Ancient coral cliffs and dodgy landings; swimming in caves and spotting birds that live in the dark…. South Pacific Adventure, part 7

Posted on February 5, 2021 by Becca

(For new readers: if you’re just discovering this blog and you would like to read about my South Pacific travels from the beginning, you can click on this link to go to the first chapter: Travels in the Cook Islands.)

Trees and ferns growing out of the makatea (ancient coral) in the interior of Atiu, Cook Islands

I left Aitutaki on a Friday morning, driven to the airport by Tracey. En route we passed the motorcade procession of Miss Cook Islands, who had just arrived on an early plane and was standing up in the lead vehicle, waving and smiling to all and sundry. Her retinue comprised men on scooters and in cars and trucks, including what looked like most of the musicians from Island Night, playing and singing enthusiastically as they bowled along. Most of the locals had come out to greet her, standing outside their homes and Puffy’s Bar to wave at Miss Cook Islands as she cruised past. It seemed like a fittingly fun ending to my stay on this lovely island!

Arriving tourists at Aitutaki airport were being greeted with tiare leis (flower necklaces) as I walked to the tiny prop airplane that would carry me to Atiu. The pilot cheerfully greeted me on the tarmac, then hopped aboard as I and fellow tourists Donna and Mark from New Zealand took our seats. (Donna and Mark had also been staying on Aitutaki, having got married there the previous week.)

Once in the air I took a last look back at Aitutaki’s beautiful lagoon with its milky-white sandbars, before our plane headed southeastwards over the wide ultramarine blue of the Pacific. En route to our destination we flew over the island of Manuae: a small oval of green fringed with yellow beach and turquoise lagoon and surf-ringed reef; shallow sea falling away into the deep blue fathoms of the South Pacific ocean. It impressed me again how isolated these little islands are, in their thousands-of-miles-wide lapis lazuli sea: how remarkable it is that the people who populated them navigated this vast expanse of ocean.

Landing on Atiu’s small air strip was an interesting experience, as the island rears out of the ocean on fossil coral (makatea) cliffs several metres high. This produces violent updrafts and sidewinds which meant our plucky pilot had to bring us down pretty steeply and rapidly, the plane rolling and yawing as the wind buffeted it. But once our wheels thumped down onto the tiny crushed coral landing strip we all released the breath we’d been holding, and disembarked into the charming corrugated iron-roofed shed that is Atiu airport.

All three of us visitors were staying at Atiu Homestay, a bed and breakfast run by Marshall Humphreys and his wife Jéanne. Marshall met us at the airport and drove us to his home via some local places of interest. First stop was Taunganui Harbour, constructed out of concrete in the mid-1970s by New Zealand Army Engineers to enable ships to load and unload goods safely. Before it was constructed, accessing the island by boat or ship was a lot more perilous, especially in poor weather. The harbour had benefited local fishermen, many of whose boats we saw pulled high up in the scrub inland behind the harbour (to protect them from the same tsunami warning I’d received while on Aitutaki).

Taunganui Harbour, Atiu, the Cook Islands

Outrigger canoes near Taunganui Harbour on Atiu, the Cook Islands

Our journey took us along a mostly single-track road through Teenui and Areora villages. In the settlements the roads were tarmac, but elsewhere we trundled along on crushed coral or packed dirt. I saw single storey houses built from breeze blocks and timber, corrugated iron roofs and louvred glass windows, painted in rainbows of colours.

When we reached Marshall and Jéanne’s house, it was raised up off the ground on stilts: a sensible precaution to allow cyclone winds to blow through. Set in a pretty garden in a quiet corner of the island, it was a lovely (and very comfortable) place to be staying. I was looking forward to a few days of comparative luxury, having my meals cooked for me!

Donna and Mark then displayed the typical generosity and friendliness I’d encountered in all the Kiwi tourists I’d met so far: on hearing that my digital camera had died on Aitutaki, they offered to lend me one of theirs for the duration of our stay on Atiu… Which is why I have actual photographs of this wonderful little island! Huge gratitude to both of them.

Atiu Homestay, on Atiu in the Cook Islands

After dumping my backpack in my room, Marshall refreshed and refueled us with some chilled water and a snack of sundried banana, which he makes using a solar drier in his back garden. (The drier’s feet stand in tubs of water, to prevent ants and other minibeasties getting at the drying banana strips). I’d not previously been much of a fan of dried banana, finding it somewhat like chewing sweetened shoes, but Marshall’s was a treat: soft and succulent, and brimming with rich fruity flavour.

Solar banana drier at Atiu Homestay, Atiu in the Cook Islands

Atiu is a very small island (3.7 x 4.3 miles, or 6km x 7km): the current population is roughly 450 people, so it feels like a pretty quiet place. People live in the island’s interior here: a demographic shift that happened with the arrival of Christian missionaries in the mid-nineteenth century, who encouraged the population to relocate centrally, away from the makatea and swampy areas they were formerly living in. Jéanne and Marshall live in this central area of the island, not far from the village of Areora (you can see the red dot marking their house on the map of Atiu, pictured below).

Map of the island of Atiu, the Cook Islands

Once we were watered and banana’d up, Marshall took us on an expedition to Anataktaki, the cave of the kōpeka or Atiu swiftlet, Aerodramus sawtelli. Jéanne is half Cook Islands Maori, and Anatakitaki is located within her family land: its name comes from the story of Tangaroa and Inutoto, which I set out here as Marshall related it to us.

