberries.

Happy Hallowe’en for next week!

Whatever the weather

Posted on July 1, 2012 by Becca

I write this on a grey, showery first day of July, after what has been a largely grey, rainy June. It feels cool and windy and not at all like midsummer should be: working outdoors almost every day as I do, I feel slightly more entitled to whinge about the inclement weather than most folks. And reminding myself that “we need the rain” doesn’t actually help much. At the end of the day, I would prefer to be field teaching without having to garb myself up like a North Sea fisherman. Not to mention that 75% of the schoolchildren who turn up on field trips appear to be offspring of parents who haven’t had the nouse to put the words “outdoors” and “suitable clothing” together in their overtaxed brains. Here’s a clue, folks: in the real world coats have to be waterproof. All the Hello Kitty accessories in the world will not comfort your child if they are soaked to the skin on a five-hour school trip in the countryside.

If I sound a tad grumpy it’s because I’m not well: after being surrounded by schoolkids barking out coughs like sealions for the past month, I’ve succumbed to a tenacious virus that has left me teaching in a sultry croak that occasionally frightens younger children. Taking days off sick when you’re self employed is not really an option unless you have pneumonia, so I’m consuming epic quantities of garlic and fresh lemons and fortifying myself with echinacea and paracetamol. Being able to teach in dry weather would be helpful but the latest forecast seems to be continuing on the moist side… Heigh ho. Waterproofs at the ready.

In an effort to cheer myself up I’m posting some photos taken in late May and early June, before Britain entered the Rain Age. My friend Chris led a walk at Hartslock Nature Reserve near Goring, for Reading and District Natural History Society (RDNHS). It was a scorchingly hot day, and a lovely opportunity to revisit a nature reserve where I once lived for a few months in a caravan as the resident warden ‘guarding’ a colony of Monkey orchids (Orchis simia). The photo at the start of this blog is of Hartslock Woods, looking east down the River Thames. If you don’t know this site (which is owned and managed by local wildlife trust BBOWT) then I highly recommend you visit it: it’s fabulous for plants, invertebrates, birds and commands views over the Thames Valley and Goring Gap second to none.

RDNHS was founded in 1881 and is still going strong: the group runs a programme of outdoor visits to sites of wildlife interest and indoor talks about subjects ranging from earthworms to bird conservation in Ecuador. I don’t get along to their meetings as often as I’d like (especially at the moment, as I’m teaching six days a week and several evenings too), but I can thoroughly recommend them. Not only do you get a fascinating look at the natural world, but you meet some phenomenally accomplished amateur and professional naturalists who will generously share their knowledge with you. A list of their upcoming outdoor trips (on midweek evenings as well as Saturdays and Sundays) can be found on their website.

The Monkey orchid (Orchis simia) pictured in close-up above is one plant that gives Hartslock its botanical cachet. In 2002 a Lady orchid (Orchis purpurea) flowered at the site, and by 2006 the first Monkey-Lady hybrid Orchis simia x purpurea was seen in flower on the reserve. Now there is a thriving colony of 250+ hybrids alongside the existing Monkey orchids on the main orchid slope, and there has (and continues to be) lively debate about the pros and cons of hybridisation. My take on it is that ‘hybrid vigour’ (check out the sturdier-looking hybrid plant below) may well prove to be a healthy thing for the Monkey orchids long term… And that Mother Nature generally knows best and gets on with sorting things out, regardless of what opinions we puny humans may have. For more background info on the science behind the hybrids, check out Chris’s Hartslock website.

Being an unimproved chalk downland reserve, Hartslock is generally fantastic not just for orchids but all kinds of plant species. There is a small colony of (introduced) Pasqueflower Pulsatilla vulgaris, of which one was still in bloom in late May.

Another notable at Hartslock is the semi-parasitic Bastard toadflax Thesium humifusum, a tiny creeping little plant that taps into the roots of other plants and derives some of its sustenance from them. It reminds me of a diminutive mistletoe, although confusingly it is part of the Sandalwood family. There is a bug Sehirus impressus that feeds solely on the sap of this rare plant. We found one of these small dark metallic blue bugs on our ramble: my photo doesn’t do it justice as it was so warm the bug was practically break-dancing in its pot, but never mind.

After several hours in the scorchio sun my water supplies had run out and I was ready to call it a day… But not the stalwarts of RDNHS, who gamely set off on a foray to inspect the neighbouring slope for botanical and entomological gems. My ambition for my twilight years is still to be actively enjoying nature, so those more senior members of RDNHS are an inspiration. I salute them! Those of us who work in conservation owe a massive debt to such passionate and thorough amateur naturalists who have amassed a huge body of painstaking observations of our native wild plants and animals.

