Tag: Frances Jones

A Walk on the North Downs Way, by Frances Jones

A couple of weeks ago, I walked part of the North Downs Way with a friend. Not a particularly unusual event, normally, but many of us have had rapidly to adjust our expectations of normal over the past months. I had wandered through the fields around my home almost every day since lockdown, charting Spring through the greening hedgerows, the emergence of butterflies, and the increasing birdsong. The hills were calling, though, and I was looking forward to sharing a walk.

We had chosen the meeting point and decided on a direction, but other than that had no plans other than to walk, talk and enjoy the glorious weather. We set off through Denbies Vineyard where the young vines were starting to climb and coil around the wireframes. Following the North Downs Way westwards, we climbed up through beech woods, past a small flock of sheep in a fenced off-field, and past Ranmore Common church, a sacred slice of Gothic Revival architecture appearing rather incongruous amongst the trees. The ground was parched from lack of rain, and there were deep ruts from where a vehicle had made a manoeuvre. We looked out across the valley and the tree-lined horizon with Leith Hill Tower ahead. Crowds were beginning to trickle in from the hill-top car-park, and I felt the need to press on, to discover, to step away from the every day and become an intrepid explorer. We welcomed the shade as the North Downs Way led us through a gate and into an arboreal tunnel where the temperature, though still pleasant, dropped slightly and the sound of people’s voices was replaced with birdsong. A speckled wood fluttered towards us and hurried past, seeking the sunlight, perhaps, in a woodland glade.

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The path followed the contour of the hillside and was fairly level, with just the odd tree root to cause us to be mindful of our step. We passed an old WW2 bunker, a concrete cube with a small narrow entrance leading into its dark depths. We didn’t venture in, looking out instead at the views, which could be glimpsed only intermittently through the trees. Now and then, the track opened out onto grassy areas where, amongst prickly stems of field-rose,  common spotted orchids grew in delicate splendour. When my stomach began to make rumbling noises, we trod carefully over the bank in search of a lunch stop, trying to avoid plonking ourselves on a bramble or, worse still, an orchid. I munched a sandwich and mentally paused; looking into the green woodland of young oaks was deeply calming.

It was around this point that we made an error of navigation, for sometime after lunch we noticed the terrain becoming unfamiliar. At the start, I’d intended to walk some distance along the North Downs Way, then turn right and amble back through the woodland alongside Ranmore Common Road, and back down the hill to the vineyard. Neither of us recognised the scenery now and when we climbed through a meadow to read the sign at the top, it confirmed we weren’t exactly where we’d thought: Blatchford Down. On the North Downs Way, but rather further along than I’d anticipated. There was quite a walk back, but the weather was glorious, the views equally so, and we had water. We tramped through the woods once more until we reached the gate where the trees ended and the grassy down began. Passing through the gate I felt rather as I imagined Lucy to feel on stepping back into real life after her trip to Narnia: the sun was still high in the sky, picnickers were still out on the hill-side, and children with ice-creams were trailing parents up the slope. We walked down into the vineyard and back to the cars. It had been a glorious walk and freedom was slowing opening up. I resolved one day to trek the whole route from Farnham to the sea. But I would need to use the map, this time.

 

Signs of Spring, by Frances Jones

My walk through the woods has become significantly more important for me since the announcement came that the country was going into lockdown. The song of the blackbird, the sight of a butterfly; these and many more moments have become more precious as the freedom to move whenever and wherever is reduced. After a number of phone calls and emails trying to ascertain my next step, work-wise, I took myself off for a walk. This is my daily exercise, as defined in the government’s list of restrictions, but it serves an important purpose for my mind, too. The sight of green does a lot to keep my spirits high, and the unexpected but familiar creatures that I see whilst out of the house do, too.

This morning, I took the path that meanders alongside a brook at the back of the houses here. The water glistened, clear and bright, tumbling over the branches that had fallen there in the last storms. How long ago those seem, now! I stopped whilst a comma fluttered in front of me and came to rest on a celandine flower. It had chosen a sunny spot and bathed there several minutes. When I moved, I cast a shadow and the butterfly left its darkened flower and settled on another, still in sunshine. I moved with it and walked on,  leaving it in peace. The woodland was alive with birdsong; blue tits, great tits, chaffinches and blackbirds all sang to create a joyous chorus. I had woken up to their songs, and it wasn’t a bad way to start the day. Most mornings, the woodpigeons sit on the roof and coo, a rhythmic message that always ends on a short note. They also perch in the birch trees outside my window, looking rather too large for the delicate twigs that bear their weight. Sparrows flit from branch to branch, chattering and looking industrious. Last year I watched a greater spotted woodpecker hunt for titbits on the grass in front of the house. It was rather a treat for me to see one close up.

I turned left to follow the curve of the small lake. This area used to be a brickworks, and when the houses were built the lake was created to help minimise the risk of flooding. The trees are changing into their spring clothes now and the willows looked particularly beautiful against the deep blue sky. The delicate white of hawthorn lined my route around the water and on the banks, mallards were resting in the midday sun.