Tangaroa was a skilful warrior, while Inutoto was a wonderful dancer. One full moon night – a good time for fishing, and for dancing – Tangaroa wanted to go fishing, but was worried that if Inutoto went dancing without him she would be too popular… So he asked her to wait at home until he returned. A group of Inutoto’s friends passed by her home and asked her to come dancing, but she told them she had to stay; then later a second group of friends came by, begging, Hey, we’ve waited a whole month to see your new dance, you have to come and dance with us! So eventually Inutoto was persuaded, and went dancing under the full moon.

Out on the reef the fish stopped biting: Tangaroa tried every trick his father and grandfather had taught him – different bait, different fishing spots on the reef – but to no avail. He gave up and returned home… to find Inutoto not there. Heading to the dancing area he found her dancing, the centre of attention and admiration. Becoming angry, Tangaroa spoke harshly to Inutoto: then each of them left the dancing ground, separately.

Though Tangaroa waited at home, Inutoto did not return. He assumed that she went to stay with cousins or other family or friends… But over the next day and night there was still no sign of her. No-one had seen Inutoto since they quarrelled on the night of the full moon dance. A search was carried out of the bush and makatea and swampland; a week went by, three weeks, and still no trace of Inutoto. People began to say that she must have had an accident and died somewhere on the island… But one day Tangaroa was working in his planting field when an ngōtare, a chattering kingfisher (Todiramphus tuta, pictured below in Jéanne and Marshall’s garden) began pestering him, diving down at him and pecking at his head, again and again. Rangaroa couldn’t drive it off: it seemed as though the bird was trying to tell him something.

Ngōtare, a chattering kingfisher (Todiramphus tuta), on Atiu in the Cook Islands

When Tangaroa turned to the ngōtare it flew off a little way then back to him, as if trying to lead him in a particular direction. He followed the bird through the makatea and eventually he came to a cave where he found Inutoto, still alive. (‘Inutoto’ means ‘drinker of blood’ – according to the legend she survived by drinking her own blood!) So this story of jealousy and a lovers’ quarrel has a happy ending… And the helpful ngōtare who reunited Tangaroa and Inutoto gave the cave its name, Anatakitaki: ‘to the cave he brought him, he brought him’.

Marshall Humphreys with the walking sticks needed for traversing the difficult path through the makatea to Anatakitaki Cave, Atiu

And indeed, ‘to the cave he took us, he took us’! But at the very start of our walk Marshall advised us all to take a sturdy walking stick, to keep us steadier on the journey. Our path lay across a stretch of makatea: the ancient fossilised coral that was formed around the island’s central raised volcanic core thousands of years ago when the island was lower than it is now; and raised up by tectonic plate action in the intervening centuries. (Hence the six metre-high makatea cliffs around the island’s periphery.) Makatea limestone is as jagged and sharp as the corals that it formed from, so falling onto it would be a painful experience.

Following the path over the makatea to Anatakitaki Cave, on Atiu

The photo above shows a pretty typical stretch of the craggy makatea path we followed: like walking across a stony surf, with ferns and scrub growing out of every nook and cranny. The walking sticks were definitely necessary!

Asian spiny-backed spider (Gasteracantha mammosa), on Atiu in the Cook Islands

We’d only been walking a few minutes when I spotted a brightly-coloured spider on the path, which I pointed out to Marshall. He pronounced it a non-native invader – and he was right, because it was a female Asian spiny-backed spider (Gasteracantha mammosa), originally from India and Sri Lanka and introduced recently to the South Pacific. Further research once I was back in the UK yielded this entry on the Cook Islands biodiversity database: “Poisonous bite. Its spiky webs can be a residential nuisance; and it frequently bites people it comes into contact with. The bite is painful with localised swelling.” Marshall proceeded to squash the spider with the tip of his walking stick, which may sound harsh… But invasive non-native wildlife species are a serious threat to the biodiversity of these little island ecosystems, and Atiu takes protecting its native wildlife very seriously.

Polynesian mahogany tree (Calophyllum inophyllum) growing in makatea forest on Atiu, in the Cook Islands

A little further on our journey we came upon a wonderful big old Polynesian mahogany tree or mastwood (Calophyllum inophyllum), locally named tamanu. Timber from tamanu trees was highly valued for shipbuilding by Polynesian and Maori peoples, much like oaks were valued in English culture for the same reasons. Sacred tamanu groves were planted at marae sites, considered the homes of spirits; and the wood was also used for carving tiki. Tamanu oil extracted from the ‘nuts’ of the tree is also important in Cook Islands Maori and Polynesian cultures, being used for medicinal and cosmetic purposes. Marshall explained that there were many of these huge tamanu trees hidden away in the makatea, because the inaccessibility of these areas keeps the trees safe from felling and logging.

Scrub forest on the makatea, Atiu (the Cook Islands)

Another thing I noticed along our route were the numerous empty coconut shells lying on the forest floor, with ragged frayed holes through the shell. Rather than being signs left by some giant tropical squirrel, Marshall explained that these were the remains of coconuts opened and eaten by the coconut crab or unga kaveu (Birgus latro). I’d encountered these largest of land crabs moving about nocturnally and climbing trees on Aitutaki: they can seem like fearsome critters at first sight.

Juvenile coconut crab (Birgus latro), photographed on Aitutaki (the Cook Islands).