From the older generation to the younger… It is peak season for field teaching and I have been very busy working with schools and youth groups at Rushall Farm, Five A Day Market Garden and the RSPB’s Living Classroom at Thatcham. Schools often prefer to schedule their field trips for the summer term, although to be honest they could have just as good a day out in spring or autumn – or even winter for some study topics.

At Rushall Farm schools come on residential camps as well as day trips, which gives us a chance to do more adventurous things such as campfires, bivouac building and team building activities such as sheep herding. I’m telling you now, if you haven’t seen a class of eleven year-olds trying to get half a dozen confused sheep into a pen, you haven’t lived. I haven’t laughed so much in ages. One pupil related to their parent that they’d been “sheep hurdling”: that pretty much covers it. And the bivouacs that the kids build in the woods are works of art. Maybe not always 100% weatherproof, but creative marvels nonetheless. Ray Mears, eat your heart out.

What I like about the camps at Rushall is that you get to know the children over a couple of days and build up a rapport with them. Too often when classes come on trips there are worksheets to be done and curriculum topics to be covered: all worthy stuff and part of what outdoor education is about, but for me the real point to it all is making sure these kids develop a strong and lasting connection with the natural world that will sustain them throughout their lives. There’s a lot of talk these days about Nature Deficit Disorder and the lack of contact that most children (and adults) have with nature, so it’s easy to feel despondent… But what I see when I’m field teaching is children quickly getting into the wild experience, especially if there are ‘real’ things such as mud, sticks or campfires involved. The only things holding kids back seem to be adult fears about risks (not a problem if you plan things properly and set boundaries with groups) or getting clothes dirty (leave the designer gear at home). No-one will be able to see your designer labels once they’re muddy, anyway – and tribal facepaint (as modelled by me below after a bivouac building session at Rushall) beats Bourjois make-up any day.

It has been challenging teaching on some of these really wet days, but to give the kids credit, I haven’t heard a single one moan about the rain – even when they’ve been sent to us with insufficient footwear or rainproof clothing and have consequently spent the day somewhat damp. I’ve loaned a lot of clothing to kids in the last month in an effort to keep them at least partly dry: my feeling is that maybe instead of twittering on about reviving O-levels and getting kids to learn poetry by rote, Mr Gove should ensure that all schools have a set of wet weather gear that can be borrowed by kids going on field trips. Why should kids suffer because their parents are apparently clueless about what constitutes ‘appropriate clothing’ for a country where rain is the norm at the moment?

Getting off my soapbox… Despite the wet weather, I’ve had some great days out with school groups. Hunting for minibeasts, pond dipping and going on sensory nature walks are still crowd-pleasers. And even when I’ve had a gruelling day with a ‘challenging’ group, the things the kids come out with when I ask them what they remember about the day never fail to lift my spirits. No-one works in environmental education for the financial rewards, and teaching of any sort is at best demanding and at worst exhausting, but when I think of all the thousands of children I’ve worked with it feels worthwhile. I know what a positive impact my early nature education experiences had on me at primary school, and how that’s sustained me in later life. I just hope that some of what I do will have a similar effect on the children I teach.

Since the rainy season began and I became temporary host to the World’s Most Persistent Cough, I’ve not had much time to garden on the allotment that I share with my friend Tessa. Last time I visited (over a week ago) the blackfly were taking over the broad beans and I spent an unpleasant half hour dealing with them, as well as weeding like a fiend. However there has been just enough sun to ripen our strawberries so this weekend we picked four punnets, as well as some early raspberries and a few broad beans. It’s been a weird year for gardening so we’re not getting too bothered about our lack of produce so far. Everything looked very pale and washed out (literally) until very recently, but now hopefully things will get growing if we get a few warmer days. I planted some climbing French beans that a friend of mine gave me seeds of: an heirloom variety called O’Driscoll, which you can leave the pods on to grow large and then harvest the bean seeds for drying and using as a cooked pulse. I’m looking forward to sampling them later this year.

One other nice thing I did on one of the few sunny Sundays we’ve had was to go for a bike ride along the canal towpath to Kintbury. It was hot day and I was very glad to break my journey near the wonderfully-named wet woodland called The Wilderness, and go for a wade in the River Kennet (which runs parallel to the Kennet and Avon Canal at this point).