I’m intending, during this period of restricted movement, to make as much of my time outdoors as I can. I will pay attention to the birdsong and the wildlife I see; I’ll learn to identify more birds by song, and I will try to identify those that I don’t yet know by sight. Because I can wander through the woods and enjoy it, regardless, but as Simon Barnes says in How to be a Bad Birdwatcher, the naming of things is important. It brings meaning, extra appreciation, and a sense that we are connected to that creature, bird or tree that we see. Spring has sprung here and for that, I’m thankful.

Bringing Nature into the Music Lesson, by Frances Jones

On New Year’s Eve, in a cosy cafe over pots of tea, a friend put a question to the group: ‘So what are you going to do to save the planet this year?’ I don’t fly, and have for a long time tried to tread lightly and shop sustainably, although I can always do better. Over the following days, I mulled over the question and decided to rethink some aspects of my teaching. I currently teach music in a West Sussex primary school, which is blessed with a rural setting, planting to inspire the senses and chickens. Wanting to celebrate this in some way, I decided to integrate themes from the natural world into my music curriculum. I have linked the two in previous years but, with some creativity, I thought I could do more. In his wonderful writings on bees, Dave Goulson notes that young children are usually enthralled by nature, but lose interest as they grow up. I hoped that connecting musical learning with the natural environment might emphasis the significance of the latter, inspire the children’s creativity, and promote discussion and curiosity at a time when guardians of the planet are badly needed.

After some thought, my musical projects this term read as follows: singing and writing environmental protest songs with the oldest children; listening to and creating music descriptive of natural landscapes with the middle year groups, and exploring woodland sounds and songs with the youngest. One group will have the option to make percussion instruments at home – an opportunity to reuse and recycle. We’re just at the beginning and I will wait to see how the projects unfold.

I spend a noticeable amount of time, in January, longing for lighter evenings. Each day, when dusk begins to fall and I’m on my way home, I look upwards and will the sky to shed its sobriety and brighten. However, the silhouettes of bare trees against a sunset is a wonderful sight and makes my journey home more of a delight than a chore. Yesterday I decided to head straight out again after arriving home, inspired by the rural wooded landscape through which I had just passed and hastened by the knowledge that any last vestige of light would soon disappear. A  stone’s throw from the house is an L shaped pond, bordered on two sides by silver birch. The tall, thin trees looked elegant in this half-light; the branches an intricate patchwork, disturbed here and thereby a great clump of twigs formed into a nest. By the time I reached the other side of the pond, the scene was lit only by a solitary streetlamp and the sky was black. I hadn’t been paying attention to sound, enjoying the relative quiet, but from somewhere above my left ear came the most beautiful of songs. In the dusk, a robin, perched delicately on a branch, sang out for me alone (or so it seemed).

Recently I was looking through the news when an article on tree planting caught my eye. The accompanying picture showed a forest of young trees, which turned out to be Heartwood Forest in Hertfordshire, planted by volunteers nearly ten years ago. What were once spindly bunches of twigs have now flourished into woodland, enjoyed by wildlife and people. I was one of those volunteers and, having forgotten all about it ten years later, this story was wonderful to read. After describing the various heights of trees to rather loosely illustrate the concept of pitch with a class yesterday, I told the children about my tree planting and the resulting forest. Wouldn’t it be amazing if they planted a tree and came back to see it when they were in Year 6, I said. One child already had, and told me all about it. Get planting; it’s never too soon.

 

 

Winter Walks in the Vineyard, by Frances Jones

The bright sunshine urged me out of doors this Sunday morning, and I pulled on boots and a raincoat in readiness for a walk. Long-standing readers of this blog may recall I previously wrote about experiencing nature in the city. Living in the midst of a built-up area, surrounded by blocks of flats and busy roads, I tried to notice beauty everywhere I went and this would make a routine walk much more interesting, as well as raise my spirits. Earlier this year I left London for the Surrey Hills. It’s wonderful to be here, but I still feel the need to see and celebrate nature. I’d argue many of us do. So here’s what I noticed on my winter stroll.

I walked to the edge of town and found a footpath sign pointing the way. The path wove along the backs of houses, climbing gently through thick mud. I was on the north side of the town, with Denbies Vineyard stretched out on my right and wooded slopes in front. The path was bordered on one side by spindly sticks of hedgerow that silhouetted beautifully against the blue sky. Around the bare twigs curled the soft, silky flowers of old man’s beard, still intact despite the battering they must have had from the rain. Further up, the hedge filled out with evergreens and I noted pyracantha, holly, and brambles still with the odd shrivelled berry. The path now edged round a copse of beech trees. A bullfinch flew across my way, pausing just long enough in the uppermost branches of a silver birch for me to notice its colourful plumage. A blackbird hopped from twig to twig on my left-hand side, and the trees were now leaning towards each other, over the path, to create an arboreal ceiling. The trees in the copse had shed many of their leaves and, after the downpour the previous night, the copper carpet glistened in the sunlight. Over the crest of the hill, th

e path turned into a muddy track that led into the vineyard. Despite not feeling that I’d climbed very high, I had views across to the east, west and north; if I looked due west towards Ranmore I could follow with my eyes the North Downs Way, which came down the hills, around the vineyard, and on across to Box Hill and beyond.

