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.
Following a short, creative hiatus, we’re stoked to bring you the latest edition of New Nature Magazine. This time boasting a new look and an even more jam-packed format [50 pages, no less].
The decision to move to a bi-monthly release schedule was not an easy one but, with a corresponding increase in time, we believe it has been worthwhile. With ample time now to prepare an eye-catching publication, and to feature the work of an increased number of young environmentalists. To this end, we hope you enjoy our latest issue!
The sweet song of summer is gradually drawing to an end and the coming autumn begins to take hold. The months of September and October see a change not only in the weather for our wildlife, but the species that can be found here. Migrants such as swallows gather to wave goodbye to our land and fly to warmer climes for the winter, while flocks of noisy geese join us in abundance. It also marks a period of change for
New Nature magazine with the publication of our very first bi-monthly issue! It is crammed full with advice for the season, as Elliot Dowding tells us what to watch for this month (p8), and we revel in excitement for the coming deer rut thanks to our glorious cover image taken by Oscar Dewhurst. You can delve into this species on p12 where Scott Thomson tells us all about this impressive mammal.
This time of year provides a chance for summer reflections as Sophie May Lewis takes us on a journey through the South Downs (p18) and I recall the glory of a coastal walk in late summer (p14). We continue to focus on conservation projects, including schemes to reduce bycatch (p32), and why nature is so important for our own health (p36). We also hear from Professor Adam Hart, the lead author of an interesting research article recently published in the British Ecological Society’s journal Methods in Ecology and Evolution.
From the gorgeous greens of summer to the drifting russet leaves of autumn, we hope this first bi-monthly issue makes you want to revel in the season. As always we are grateful for everyone’s support for New Nature, and if you want to write about wonderful wildlife, have a conservation concern, or are involved with a thriving nature project then we would love to hear from you.
Yesterday I experienced something new and otherworldly: discovering a new side to my home county – Northumberland, for those who haven’t yet guessed – on a ten-hour trip into the North Sea with Northern Experience Wildlife Tours. The trip delivering a surreal experience as, at long last, I was able to get up close and personal with cetaceans in local waters, and resulting in a number of simply jaw-dropping moments.
Setting out from Royal Quays, the first few hours served to build anticipation. The sight of countless seabirds over open water – Gannets, Razorbills, Kittiwakes, Guillemots and more – providing a welcome change from the norm, and a few Grey Seals, as ever, most welcome. It was not until the team at helm spotted a flock of Gannets feeding en masse, however, that things really picked up. The sight of myriad birds torpedoing downwards into the depths reminiscent of some Attenborough documentary; entrancing, at least until the birds lifted. Yielding the water to the barrel-like body of Minke whale lunging up from the depths – the sight of this behemoth as it emerged and fell in one, surprisingly swift rolling motion, quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. Awe-inspiring – minkes may be relatively small in comparison to other baleen whales but they are still impressive beasts.
I missed the whale with my camera: intent on staring and enjoying, mouth agape, rather than fumbling for my lens. No matter. Moving further North, miles off-shore, there was plenty opportunity to take pictures – the sight of a single White-beaked Dolphin and its brief appearance at the bow of the boat a pleasing precursor to an experience quite unlike anything I have witnessed before, anywhere in the world.
White-beaked Dolphins – somewhere off the Northumberland coast
Soon enough, as we meandered our way North, our boat found itself accompanied by an escort of dolphins: one pod after another tailing the vessel before peeling off and leaving room for another entourage to join. The animals breaching incessantly at both sides, at times within touching distance, and providing the ideal opportunity for closer scrutiny. They really are magnificent animals: clad in alternating hues of grey but appearing almost blue and white under the water – far more attractive, dare I say, than the much more renowned Bottlenose dolphins we all know and love. Indeed, it is only while watching dolphins beneath the waves that one gets a sense of their true power – sturdy, rudder-like tails propelling them at a truly incredible pace.