These land-based crabs go to the sea to spawn, but after a while the young crabs migrate back to dry land, wearing borrowed seashells to protect their vulnerable soft hind parts. As they mature they develop hard shells and discard their armour, foraging for food using their acute sense of smell. Despite their name these kaveu eat a variety of foods including fruits, nuts, seeds and even carrion: they have the reputation of carrying off any food they find lying around, giving rise to their scientific alias – latro means ‘robber’. Astonishingly they typically live for 40 – 60 years… So although kaveu are highly-prized as food, their longevity makes them a vulnerable species for over-exploitation.

About to descend into the entrance to Anatakitaki Cave, Atiu (the Cook Islands)

When we finally reached Anatakitaki the way in was to descend down a ladder below ground ground level. I’d done some potholing with friends in Derbyshire in my youth, so I was reasonably relaxed about the prospect of going into enclosed dark underground spaces. Anatakitaki is a karst cave: the calcium-rich makatea is dissolved by water, eroding into an undergound landscape of caves and fissures and chasms; minerals in solution then solidify again into diverse speleothems (stalactities, stalactites, limestone ‘curtains’ and pillars).

Journeying through the tunnels and caverns of Ana takitaki Cave, Atiu (the Cook Islands).

In practice, this means that travelling through Anatakitaki’s upper levels is not particularly claustrophobic, as there are many fissures and large holes which let in daylight. Having Marshall as our experienced guide obviously helped: he was able to share with us stories such as the tale of Inutoto and Tangaroa, as well as showing us Jéanne’s family monument within the cave. Each time a family member visits the monument (e.g. for special occasions) they can place a stone upon the pile. Somewhere buried underneath will be a carved seat, a carved bowl, and spears.

Caves of any sort are an unearthly landscape, but there was something particularly fantastical about this one. The caves I’d visited in the UK had been crawled all over by thousands of potholers, and in many cases their delicate limestone draperies and features had been eroded and broken… But here in Anatakitaki Cave, everything looked almost untouched by human hands.

The feeling of being in a lost mythical world was enhanced by the places where the cave has collapsed, creating openings looking out into the surrounding forest. It felt as if a dinosaur or a dragon could hove into view at any moment, lumbering through the coconut palms and ferns.

View out into the forest from Anatakitaki Cave, Atiu (the Cook Islands).

In places the makatea is thin enough that the roots of ava, Pacific banyan trees (Ficus prolixa) have grown through in striking curtains, following the rainwater that drips and filters down into the caves below.

Banyan tree roots (Ficus benjamina) growing through limestone into Anatakitaki Cave, Atiu (the Cook Islands).

Just beyond the banyan roots we descended into the deeper recesses of the inner cave where the object of our quest here lay: the nesting sites of the Atiu swiftlet, or kōpeka. We paused in the entrance of this inner chamber to watch and listen to the kōpeka swooping in and out. Whilst flying and feeding outside in the daylight they make a high twittering chreeee call: but as soon as they head into the cave’s darkness this changes to a rapid clicking sound, like someone swiftly clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. The birds are echolocating: navigating in darkness using these audible clicks, which increase in frequency as they approach objects. A wonderful example of parallel evolution: birds echolocating like bats!

Anatakitaki Cave interior, where the kopeka (swiftlets) nest (Atiu, the Cook Islands).

Once inside the deeper recesses of the cave it quickly grew almost pitch dark, except for the headtorches that Marshall used to show us the space. We kept still, listening to the clicking of these weird little birds, as we tried to spot them roosting and nesting in the nooks and crevices in the limestone – no easy task. You’re basically trying to spot a small black bird in a large black cave, with the light of your head torch creating shadows everywhere it falls on the convoluted stone.

Eventually we began to pick out the slender forked-tail silhouettes of the kōpeka, clinging to their niches on the cave ceiling. Male and female birds build their nests out of strips of vine and plants and lichens gathered on the wing outside, fragile little circlets stuck together with their saliva. They lay 1 – 2 eggs which hatch after 18 – 20 days; sometimes eggs fall out of the fragile nests to smash on the cave floor. Both parents take it in turns to brood; and when the nestlings hatch the adults share the task of feeding their chicks on insects hunted outside in the forest. These insect food hauls are stored in special pouches within the bird’s cheeks, so that they can still make echolocating clicks with their mouth full!

Once kōpeka chicks are old enough to leave the nest the parents bring them to hang out on a section of cave wall or ceiling with other youngsters, still feeding them. After another week they encourage the young by withholding food until the chicks move a little further out of the recesses of the cave. This process continues until after three weeks the juvenile birds make their first flight out of the cave to find their own food… And then navigate back inside using their clicking echolocation for the first time.

Sitting in the darkness listening to the clicking of these dark-living little swiftlets felt enchanting. I’d been drawn to visit Atiu by its reputation of unspoiled wildness and rich biodiversity: very different from the tourist paradise of Aitutaki, or even the teeming undersea life of the coral reefs. Atiu felt ancient and alive: a beating heart of stone and water and green plants and living creatures, a precious little gem.

Before we left Anatakitaki Marshall had one last surprise for us: an underground swim. We clambered down a narrow passage to an artesian pool, which Marshall illuminated by lighting a couple of candles in the inky blackness. I was the only one who took the plunge, and it was gorgeous: pleasantly cool but not too cool, refreshing in the humid tropic air. As I swam gently in the blue water by candlelight, dozens of metres underground, thousands of years of fossilised coral reef above my head, I found myself laughing with sheer joy. The gift of this eerie, beautiful place, with its family history and its water-carved limestone sculptures. The shadowy flitting spirits of the kōpeka, their clicking percussion echoing from the stone. This wonderful, magical moment.