Being outside on this bright winter’s day felt good, and after looking up at the many shapes of the trees covering the hillside to my left, I stomped forward on a path between the vines. The tyres of a tractor had formed troughs in the mud, and these had filled with water, creating a series of similarly shaped puddles that reflected the light. I reached the edge of the vineyard and, as I looked for a way out, was drawn towards a rose that had gone rouge over a wire fence. A stem covered in rose-hips had arched itself over the top wire, and made a beautiful feature of an otherwise purely functional barrier. I hadn’t been feeling very festive, and the bright sunshine and clear sky were almost spring-like, but I was suddenly inspired by what I’d noticed on my walk.  Nature’s festive decorations were out here, bringing splashes of beauty in a mixture of shape and seasonal colour. I wouldn’t be bringing any home, of course, and, like others, I still like to light up my window with fairy lights in December. But getting closer to nature had, again, invigorated my spirits and set me up for the week ahead.

In the Company of Trees, by Frances Jones

Yesterday I joined a walk on Wimbledon Common led by Peter Fiennes, author of an absorbing and beautiful book on trees. Oak, Ash and Thorn sets out the case for Britain’s woodland and I liked the idea of discussing this subject within the woodland itself. We gathered, rather aptly, under an oak, its crown providing a natural awning for the speaker and his audience. Peter told us how the book came into being, a response to the proposed selling of the country’s forests by the government in 2010, and how it led him to spend a year exploring the woodland of Britain.

This late Spring walk followed a rambling route through the oak and chestnut woods of the Common, with Peter pausing to enlighten us on the subject of woodlands and the myths, folk tales and opinion surrounding them. Winding down a footpath, we stopped at the base of a holly tree reaching far above our heads. The trailing fronds of the holly had a sense of mysticism and even awe, and we learnt that a holly leaf in a man’s pocket would bring him luck in love. We paused at an ancient yew and admired a resplendent chestnut, before passing through a small clearing where oak and birch saplings were growing. Free from the grazing of sheep and deer this was rewilding in action, Peter told us. After more than six years walking on the Common, I discovered a pair of lime trees to be growing deep in its depths; bright green, roundish leaves seeming all the brighter against the dark trunks and earthy woodland floor. Inspired by the location, and our guide, the conversation very quickly turned to trees, and we galloped through the merits of woodlands, street trees, and London’s parks and commons with passion. This walk was part of the Urban Tree Festival, promoting awareness of trees in London. There are all sorts of reasons why we benefit from trees, but this afternoon I was particularly conscious of the calm I felt on leaving the woodland. As we returned to our meeting place, drops of rain began to fall and grey skies suggested more was to come. I ambled back along a well-trodden path to my car. The sweet scent of elderflower filled my nostrils and the rampant brambles promised a good gathering of fruit this summer.

Passing the great green mound of Box Hill on my route home, I took a spontaneous decision to stop the car and get out. I scrambled up and within minutes had a vista of trees in every direction. Green overlaid on green, with shades and shapes so different and yet so in harmony with each other that I could look at them for hours. There was no rain here, and I paused to sit on bouncy turf for a moment. This was a wonderful spot, out on the hillside with a sea of green, and a fitting end to a tree-filled day. Go now, walk amongst the trees, and leave with a lighter mind.

Winter walks in the city, by Frances Jones

I’ve been making a conscious effort, since January 1st, to notice nature in the grey bleakness of the city in winter. One morning last week, buttoned up against the irrepressible sleet and the bitter cold, I was walking fast through an industrial park in South London, having deposited my car at the mechanic. Following my nose, I headed for a gap between two walls, where, sure enough, there was a footpath that cuts through the buildings and then came out, completely unexpectedly, alongside a river. Three long-tailed tits bobbed from twig to twig in a bush in front of me and a robin manned a post on the footbridge. The red, straight twigs of the dogwood brightened the riverbank and the swish of the water over the little weir was a pleasant sound. By the time I reached the bus stop, the sun had come out and the streets glistened after their cold shower.

The following day was a windy one and I took a walk along the river. On impulse, I turned right through a small gate and into the nature reserve that lies between the Thames path here and the road. There’s a steep incline as you scramble a few paces up the bank to join the footpath that follows the edge of the reservoir. I reached the top and caught my breath. For a moment, I felt as if the entire population of ring-necked parakeets had arranged a party in the branches above my head. They were perched at all levels in a plane tree, holding animated conversations with each other. The squawks weren’t going to stop soon so I walked on, the river to my left and reservoir to my right; I was walking through the water, with the security of knowing I was on dry land. Three herons, sitting on three different bundles of twigs, surveyed the world from their watery look-out posts. Two Egyptian geese flew over my head to settle in a plane tree, from where they produced deep honking squawks to rival those of the parakeets. I came down from my river road and through the gate back onto the path, the greyness not bleak, but beautiful in a subtle way.