The river was crystal clear and beautifully cool and I spent a very pleasant half hour paddling about in it, spotting fish and botanising along the banks. The Kennet is a superb chalk stream, despite worries about its falling water levels. On the Action for the River Kennet (ARK) website you can find a lot of information about its current problems and wonderful wildlife. Simply put, we’re using too much water: ARK states that Thames Water abstracts 19 million litres of water per day from the aquifers that should be feeding the Upper Kennet. With all the rain we’ve had it may be hard to imagine that lack of water is still an issue, but it is. Leaks from water company infrastructure are definitely a factor, but that doesn’t mean that as individuals we shouldn’t also take steps to conserve water in our homes and gardens. My personal favourite tip is: Turn off the tap whilst brushing your teeth. This saves about 12 litres of water per person, every day. If everyone in Berkshire did this, it would save over 10 million litres of water per day… Which is over half of the water currently being taken out of those aquifers.

Time for me to go and pack my bag for another day’s field teaching on the morrow, so I’ll end this blog entry here. The forecast is for heavy rain and we have a large school group booked in at Thatcham so no doubt that will be interesting! But on the plus side we’re finding lots of groovy snails and slugs on our minibeast hunts… And frogs in the meadow. I will leave you with a picture of one the kids found last week, whilst sweep netting for insects. They were thrilled, the frog less so. It may be tough sometimes being a field teacher in the rain, but it’s even tougher being an amphibian who lives in area used regularly for environmental education. I suspect we’ll be seeing the same frog more than once before the end of term.

Of martyrs and hermit crabs…

Posted on May 12, 2012 by Becca

Summer term progresses and most of my weekdays are now spent in field teaching, but the May Bank Holiday weekend gave me an opportunity to get away for a break with a friend, down on the Dorset coast. A singing workshop was being led by Gilo and Sarah, two lovely people that I met at the Unicorn Voice Camp last August. They are both fabulous singers and members of the Natural Voice Practitioners’ Network, to which I also belong. My friend and I expected a wonderful workshop, and we weren’t disappointed: Sarah and Gilo led around fifty people in a full day of harmony singing that was simply out of this world. The space we were singing in, the chapel at the Othona community near Burton Bradstock, was acoustically superb as well as being a beautiful setting in its own right. All in all, a great day.

My friend Tessa and I had an interesting journey to Othona. We paused en route to eat our picnic lunch at Tolpuddle, the village associated with the famous Tolpuddle Martyrs: six farm labourers (George and James Loveless, James Brine, James Hammett, John and Thomas Standfield) who tried to organise themselves into an early trade union to alleviate the poverty in which they lived. In 1834, the six men were framed by local squire James Frampton and sentenced to seven years’ transportation to Australia. Such was the outcry from the public, trade unions and a few MPs that two years later the men were all pardoned. They returned to Britain but found continuing ill treatment at the hands of wealthy landowners: five of the original six eventually emigrated to Canada where they lived out their lives in peace.

Astonishingly, the Sycamore tree under which the men held some of their union meetings is still growing in Tolpuddle (and is pictured above). I stood under it for a while and thought of those men daring to work together to change their world for the better, despite the fear of retribution from the rich and powerful. A significant message in these difficult times. No doubt certain people in government today wish fondly that transportation was still an option.

Before we arrived at Othona, we also went for a walk along nearby Chesil Beach. It was a grey evening with an almost completely calm sea, and the only people to be seen on the beach were fishermen. This mighty shingle bank had an almost surreal quality in the fading light: I could have sat meditatively on it for hours, gazing out to sea. At this western end the shingle is pea-sized, increasing to cobblestone size as you go east. According to local legend, smugglers landing on the shingle at night could tell exactly where they were on the coast by the size of the pebbles. I paddled briefly and narrowly escaped frostbite: early May is not propitious for sea-bathing in Britain. Tessa was far more sensible and kept her wellies firmly on.

In places along the shingle, some plants have managed to grab a foothold: I saw plenty of Sea kale Crambe maritima, with its fleshy crinkled leaves looking a lot more impressive than the stuff I’ve grown on the allotment. I tried munching a few leaves and they were surprisingly tasty, in a cabbagey sort of way. I couldn’t help thinking that they would be rather nice stir-fried with some ginger and spring onions and a few seared scallops.

Another coastal specialist growing at Chesil Beach is Sea campion Silene uniflora (pictured at the start of this blog entry), with white blossoms nodding above pinkish-green calyxes and slender stems and leaves. Amongst the flowers, black lumps of ancient peat lay scattered over the shingle, washed up onto the beach from sediments formed in a lagoon that lay further offshore when sea levels were lower over 4,000 years ago. Near one I found a wave-worn plastic soldier of unknown regiment, frozen in mid-stride: I left him storming the beaches on a block of peat not far from some World War Two tank traps, as he seemed quite at home there.