Swimming in Anatakitaki cave, Atiu (the Cook Islands).

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Coming up next time, in South Pacific Adventure part 8:

Gods and government, proud warriors and foreign invaders: discovering the landscapes and history of Atiu.

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.

Digging ponds and singing songs

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Becca

2013 is here… So a very Happy New Year to you all. May this year be a good one: peace, health, prosperity, happiness, the whole shebang.

The festive season was certainly a good one for me. I got to catch up with more or less all of my family, including sundry nephews and one of my great-nieces (who is, of course, a total cutie). My mum came through a complicated spinal operation successfully and is recovering well, for which I am hugely thankful. And despite the generally discouraging weather (day after day of grey cloud and rain) I did get out into the wild winter countryside on occasion, as well.

One of many highlights was going to stay with my oldest brother in Norwich for a few days over new year. Not only is he a host par excellence (and a very good cook, to boot) but like me he enjoys rambling along by the sea. We made a trip up to Hunstanton (where the photo at the top of this blog was taken), which is right up on the north-west edge of the sticky-outy bit of Norfolk. I’d never been there before; it’s a funky old Victorian seaside town with the most amazing pink and white cliffs, kind of like coconut ice. (Anyone else remember making that when they were a kid?)

Both the white and red upper rocks are types of limestone, the reddish colour caused by staining with iron. There is also a brownish-red sandstone known as carrstone, similarly iron-stained. The limestone strata are full of fossils – a condition which my brother took full advantage of by spending a couple of busy hours working with his rock hammer to extract several really nice brachiopod fossils.

Being in a more beachcombing mood myself, I strolled for a while along Hunstanton beach, which is littered with curious rounded boulders somewhat reminiscent of stromatolites. Crouching down to eye-level with these boulders put me into what felt like a strange mythical landscape, with rounded hills rolling away to the horizon of the sea.

There’s even a genuine shipwreck on Hunstanton beach: the remains of the 1907 steam trawler Sheraton, mostly buried in the beach. This former fishing boat did duty in both World Wars, ending up rather ignominiously as a target ship for artillery practice. She drifted from her morrings in 1947 and was washed up on the coast, to be nibbled away at by salvagers until all that remains is the bottom section of her hull.

After my Christmas and New Year familial wanderings it was back to work in early January. I had been due to help a team of people build a pond before Christmas, but freezing weather and then flooding had forced us to postpone. In the first week of January however it finally stopped raining so we were able to get to work. You may ask, “How does it take whole a team of people to build one pond?” Well, this wasn’t your average garden goldfish pond. No… This was more on the scale of being a minor civil engineering project. For all those who’d like to try this at home, here’s your step-by-step guide to building a very large wildlife pond:

Step 1, get a nice shiny mechanical digger to dig out a hole the size of, oh say an Olympic swimming pool.

Step 2: ensure pond hole conforms to the exacting design of top ecologist and pond-builder supremo Rod d’Ayala.

Step 3: assemble a team of highly-skilled, energetic and fetchingly-attired pond construction staff (aka ‘The Hired Muscle’).

Step 4: pick out stones by hand from pond hole and cover any loose earth with puddled chalky clay (N.B. getting muddy is a vital part of this process).

Step 5: line the entire pond (sides and bottom) with two layers of tough underlay material, to protect pond liner. Note that boots must be removed first, so enabling all those involved to spend the entire day padding about in the pond hole with soggy socks.

Step 6: lift roll of waterproof rubber pond liner (weighing over 600 kg) to edge of pond using digger, then pause to make sure you’ve got it lined up exactly the right way round because if you haven’t it’s going to be rather difficult lifting it out again.

Step 7: let the liner unroll!

Step 8: use your highly-skilled team to unfold the liner and get it tucked beautifully into position. (A great team-building exercise, this.)

Step 9: cover the whole thing with another two layers of underlay material, then cover that with a six-inch layer of topsoil lifted in by digger and spread by hand with shovels. Create marshy and shallow areas within pond by heaping up soil, following Rod’s cunning and intricate pond design.

Step 10: go home to a hot bath and generally ache a lot for a few days afterwards.

Actually, Step 10 should probably be wait for pond to fill with water… So I will re-visit the site over the next couple of months and see how it’s getting on. Watch this space. The pond has been built mainly to encourage toads, so it’s hoped that it will be full enough with water for them to find it attractive as they emerge from hibernation and start to do their courtship and spawn-laying in February. Fingers crossed.

Aching muscles or not, pond building was certainly a great way to start the new year. Being out in the fresh air and helping to create a valuable habitat for declining British wildlife, plus all the Eccles cakes I could eat… Life could be a lot worse!

January continued to be inspiring, with an opportunity for me to attend the Natural Voice Practitioners’ Network annual gathering, which was held at Wortley Hall near Sheffield. As a co-leader of Newbury-based community choir Sing The World I’ve been a member of NVPN for a couple of years now, but this was my first gathering – and what an amazing weekend it was. About a hundred incredibly creative and talented singing teachers and voice workers, gathered together to share ideas and teach songs to each other, in a lovely old country house set in beautiful Yorkshire landscapes.

Wortley Hall itself is an amazing place: a former private residence, it was bought by an independent co-operative organisation known as Wortley Hall (Labour’s Home), with the intention that it would be used by the working class as an education and holiday centre. Today it is still run on co-operative principles, and hosts all kinds of gatherings and events ranging from socialist celebrations and conferences to weddings and parties. My paternal grandfather was a strong socialist, so it felt wonderfully familiar to be roaming around a building whose rooms and wings are named after the likes of Keir Hardie, Robert Owen and Sylvia Pankhurst. In the current political climate it was heartening to be somewhere which celebrated a long tradition of radicalism and social justice. A whole bunch of us even sang The Internationale on the hall staircase – in four-part harmony, of course!