On Sunday I visited an exhibition at the William Morris Gallery in East London. It centred on the depiction of the garden, of cultivated nature, in paint and textiles. Light shone from the works, not only in the sun-filled skies of one or two but from the greens of the leaves, the lawns and the vines enveloping the brick walls. A painting by Pissaro epitomised the sense of light oozing from the paintings, in which there was often just as much green as yellow. This was a bright, colourful collection and we left inspired by its cheerful optimism. After a mooch around the rest of the gallery, where nature is a constant inspiration in Morris’ designs, we headed out to the gardens behind the house. Despite the bitter cold, a spontaneous desire to be in nature, however, cultivated, seems to have prevailed; we were now really amongst the green, the birdsong and the floral designs that were yet to appear in the formal beds. The light, in the clear sky of the late afternoon, though faded to sunset by the time we reached the road to go home, had lit up every branch and shrub with its brightness. Nature imitating art, imitating nature.

The Maple, the Beech and the Lime, by Frances Jones

Last week I bought a book. A slim book, with a green and white cover. It was called ‘The Tree’ and was written by John Fowles. I didn’t know anything about it, except that I liked the title and the soft colours on the cover, thereby ignoring the oft-quoted advice on how not to judge a book, or anything else, for that matter. I shamefully haven’t read it yet, but it’s there waiting for me. And I know now it’s about more than a tree.

I mention this because trees seem to be taking an ever more present role in my life. The Japanese maple outside my window provides a riot of colour each autumn and is gradually losing its canopy of bright red leaves, leaves that have carpeted the ground for several weeks.  I took a stroll up the lane near my home yesterday, looking up at the yellow leaves, made all the more dazzling by the phenomenal downpour that had just ended. Around me were London planes, a horse chestnut, and the russet red leaves of cherry. Frustration hit me as I tried to identify the tree with bright yellow leaves. (I later identified it as a small-leaved lime, a familiar enough tree but one I hadn’t recognised until now.) Distraction came in the form of a crashing flutter of feathers as a pigeon fell out of a bush. A few minutes later I watched as the pigeon did the tightrope on a thin twig in the midst of the branches; it was intent on harvesting the bright orange berries of the pyracantha. I passed the rusty red of copper beech and walked over another neon-like carpet of lime sheddings. I reached the end of the lane and decided to walk through the trees on the other side of the road. Walking on the pavement and following a path through woodland are two very different experiences. Wet leaves were underfoot and I stopped to look at the different forms, the leaves glistening in the sunshine, their moisture causing them to shine despite the shade of the branches. Starlings sat high in the treetops across the road, filling the air with sound. I turned into my road with the rhythmic clutter of the birds in my ears and my heart filled with the cheerful brightness of the blue sky and the rather cool bite of the autumnal air.

On Saturday I was invited to a meeting to outline plans for the planting of an orchard near my home. The prospect of filling a bare patch of land with trees, condemned for other uses because of toxins from the railway, was wonderful and I listened with full support. Whilst they contaminate roots, the particular toxins concerned here are apparently not passed on to the fruit of the trees, which makes an orchard an ideal outcome for this small urban patch.

At the end of November, all things arboreal will be championed in National Tree Week. There are several tree plantings organised in my local area; look up The Tree Council to see what’s taking part near you, if you’re not already involved. We need trees. Let’s celebrate them.

Autumn in Suburbia, by Frances Jones

I was returning home from work along the scenic route, having been tempted by the sunshine to prolong my journey. I followed the path along the river, which was a busy, but pleasant, highway with cyclists, runners and pedestrians, some pausing and taking a slower pace than they might otherwise in cooler weather. The trees overhanging the Thames were illuminated by a rich, warm light and the water sparkled like lights in a Christmas window. Long boughs dipped and swayed. Rowers directed their boats through the water leaving waves that lapped the shore in a gentle rhythm. I looked ahead; the path led through a corridor of different shades of greens and yellows, the trees glowing in the sunshine with all the presence of an opera diva; the stage is theirs at this time of year as particular species give us a brilliant show of colour. Acers, or maples, are wonderful trees for colour in the Autumn, and any walkthrough beech woods will provide a canopy of oranges and yellows.

I lingered momentarily to survey the scene and then turned up the path away from the river. Peeping through the blue diamond fencing were clusters of rose-hips, bold beads of crimson in a green tangle of foliage. Brambles with shrivelled fruit reminded me of the summer’s harvest; foragers had needed to be earlier than usual this year. A  great tit dived in front of me, closely followed by another, and I listened to their call, sheltered from the traffic in this patch of green.