When we finally arrived at the Othona community to stay for the weekend, we were made instantly welcome and plied with delicious food, including ice cream for pudding with homemade butterscotch sauce. Othona has a core group of members living there as part of a spiritual community and runs a programme of events and ‘Open Space’ weekends that are open to all-comers. Along with its sister site in Essex, Othona in Dorset has a Christian basis but is open to people of all faiths or none, believing that what people share is more important than what divides them. As someone currently following a pagan tradition / the Tao Te Ching / meditation as a spiritual path, I found this open-hearted and inclusive attitude to spirituality refreshing and healing.

I would recommend staying at Othona to anyone. Not only was it peaceful and welcoming, but they have the most amazing tree-house in their garden and the sea is only ten minutes’ walk away. Before Othona took on the site in the 1960s it was the home of a small community of women dedicated to a life of self-sufficiency, vegetarianism and prayer. Known locally as the White Ladies (after the undyed cotton or silk habits they wore), each woman lived in her own wooden house and cultivated the land around it: sort of ‘Eco Nuns’, as someone described them. Sounds like a pretty good life to me. And I feel sure that they would have built a treehouse too, if only they’d thought of it.

While walking along the beach below Othona we found a Common hermit crab Pagurus bernhardus firmly ensconced in the recycled empty shell of a Common whelk Buccinum undatum. Hermit crabs scavenge on anything from dead fish to bits of seaweed, so are quite happy foraging around the tideline on beaches. Apparently if one hermit crab fancies another’s shell they may try to forcibly evict it. Even marine life has its perils, it would seem.

We were lucky enough to get quite a bit of sunshine over the weekend, very welcome after so many grey rainy days. On the Sunday we joined another friend (John) for a fossil hunting walk from Charmouth to Lyme Regis, managing to pick up quite a few nice ammonites and other fossils on the way. The best place to find these is not in the disintegrating (and hazardous) cliff faces, but amongst rocks and shingle on the beach. This doesn’t however discourage lots of people from whacking enthusiastically at anything rock-shaped with fossil hammers, so our walk was musically punctuated by the chink of steel on stone.

I went on many childhood holidays to Lyme Regis and have lots of good memories of this part of the coast, so it was especially nice for me to share a day there with two friends. We ate lunch (massive fresh local crab baguettes) on the beach, and soaked up the sunshine.

Our day out coincided with the Lyme Regis Fossil Festival, an annual event that celebrates all things geological and palaeontological. We enjoyed some of the street theatre on offer, including the roving Big Noise Band and the eccentric Battle For The Winds performance (which was frankly as mad as a sack full of weasels – British eccentricity at its finest). I also spotted a rather enigmatic young lady dressed in period costume (pictured below), taking the air on the promenade. I thought perhaps she was meant to be a young Mary Anning, the nineteenth century fossil collector who is one my earliest heroines.

Also part of the festival was stone balancer Adrian Gray. Some time ago my parents gave me a photograph of one of his delicately-balanced pieces, but I hadn’t appreciated just how astonishing his work was until I watched him in action. He stands one massive sea-smoothed stone atop another, in positions that seem to defy gravity. Lest people grow suspicious of trickery, he periodically takes these balances apart and perches a new stone in place of the first one. I could’ve watched him all day. I think stone balancing could be the new Jenga.

After fortifying ourselves with some ice cream we headed back to Charmouth over the clifftops, following a route that would have given us spectacular views had it not been diverted away from the cliff edge due to coastal erosion in 2009. My understanding is that the path could simply be moved slightly inland when erosion occurs, remaining close to the cliff edge… But that would require the cooperation of local landowners, including a golf course. In the meantime walkers enjoy fine views of local roads and roundabouts, although a small section of the path does still cut through part of the golf course, where I saw my first Early Purple Orchids Orchis mascula of the year, growing alongside Cowslips Primula veris, Bluebells Hyacinthoides non-scripta and Common Dog Violets Viola riviniana.

The Dorset coast is a stunning and fascinating place, rich in geology, wildlife and poetry. One day I’d like to live closer to it, and walk there often. John Masefield puts it better than I can, in his ballad Sea Fever:

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

Till the next time, Jurassic Coast.

Cogden beach, looking west to Charmouth

Rowanleaf

Writing, Singing & Teaching About The World

Tag Archives: environment