Not only was the hall itself a beautiful and peaceful place, but the staff there were friendly and the the food excellent. All of us at the NVPN gathering were working hard over weekend, so it was great to have such a lovely venue. Being singers, of course we kept the bar filled with song every evening… Until 2am, on one occasion! It was impossible to go to bed when there were always so many wonderful voices joining together in harmonies, wherever you went. Music was everywhere: in the bar; over breakfast, lunch and supper; during workshops; even on a 2-hour singing walk around the surrounding countryside (much to the amusement of a Ramblers group we met along the way). I feel very fortunate to have enjoyed such a great weekend, both from a professional development viewpoint but also because I made so many friends.

So all in all, it’s been rather a good start to 2013. Hopefully this is a good omen of things to come… I certainly plan to be getting out and about a lot this year, working and visiting friends and discovering all kinds of new and wonderful places. I’ll leave you with the wish that your own year ahead may be filled with good things too. Have fun, stay healthy, play in the snow and sing whenever possible. Or dance, if that’s your thing. Or do both! Looking forward to the adventures the coming year will bring…

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.

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

Snake charming and lashings of ginger beer

Posted on April 15, 2012 by Becca

It has been a few weeks since my last blog entry: part of the reason for this is shown in the photo above, i.e. it’s been lambing time at Rushall Farm. This has obviously kept the farm staff very busy, and likewise the education team – everyone wants to come for a visit during lambing time, so all the field teachers have been working flat out. Which is not say that it hasn’t been fun. I’ve had some great school groups and done a lot of striding about up hill and down dale in the sunshine. It’s been great to have become part of the regular team at Rushall, and I’ll be back there again throughout summer term too.

The preternaturally warm early spring weather lured me out on my days off work, too. I went on a pleasant trudge around Donnington Castle one Sunday in March, and explored the woodlands behind to see what wildlife was stirring (apart from a dozen or so Newbury families sunbathing on the grass around the castle itself).

Castle Wood is an ancient semi-natural woodland, a woodland with native tree species that has been there continuously since 1600 AD. Such woodlands often have high biodiversity: they are rich in plant, fungi and animal species and provide valuable habitats in the British landscape (which has lost almost 90% of its original woodland cover). As someone who has spent a not inconsiderable portion of my adult life up trees trying to stop roads being built through ancient woodlands, I am probably biased… But I do like a good old woodland to potter about in. It’s almost as much fun as rock pooling or beach combing: that same mix of wildlife discovery, striking landscape and a sense of adventure.

Ironically, it is human management of such woodlands that best conserves their wildlife value. Traditionally woodlands such as these would have been a source of timber and firewood, with some of the trees coppiced – cut down near the ground and allowed to regrow several smaller stems – on a rotation cycle, thus yielding a crop of timber but also opening up clearings and allowing flowers, insects and birds to flourish in the increased sunlight. You can see in the photo above a Hazel tree, which was probably last coppiced 50 years ago. In a ‘normal’ coppice rotation cycle, it would have been cut every 10 – 20 years, depending on what the resulting timber ‘poles’ would have been used for. Today woodland management such as coppicing is largely carried out by conservation organisations, although some land owners do harvest timber sustainably. At Rushall Farm, Joo – one of the field teachers – makes high-quality charcoal from wood sourced from the farm’s woodlands, which he sells locally. It’s always worth buying British charcoal rather than the stuff you see on garage forecourts – this is generally made from tropical forests. British charcoal burns hotter and cleaner, too.

I found this 7-Spot ladybird Coccinella 7-punctata trundling over the moss, happily prospecting for food in the mild weather. Good to see one of our native ladybird species as opposed to the now-ubiquitous Harlequin ladybird Harmonia axyridis, a species originally from eastern Asia which can out-compete and even feed on our native ladybirds. The whole ‘alien species’ issue is a hot topic in conservation and gardening circles, and rightly so: it costs conservation bodies, local authorities and environmental organisations millions of pounds each year to tackle problems caused by the spread of invasive plants and animals such as Japanese knotweed Fallopia japonica, New Zealand pygmyweed Crassula helmsii, and American Signal Crayfish Pacifastacus leniusculus. If you want to help control the problem, check out some of the links above and choose your garden plants carefully.

The warm temperatures have brought lots of spring flowers out early too: I spotted Coltsfoot Tussilago farfara beside the pond at Thatcham Nature Discovery Centre. This dandelion-like bloom always sends up its flowers with their curious scaly stems before its broad downy leaves appear. Reputedly the flowers can be brewed into a nice wine, whilst the leaves were once dried to make herbal tobacco. They have what I would describe as an apple-like scent if you crush them. The scientific name comes form the Latin tussis meaning cough: a syrup of Coltsfoot can be used to treat persistent coughing.

Cycling back from Thatcham along the towpath I came upon a whole bank of Sweet violets Viola odorata, many of the blooms the white variant of this particular species. As mentioned in my previous blog entry, I can’t get enough of violets so I lay full length on the bank in the sunshine, sniffing up their scent until my nose was anaesthetised and I had a big silly grin on my face. Luckily no-one came along the towpath at that point and found me, or they might have suspected I was under the influence of something slightly stronger than Coltsfoot wine.