On the other side of the path the blousy white flowers of bindweed decorated the railings of the playing field. If left to its own devices, the weed will have covered these metal bars by the end of the year. I passed holly trees standing tall with bright red berries, perfect for use in decoration in a couple of months time. A little further on and the autumnal colours appeared again in a burst of exuberance. A well-established Virginia creeper had enveloped the railings between two houses, covering the metalwork and adjacent bricks with deep reds and vibrant yellows. I liked the fact that nature had been allowed to run riot in a small way, in this little corner of the city.

As I crossed the common on the home straight, I paused to look at the trees lit up by the late sunshine. The differing oval-like shapes of oak, silver birch, and many others lent a softness to the scene that contrasted with the rigid lines of the houses I had just passed. Children lingered, using the last hour of daylight, knowing it would soon disappear. At my feet were the first scatterings of this year’s fallen leaves and the mist in the mornings reminds me that the seasons have changed. Summer has bowed out, despite the temperature trying to tell us otherwise. The glorious colours of Autumn brightened my walk home and the slow setting sun provided a fitting finale to a beautiful day.

The next morning, the pavement was covered with a spectrum of colour from the leaves that had blown down overnight. Shades of reds and yellows from a Japanese maple covered the ground so completely that they almost created a tessellation on the tarmac. I found myself peering down to look at the beauty of a single leaf. The heavy rain had turned the leaf-festooned pavement into a slippery route, however, and I trod carefully. A splendid rowan lit up the grey morning with its bright red berries, and its leaves had already formed a pattern on the pavement. I am lucky to live in an area where trees grow on residential streets and I took extra notice of them on this blustery Autumnal day.

 

 

Cyclamen and Summer’s End, by Frances Jones

A late afternoon in the final week of summer and I found myself taking a detour along the edge of woodland on my local common. The place was bathed in a vivid light, bright enough to illuminate the trees in their various shades of green, and there was a strong breeze that whipped around my shirt and played with the fallen leaves beneath my feet. Although still warm, I could feel the chill that the darker evening would bring. It was enough to make me sense the gradual decline of Summer and the encroaching tide of Autumn.

A speckled carpet of pink and white caught my eye and I noticed cyclamen beneath the branches of a horse chestnut. The confetti-like colours made a great contrast to the browns of bracken and fallen leaves on the woodland’s floor, but I couldn’t help wondering if this was an unusual sight at this time of year. I’m used to seeing these at Christmas time and remember them brightening the shelves of the garden centre where I worked as a student. They do flower throughout the year but I had never seen them here and my guess is that their appearance at this time was hastened by the unusual weather conditions this year. The cyclamen flowers were hosting a number of bees, which were clearly being much more industrious than me, standing as I was and pondering the seasons. As I walked through the woodland I passed silver birch, beech and oak, all playing host to various eco-systems, the inhabitants of which were mostly too tiny for me to see as a passerby.

On the Common, the grass had been harvested and bales of hay were dotted at various intervals in a very pastoral scene. On an impromptu visit to Morden Hall Park last month I came across workers gathering the hay entirely by hand and then loading it onto a cart pulled by two shire horses. The scene could have come straight out of a painting by Constable. The manpower was considerable and was made up of National Trust workers and volunteers, but the horses were a wonderful sight to see, and there was little noise other than the calls of the workers and the stomping of the horses’ hooves as they pulled the cart.

I paused on a semi-sheltered spot on the Common beneath a wonderful old oak, the curvaceous shape of which seemed benign and welcoming. A path wound up through the copse behind me. I knew it would lead to the river after no great distance but a new path is for exploration, nevertheless. A pair of meadow browns danced in the breeze, chasing higher and higher without breaking their helix-like choreography. The bright green oak leaves contrasted with the Mediterranean blue of the sky.  Here, for a minute, the seasons had paused and summer reigned still.  These patches of green are treasures, oases that make living in a city a joy. A few minutes beneath the woodland branches and I was refreshed and ready to face the world again.

Walking in the Yorkshire Dales, by Frances Jones

The Yorkshire village of Malham was basking in the mid-morning sunshine when we set off for a circular walk up over the hills via Gordale Scar. It was a pleasant temperature for walking and we started at a good pace, passing several other walkers out on this sunny bank holiday Saturday. Not far down the track, shaded by trees, was Janet’s Foss. The clear water pouring down from the rocks looked refreshing and incredibly clean and I felt healthy just gazing into the depths. Up and onwards, through increasingly rocky terrain, and we came to Gordale Scar, a steep cut through the rocks, through which it is possible to climb. I stood for a while, looking at the limestone around whilst keeping an eye on the walkers in front trying to scale the Scar in a dignified fashion. Nerves or sense overcame me and we opted not to risk the chance of a misplaced foot,  instead of doubling back to follow an alternative route over the hill. We wound up and up, looking back at Malham in the valley, where the annual Malham Show was now in full swing. A swallow flew across our path and we continued, past a bull sitting regally in the middle of a field for all the world like a king surveying his subjects.

We followed a path across the moor and through slightly boggy terrain before dropping down just above Malham Cove. There were peaceful views across the country; green speckled with the white of sheep and crisscrossed with dry stone walls. The limestone pavement above the Cove is striking. The gaps, or grikes, breaking the limestone into separate stones is caused by water erosion and peering down we noticed ferns and small trees, perfectly at home in the cool depths. Around 400 man-made steps took us down into to the Cove, where again, the temptation to jump into the cool water, despite it not being a hot day, was strong. A beautiful scene and one which lots of people were enjoying, from little ones hitching a ride to more senior gentlemen resting on the bank.

The following day, with driving rain and an autumnal chill in the air, I opted to go in search of nature indoors and took a train to Saltaire to visit the David Hockney exhibition, ‘The Arrival of Spring’. The exhibition is on the top floor of the old mill with views of the surrounding tree-covered hills. Bright greens in the paintings made quite a contrast with the dark grey of the ceiling and floor. The light in the gallery was enhanced by the effective lighting of the paintings and the bright shades within them. There was certainly not a great deal coming through the windows on this rain-soaked afternoon.

If you follow the paintings chronologically, as the artist intends, and not, as I did, halfway through and in a random fashion, you’ll see that Hockney captures the changing of the season, sometimes painting a scene two or three times in different shades and colours. There is more detail to be picked up than one might at first think. When I reached the exhibition’s start, I went round again and enjoyed the paintings much more now I had grasped the order. Go and see this, if you can.  A splash of well-placed colour on a rainy, dullish day made for cheery faces in Salts Mill. And if it helps us to wonder, to see more keenly the new growth that emerges as if by magic each year, that can only be a good thing.

Sunday promised a break in the rain and I set off early. I alighted from the bus at Bolton Abbey and passed through the gap in the wall that leads down to the water and the ruins of the priory. Grass and trees were bright with the wet of recent rain. I turned to walk across the bridge and up along the path that runs roughly parallel to the River Wharfe. Silver birch, oak and beech-lined the path on the steep hillside whilst mountain ash trees were also dotted around, recognisable by their red berries. There were views across the valley to the hills beyond, and the higher I climbed, the more I could see. At the highest point, I dropped down and followed the path away from the Abbey in the other direction. Here, I passed through a field where swallows ducked and dived. I stood still whilst they swooped in circles around me. A dog tried to chase one, in foolish pursuit. I followed the Dales Way along the river, through a field of munching sheep. The sun came out between the showers and cast a benign light on the calm scene. It’s possible to do a circular walk following the signposts and there are also walks marked in the other direction. Time dictated, however, that I return the way I had come so, on reaching the old road bridge, I retraced my steps back to the abbey. My time in Yorkshire was drawing to a close but I carried memories of the hills, the valleys and the swoop of the swallows all the way home.

Butterflies on Box Hill, by Frances Jones

After weeks of hot, dry weather, the River Mole meandering gently through its wooded valley looked particularly welcoming. Dogs were splashing about in the water and willows dipped and danced in the breeze at the water’s edge. We took the Stepping Stones across the river and headed up the path through the woods. Meadow Browns and Large Whites were busying themselves on either side and a Speckled Wood sat on a tree root in the shade while walkers passed by. The steep gradient meant we soon had views over Dorking and the surrounding area – I tried to focus on that and not the litter as we reached the viewpoint.

Keen to explore further, we doubled back and found ourselves at the National Trust visitor centre, a ubiquitous complex complete with information posters, Membership stand and union jack bunting strung around its eaves. We turned left down the hill from the Centre and passed Box Hill Fort, a former military fort long disused. The path meandered down the hill in a gulley shaded by trees,  and suddenly we found ourselves on the edge of a hillside with views of woodland in every direction. We scrambled up the bank to look more closely at the meadow flowers.

Seen at a distance, the hillside was a carpet of light brown after weeks without rain, but when we stopped we could see the purple and blues of the flowers attracting the butterflies and bees. Six-spot burnet moths were fluttering around, and bees sat atop Common Knapweed. Field scabious and other purple flowers were providing a haven for the insects and there were lots of them, buzzing industriously with only the chirping of grasshoppers for competition. We stopped to observe a Six-spot burnet moth which was perched on a Common Knapweed, its antennae moving gently back and forth and with little intention of moving.  Close by, another was hanging upside down on a blade of grass, looking for all the world like a dozing sloth. Meadow Browns and Marbled Whites fluttered around us and, having paused to look at the view, I was thrilled to see an Adonis Blue flutter and perch on the ground in front of our feet. This butterfly had chosen the wrong place to stop, however, as the approaching tread of walkers saw him take flight.

A few seconds later, and I noticed a tiny brown butterfly close to the ground. It resembled a Skipper, but, not being able to observe it closely, I couldn’t be sure which one it was. We took the path through the woods which, after a short stretch along the road, led back to the river. In front of us was a steep wooded cliff face, and we realised we had been on the other side in the meadow a short while before. In the riverside meadow Small Whites fluttered across our path and, once again, the cool water was refreshing, even to look at. The green of the trees in the surrounding woodland seemed to defy the current drought, but the cracked ground was a clear sign that rain was needed. This was a lovely walk and it was wonderful to see that the populations of certain butterfly species appeared to be in good shape in this part of the country.