It’s great to have so many peaceful and lovely natural spots within easy cycling distance of where I live. I took advantage of the continuing sunny weather to stop off for a picnic after a day’s teaching, in a secluded little spot tucked away in the reedbeds near Thatcham. Apart from the occasional distant roar of passing trains (a sound that I find quite soothing) it was basically just me and the Chiffchaffs (Phylloscopus collybita) doing their onomatopoeic thing in the willow scrub. A rye bread sandwich, a bottle of ginger beer and thou, as Omar Khayyam might have said had he been there. Which he wasn’t. So I got to drink a whole bottle of Fentimans ginger beer and eat all the posh crisps myself. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

Lest readers of this blog think I spend most of my time slacking off, I hasten to add that I have actually been working very hard over the past few weeks. One of my jobs is assisting ecological consultant Rod d’Ayala with the reptile surveys he is carrying out in the Greenham and Crookham Commons area. In particular, the surveys are aimed at identifying breeding and hibernation sites for Adders Vipera berus.

As Britain’s only venomous snake the Adder has unfairly been saddled with a fearsome reputation, but these wary creatures are very sensitive to disturbance and will usually get out of your way long before you see them. If you do something silly like trying to pick one up and get bitten, it’s highly unlikely to be fatal: the last death in the UK from an Adder bite was in 1975. If you stay on footpaths and don’t go poking around in the undergrowth on heathlands (where Adders tend to be found) then you should be safe enough. If you like to walk your dog in these areas, my advice is to keep it on a lead (which you should be doing anyway, if you’re walking through a nature reserve). As a reptile surveyor, I follow a specific route and check known locations for Adders and other reptiles, but even I find it hard enough to track them down. When I do come across an Adder I try my best to get close enough to take a clear photograph of the markings on its head and neck, as these enable us to identify individual animals and thus assess how well populations are faring on each site they are known to occur. The photograph below is of a particularly handsome and fat male I spotted on Crookham Common, curled up peacefully sunbathing in a clump of heather. Beautiful, isn’t he?

Of course I see lots of other wildlife while I’m out surveying for reptiles. On sunny days there have been quite a few butterflies about, including Brimstone Gonepteryx rhamni, Orange tip Anthocharis cardamines, Peacock Inachis io and Comma Polygonia c-album (pictured in the photo below). All of these early-flying species overwinter as hibernating adults (except the Orange Tip, which overwinters as a pupa), and consequently emerge in spring hungry for sources of nectar. You may also see them sunning themselves on south-facing banks or sheltered stretches of footpath, warming up their flight muscles ready to go searching for food. One thing that often surprises people is how territorial butterflies are: I watched a Comma sunbathing on a farm track at Rushall, where every few minutes it would dart upwards and see off any other butterflies that happened to fly past it (including a rather startled Peacock), with a rustle of flapping wings.

Whilst wandering through the woods at Rushall at the end of March I did see quite a few flowers blooming, including Primrose Primula vulgaris, Wood Anemone Anemone nemorosa and even some very early Bluebells Hyacinthoides non-scripta. Much as I love Bluebells, there is something slightly eerie about seeing them in flower in March… Climate change sceptics, please take note.

Another insect I spotted that appreciates Primroses and other spring flowers is the helpfully named Bee-fly, Bombylius major. Resembling a small bumble bee with its furry body and hovering habit, the Bee-fly also has an enormously long proboscis that it uses to feed on nectar, perching on flowers to do so. Female Bee-flies can often be seen flying low over the ground to search for tell-tale small holes marking the burrows of beetles, solitary bees and wasps. When they find a burrow they will lay their eggs in the soil, sometimes flicking them in with their legs. When the eggs hatch out they find a ready meal in the larva of the beetle, bee or wasp that was the original inhabitant of the burrow. Perhaps not the most savoury of life cycles, but I like Bee-flies: there’s something quite otherworldly about their appearance, and for me they are one of the signs of spring having truly arrived.

Sunshine and my allotment beckon, so my adventures over the Easter holidays (visiting a friend in south Wales) will have to wait until my next blog entry. I’ll wind this piece up by hoping that all of you have had a good Spring Equinox and Easter. As the hosepipe ban commences here in drought-ridden West Berkshire, I’m wishing for rain but hoping that most of it will come at night, rather than when I’m teaching school groups outdoors. Now where did I put my waterproof…

Lesser celandine (Ranunculus ficaria)

Snowdrops and Stabilisers

Posted on February 23, 2012 by Becca

From sub-zero freezing conditions only a week ago to increasingly mild days where hedgerows are alive with the racket of bird turf wars… Yep, spring is approaching. My car is better (hooray!), wildlife is stirring about (a friend told me yesterday that he’d seen his first Adder of the year) and winter is beating a retreat.

Snowdrops Galanthus nivalis are a flower traditionally associated with February, especially the seasonal Celtic festival of Imbolc (or Candlemas, in the Christian faith) that is celebrated around 1st February. Taken from the Irish i mbolg meaning “in the belly” or oimelc meaning “ewes’ milk”, both refer to the fact that this is the season for lambing. I’m particularly fond of snowdrops and other early spring flowers: there something almost miraculous about a plant which shoves its way through still-frozen ground to produce a flower that only the hardiest of early-stirring insects are likely to discover. As a result, most snowdrops in the UK reproduce by division of bulbs rather than by seed… Yet where they occur in woodlands and hedgerows they can often multiply to spectacular proportions, creating a starry carpet of white flowers against blue-green foliage that is second only to the display that bluebells produce later in spring.

No-one seems entirely sure whether snowdrops are a native British wild flower or not: they are native to continental Europe, so while some botanists seem to believe that they were introduced to this country in the sixteenth century, others suggest that perhaps there were isolated wild populations already here that were augmented by human plantings. The whole native/non-native wildlife species debate always stirs up strong opinions, but until genetics definitively proves the snowdrop’s origins one way or the other I guess we’ll just have to be content with enjoying looking at them. One local site that is well-known for its snowdrop vistas is Welford Park: there is an entry charge for viewing the gardens but some of the funds raised go towards local charities. I’m also reliably informed (by some friends who went there last weekend) that the tea room there has deeply satisfying cake.

Being the kind of naturalist who loves grubbing around in the leaf litter, I often get down on hands and knees to examine small stuff more closely, so I can recommend the view of snowdrops from this angle. Try turning one of the delicate flowers carefully upward to peer inside: around the yellow anthers, a graceful tracery of spring-green veining marks the inner tepals (tepals being botany-speak for a type of petal). It’s every bit as attractive as a lily or an orchid, albeit on a smaller scale.

Returning to the lambing theme, mid-February saw me up at Rushall Organic Farm with the rest of the farm’s education team, for a training day prior to the very busy school visit season that starts as soon as the lambs begin arriving. Rushall Farm is a popular environmental education site for schools from all over the local area and also from London, running sessions for all abilities and ages from pre-schools to A-level students and above. I started working there in 2011 and have enjoyed every minute: although I’ve been a field teacher for about twenty years now, I had little experience of farm education (despite my grandpa having been a farm manager), so it’s been both challenging and fascinating for me to lead sessions at the site. Because of the students’ age range and variety of habitats, in any one week you can be teaching about soil science, crop rotation, organic principles, freshwater biology, economic diversification, woodland management, minibeasts, or simply experiencing the fun of holding lambs and feeding livestock.

Rushall is a mixed arable and livestock farm and sheep are a big part of its operation (providing about a third of its income). There are nearly 800 pregnant ewes currently gathered in the lambing sheds, scoffing their way through high-energy and protein feeds such as beans, oats and silage. The first lambs are due any day now, which is when many schools want to visit: there is a big “Awwww” factor in cuddling lambs, although we try our best also to instil some of the more important messages about farming. Food security and sustainability are (finally) rising up the political agenda in the UK as well as world-wide, and with the increasing cost of fossil fuels which underpin ‘conventional’ farming methods, it’s likely that organic farming will be playing a bigger role in supplying some of our food needs. At present only 4% of British farmland is organically managed (as compared with 10% in Denmark, Austria or Italy)… So it looks like we could do better.

The argument oft trotted out against organic food is the cost: but interestingly, this is becoming less of an issue as food prices overall have risen steeply in past months. The central principles of organic farming are to work with natural systems, sustain soil fertility whilst minimising environmental impact, ensure ethical animal treatment and protect and enhance wildlife and natural habitats. Personally, I’m prepared to pay a little bit extra for most of my food to ensure this. Most people eat more than they need to anyway (and then spend a fortune on expensive gym membership or diets), so maybe supporting British organic farmers with at least some of your food shopping budget might be a better way forward.

Of course, the livestock part of the farm is not about cuddling lambs but about meat production. (Vegans, look away now.) As well as sheep, Rushall has a herd of about 100 suckler cows and calves. In a suckler herd each cow will ideally calve once a year (in January/February at Rushall) and suckle her calf for eight or nine months; the calf then goes off to be finished (i.e. continue growing for some months before slaughter for meat), whilst the cow has a few weeks rest before becoming pregnant again. It’s a fairly inefficient system with a high carbon footprint, which is why farmers are always looking for ways to improve the process. One of the solutions has been the development of a new breed of cattle known as the Stabiliser: a cross between four different breeds (Red Angus, Hereford, Gelbvieh and Simmental) to produce a cow that combines traits which are desirable for livestock.

On our training day we were joined by Neil Rowe, farm manager for Manor Farm in Oxfordshire (owned by William Cumber, Rushall Farm’s owner). Neil give us a fascinating presentation about the Stabiliser breed, which Rushall’s cattle herd is now largely made up of. Stabiliser cattle can calve younger than other breeds (at two years rather than at three), tend to be healthier (because of hybrid vigour), cope well with all climates, have small calves (and hence easier calvings), are docile and convert food into beef efficiently. Because of these beneficial traits, they are worth twice as much as other cattle breeds. The only problem (as Neil saw it) is the breed’s name, which at present has virtually zero recognition with UK consumers when the meat is marketed, despite it tasting (apparently) as good as prime Aberdeen Angus.

I like cows and I’m (mostly) vegetarian so the whole beef industry thing is problematic for me, but in a mixed organic farming system livestock contribute significantly to soil fertility via their manure and also form part of a wider countryside ecosystem and landscape which I am deeply attached to. On an economic note, world demand for beef is high and production is falling: in the US, 42% of grain in 2011 went towards biofuels production rather than to animal feed. One of Neil’s current projects is to develop an international scheme for Fair Trade certification of animal feed (such as grain), which seems to me a worthy endeavour that I wish him lots of luck with.

Neil also had some interesting views on the current bovine TB issue. Badger culling is being proposed to start in autumn 2012 in areas of Somerset and Gloucestershire, despite current evidence indicating that this will not ameliorate the bovine TB problem and may even exacerbate it. More attention should be given to issues such as poor cattle husbandry, feeding animals with maize (which impacts their immune system) and most importantly illegal cattle movements. Neil made the startling point that there are roughly seven million cattle movements every year in the UK… and only four inspectors.