All photos courtesy of Stephanie Bull

The Wildlife of Brompton Cemetery, by Frances Jones

Rising particularly early one morning and feeling it was a good time to get outdoors, I set off for Brompton Cemetery in West London.

I have travelled past this cemetery many times on the bus but have only once visited, on a similarly warm summer’s day when I took a book to a stone archway and enjoyed a couple of hours’ quiet. Walking under the fine stone arch of the North Lodge entrance, I took a turning to my left and within seconds a meadow brown fluttered in haste across my path. The gravestones were overgrown with sweet peas which grew in abundance in shades of pink and purple. Also striking was the bright yellow of ragwort, which was growing up between many of the headstones and was supporting lots of stripy black and yellow caterpillars. I bent down to observe one more closely. It was munching a leaf and holding on with its front legs. It had quite a cute face and up close rather resembled an elongated stripy teddy bear. These were caterpillars of the cinnabar moth and brightly marked to discourage predators.

I straightened up and, as I paused to find my sun cream (the sun was bright, even at this time) a marbled white fluttered across my path and stopped on a leaf within full view, obligingly opening its wings so I could see its markings. I had, that morning, been reading an article on brown butterflies by Butterfly Conservation’s Dr Sam Ellis and was delighted to see a marbled white at close range with such relative ease. The overgrown tangle of grasses, bracken and wildflowers was clearly perfect territory as I noticed several more over the next hour. I was reminded of Patrick Barkham’s great search for butterflies in his book, The Butterfly Isles; there’s a lot of joy in seeing butterflies. Meadow browns and gatekeepers fluttered about, sunning themselves and providing me with ample time for observation.

A variety of trees provided habitat for birds, and I watched several great tits darting around in the branches above my head. The pine trees, the Classical architecture of the mausoleums and the bright blue, cloudless sky gave me the feeling of being in Italy and all was calm with only the gentlest of breezes. Every now and then a magpie squawked from within a tree. I wound my way along the narrower paths, out of the way of early morning joggers. A blackbird tripped daintily in front of me whilst pigeons took flight from the undergrowth as I approached. To one side of the catacombs, I passed a yew tree, which was appropriate in this space reserved for the departed. In the Great Circle, an area of gravestones surrounded by the catacombs and marked at the top by the Chapel, the mood changed drastically. The grass had been assiduously mown and with the absence of green – the lack of rain meant the grass was mostly a dull brown –  a sombre mood took over. The buildings are impressive and worth a look. It is also possible to visit the catacombs, on certain days and only with a guide.

Having paused briefly at the Chapel, I headed back towards the entrance. The gravestones on the left-hand side were well-maintained and there was less diversity of wildlife here. I crossed over the main path to finish my visit on the right-hand side, where I had begun, amongst the cheerful colours of sweet peas and foxgloves. Maintaining this space is clearly a big job – I also noticed brambles, thistles and the rampant white flowers of bindweed spreading their way over some of the headstones – but less regular mowing has allowed the wildlife to thrive. I was thankful to visit in the quiet of a Saturday morning, but, even at busy times, I imagine the cemetery is still something of an oasis.

I had reached the entrance; by this time, the traffic was in full flow and the city had woken up.

Green space and stormy skies, a guest post by Frances Jones

After a hot and busy day, I decided to take a walk to a nearby patch of green. Clouds were moving in and the breeze became stronger and wonderfully refreshing after the intensity of the June sun. This particular London common is divided in two by a road busy at rush hour with cars and cyclists and the two halves are quite different. The south section adjacent to the church is kept mown and enjoyed by dog walkers, joggers and people who come to sit and, in summer, to sunbathe. Yesterday a game of cricket was taking place, adding to the image of quintessential village life in the midst of the capital. Cross the road and you step into a meadow where the grass is left to grow and the edges are densely lined with trees. To my right was a copse of young oaks and beeches; a dog rose made a splash of soft but sparky pink and a cherry tree was providing a playground for young squirrels.

I decided to do a circuit of the common; a stroll and the sight of green was really what I wanted. A few paces on and I stopped to look more closely at the grasses. The textures varied a lot; one had a silky feel whilst looking like a horse’s mane and another had a purple hue which gave the meadow its mauve tint when seen in this stormy early evening light. Cow parsley stood tall, strikingly silhouetted against the sky. Clover lay close to the ground, its white flowers gleaming brightly in the midst of the green, and a delicate light pink flower entwined itself around the grasses. A tortoiseshell fluttered up in front of me as I stepped off the path to take a closer look. A moment later the sky became darker and I felt a drop of rain but the ground was dry and the wildlife would no doubt welcome the downpour. The mature trees edging the common all made their own shape on the horizon and together created a beautiful backdrop of soft lines and shades of green.

Perhaps it was the recent announcement of Heathrow’s expansion that made me subconsciously more sensitive to air traffic as I strolled out this midsummer evening. The contrast of the aircraft noise with this peaceful space was acute and there was no easy way to ignore it. I choose, for the moment, to live in the capital but to argue that I could move, though valid, is side-stepping the issue. It can be easy to feel despair at decisions taken by those in public office when they are not in agreement with your own views, and, as I headed home, I took care to notice the uplifting; a red rose growing over the railway, the shading branches of a horse chestnut tree. To paraphrase Simon Barnes in his book How to be a Bad Birdwatcher, just seeing and noticing is an act of rebellion. There is much to make the heart sing if we go about with eyes and ears open. Valuing the natural world is the first step to looking after it.

 

Brownsea Island, a guest post by Frances Jones

Frances was brought up in Shropshire. She writes about country walks, urban gardens and the wildness that can be found on the doorstep. A music teacher by training, Frances currently volunteers part-time at Chelsea Physic Garden.

I arrived at Sandbanks in the early evening. Despite it being June the light was fading and there was a chill in the air. Brownsea Island looked more of an ominous cloud than welcoming retreat. Two National Trust wardens appeared, unflappable and cheerful, and took us in their little boat across the water and deposited us on the jetty. Walking through the trees to our hostel there was a curious feeling of being both within the grounds of a stately home and being on an uninhabited island, such as the one camped on by John, Susan, Titty and Roger in Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. Brownsea has sandy beaches, and pine trees that are home to the island’s treasured population of red squirrels. That evening we met one of Browsea’s resident peacocks, Benedict, who patrolled the area near the hostel, sometimes with his peahen, and wasn’t averse to climbing on top of the shed roof and uttering a long, loud squawk.

We woke to a beautiful morning. I went down to the sea before breakfast and watched oystercatchers fishing at the water’s edge. The sea was calm, the sun gently rising and it really was the most peaceful setting. A tiny bird darted between the branches of a pine tree and underneath I started to feel the warmth of the sun.

There is a lot of history to Brownsea, formerly known as Branksea, and Patrick Barkham gives an account of it in his book Coastlines. The terrain is varied and, although not a place for long walks because of its size, there is a lot to discover. My first sighting of a red squirrel, running the length of a log pile not far from the hostel was exciting; even better was seeing them up close once we were out exploring the island. Smaller and more delicate than greys, with pointed tufts for ears, they really are the definition of cute.

The island was busy with day trippers throughout our stay and, given the glorious weather, this was hardly surprising. To really notice Brownsea’s wildlife you  have to visit the other part of the island managed as a nature reserve by the Dorset Wildlife Trust. Following a little path bordered by semi-wetland, the cries of people and peacocks melted away and we were in another world. Dragonflies, damselflies and a host of other insects flew about and there were birds we could hear but not see. At the centre of the reserve stands The Old Vicarage, now used to house the DWT’s wardens and a little shop. Nestled at the bottom of the hillside with plants and shrubs growing up around it, the house looked ripe to explore as we came across it in the late afternoon, and, amazingly, it was open, without a soul in sight. A list of birds currently in the island’s waters was written up in the hallway and inside a range of cards and books sat above an honesty box. There was a bird feeder in the front where tits and chaffinches were snacking, and a couple of red squirrels popped down to see what they could find, boldly seeing off a rook who thought he might join in. We left the house and followed the path into an arboretum, planted many years ago and increasing the diversity of tree species on the island. A carpet of beech leaves underfoot, then oaks and a mulberry tree, but there were many more I didn’t identify. Reaching the top of the hill we found ourselves on a cliff overlooking the water. The sun still shone with intensity and the white painted buildings of the mainland and white sails stood out in contrast to the bright blues of the water and sky.

The next morning I returned to visit the bird hides, two of which looked out onto the Lagoon, a stretch of water separated from the sea by a thin piece of land. It was nesting time for the black-headed gulls and we saw crowds of them standing guard and protecting their chicks. Common terns also perched on posts nearby, but their nests were elsewhere and we didn’t notice any tern chicks. Shelduck swam serenely in this stretch of water. A kind volunteer lent me his binoculars and I vowed to do my next bit of bird watching with my own.

Brownsea is a beautiful place to visit. It’s hard to get off the beaten track, unless you are lucky enough to stay overnight, but that, ironically, is not what this island is about. Occupying a unique place nestled in Poole Harbour, it provides a haven for wildlife and gives visitors the chance to share this spot with the natural world whilst keeping a relatively low footprint. There are no cars on Brownsea, except for a couple of land rovers used by the wardens. Without the visitors and the shop and amenities that often come as standard, the National Trust would struggle to finance it and, ultimately, manage it for wildlife. The island is a lovely place to amble, but the DWT’s reserve is an absolute must for visitors wanting to see bird-life

With a train to catch, we opted to take the ferry bound for Poole, rather than Sandbanks. This was an unexpected bonus as the boat took us around Brownsea and its neighbouring islands with a richly entertaining commentary from the captain. A glorious ride with green fields to one side and the pines of Brownsea to the other. Go and explore, and the quieter you are, the more you will discover.

All images included with this post are credited to Stephanie Bull.