On a happier and hopefully less controversial note, John Bishop (Rushall’s farm manager) was able to share with us the happy news that the farm has just been accepted into the Higher Level Scheme (HLS) where the government gives money to farmers specifically for undertaking measures that support wildlife. Rushall is already also in the Organic Entry Level Scheme (OELS), so the two combined payments will hopefully form a significant part of the farm’s income over the next few years. This is a good example of positive government involvement in the countryside… It would be nice if there was more of it. Some of the wildlife improvements will include creating species-rich semi-natural grassland, planting wild flower margins, carrying out management to support nesting and breeding birds and looking after waterside meadows on the farm. So hopefully, we will be seeing even more wildlife around Rushall than we already do.

Although many of the schools who visit Rushall do so to see the livestock, I have to own a persistent attachment to the apparently less-glamorous world of invertebrates and plants. Apart from pond dipping and minibeast safaris it’s not always easy to sell children (or adults) on the attractions of bugs, whilst plants seem even less interesting. But I persevere. So to conclude this blog entry, I leave you with the intriguing world of leaf miner insects. Even in the depths of winter you can find evidence of this particular group of small animals who make their homes in leaves and stems, munching their way through the tissues whilst remaining largely hidden from possible predators. It’s a bit like living in your bed for the winter with an endless supply of food, something I’m sure which has appealed to most of us at some point during the long dark days of January. During our training day we went on an invertebrate sampling walk and found the distinctive mines of Phytomyza illicis in the leaves of a Holly Ilex aquifolium. So next time you’re on a winter ramble and want to impress someone, you can casually point to a Holly leaf and murmur, “Ah, Phytomyza…” I plan to try it, anyway.

Phytomyza illicis mine in Holly leaf

Bogs and Bonfires

Posted on January 22, 2012 by Becca

Wednesday was the weekly volunteer conservation task up at Greenham Common, and a welcome break for me from filling out grant applications and website building. The midweek group carries out practical tasks and wildlife surveys at various sites including Greenham and Crookham Commons, Bowdown Nature Reserve and Thatcham Reedbeds. These all fall into a larger area designated as the West Berkshire Living Landscape project, a conservation initiative run jointly by BBOWT and West Berkshire Countryside Service to improve wildlife habitats and promote involvement and appreciation by local people.

This week we were at Brackenhurst (an area on the south side of Greenham Common), which is also one of the sites that I help survey for reptiles. We were clearing birch scrub from a wet valley bog (or mire) that runs down to the woodland edge there, to enable it to remain as an open wet habitat rather than getting taken over by trees and drying out. A lot of practical conservation in the UK consists of this sort of thing – halting the natural development (or succession, as it’s known) of open habitats like heathlands, marsh and grasslands, because for most areas in Britain the natural state would be woodland. It might seem a funny sort of way to help the environment – cutting down trees – but heathlands such as Greenham cannot be managed as open habitats by grazing alone, and without this kind of intervention most areas would ‘scrub up’ and become woodland… With a consequent loss of wildlife species associated with open habitats.

Plants that are found in these damp valley bogs include Sphagnum mosses, Sundews (Drosera species, carnivorous plants), Cross-leaved Heath Erica tetralix and Bog asphodel Narthecium ossifragum. They are also valuable to animals such as dragonflies, Bog Bush cricket Metrioptera bracyptera, and reptiles and amphibians including Grass snakes Natrix natrix and newt species. It being only January, there wasn’t much wildlife in evidence to be photographed: a Buzzard Buteo buteo flew over, whistling loudly, but lacking a zoom lens my photo of it wasn’t worth posting here – unless you have a good imagination!

Usually we stack some of the cut scrub to make habitat piles that will be used by small mammals, insects and other animals: we also burn some of it, which has the pleasant side benefit of boiling our storm kettle for tea breaks, the mainstay of all voluntary conservation work. We still had some munchables left over from our Christmas barbecue, so everyone tucked into gingerbread men and biccies whilst finding time to admire items of protective clothing, such as Mike’s kneepads!

Ade (West Berkshire Ranger) and Roger (BBOWT Living Landscape Project Officer) who usually manage the Wednesday work parties were both busy elsewhere

this week, so under the capable supervision of four BBOWT trainees we cleared a considerable amount of scrub, with a midway lunch break featuring (of course) more tea and biscuits. Conservation can be quite hard physical work, so it’s always heartening when task leaders understand the importance of keeping their volunteers’ caffeine and blood sugar levels regularly topped up! A process that was further aided by the discovery of a bag of marshmallows (also left over from our Christmas bash). Toasting sticks were deftly whittled into shape, and soon people were tucking into smoking caramelised treats with only a few minor tongue burns (approximate core temperature of toasted marshmallows being slightly less than the centre of the Sun).

These Wednesday volunteering sessions are always enjoyable, whatever the weather, and the people who come are friendly and often very knowledgeable about local wildlife. Anyone can join and all tools and protective kit (work gloves etc) are provided, you just need to bring a packed lunch if you’re staying for the whole day. Ade or Roger are the folks to get in touch with to find out more – see my links to West Berkshire Countryside Service or BBOWT at the start of this blog entry.

Intrepid BBOWT trainees demonstrate safe marshmallow toasting technique!

Rowanleaf

Writing, Singing & Teaching About The World

Tag Archives: habitat