Watching the dolphins break the surface of the water, it was possible to discern a few of the features that allow researchers to identify individual animals: scars, holes and pale patches lending the animals an individual sense of character and allowing easy separation from their kin. One individual, in particular, boasting a queer pink patch on its cranium became an instant favourite, and it was interesting to hear from those aboard that she had been observed with some frequency during previous excursions. I think recognition of individuals, and the connection that undoubtedly ensues, goes some way to explaining the unrivalled passion of cetacean researchers. They are an enthusiastic and terribly knowledgeable bunch!
This weekends boat trip will certainly go down in memory as a winner. While also allowing me to easily respond to those who claim that “true wilderness” and breath-taking wild spectacles exist only on [or around] far-off shores. Indeed, my only regret is that I did not get a proper look at a dolphin leaping entirely out of the water. That said, the sight of a few individuals ‘spinning’ as they departed the waves vertically on the horizon did make for an enchanting sight against the sunny Northumbrian skyline. And already has me planning my return.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Spring has sprung, at long last. And all about my local area, the sapphire blooms of English bluebell mingle with the garish, Simpson-yellow of lesser celandine and the pristine white of flowering wood anemone. The air encompassing them ripe with the stench of ramsons carried on the breeze and nearby waterways – the ponds, streams and ditches that crisscross the landscape here – choked with riving masses of Amphibian spawn, just about ready to hatch. In the hedgerows, myriad insects buzz, spurred on by rising temperatures, and in the woodlands, trees stir as the canopy is painted green once more. A canopy which now, during the heyday of Spring, plays host to countless migrant birds, fresh from their travels and engrossed in the process of attracting a mate.
On the subject of migrant birds, I have enjoyed nearly the full array this week. Hoards of hirundines – swallows and martins – hawking for insects over bustling waterbodies; Blackcaps and Whitethroats uttering erratic bursts of song from within lime-green hawthorns; and even Swifts, that most iconic of May arrivals, screeching as they hunt in whirling arcs above street, field and copse. The occurrence of these resurgent wonders interspersed by other heralds of this most joyous of seasons: by reeling grasshopper warblers, hidden from sight yet conspicuous to the ear; and by common sandpipers, sedge warblers, whimbrel and dazzling yellow wagtails. Familiar species, longed for since they departed, who liven up my rural walks – replacing the redwing, fieldfare and waxwing that reigned supreme previously.
Of course, given the tumultuous nature of the season, the unfamiliar has also featured in my escapades of late. Manifested in the occurrence of birds I am not accustomed to seeing with any degree of frequency. Garganey and Black-necked Grebe, scarce wanderers, dropping in locally on route to their breeding grounds. The latter, a species currently teetering on a knife edge in this country, savoured as it fished, content, adjacent to a local bird hide. This individual just starting moult into its renowned, and rather beautiful, Summer plumage. As for the Garganey, the drakes (of which three were seen) appeared sublime in their alternating shades of brown, white and angelic, sky-blue – far more demure than the vibrant tones some of our more abundant ducks yet, in their own way, perfect.
Despite their allure, both grebe and duck have, this week, found themselves eclipsed. Cast into obscurity by the arrival of a far more unusual visitor: a glossy ibis. A bird I have observed to no end in Spain, yet one I had not, until now, encountered here, in my slightly cooler homeland. The bird in question – shown below – showing marvellously on a flooded field – catching earthworms in it’s near preposterously long and downcurved bill before tossing them back with gusto, in a jerky motion unique to long-legged wading bird such as this. Engrossing as it went about its business unperturbed by the crowd of admiring apes amassing mere feet away.
It is easy to see where this species gets its name, beautifully iridescent or dull, unassuming brown depending on the light. Ascetics reminiscent of the Ibis’s patron: the Egyptian god Thoth. A deity in the ancient pantheon often depicted with the head of an Ibis and credited as the inventor of writing, and alphabets. Indeed, watching the bird closely, a distinct sense of regality was observed of which I am sure its mythological counterpart would be proud.
Glossy Ibis – Druridge Pools, Northumberland
As the calendar advances and the last vestiges of our lastest, stubborn Winter finally dissipate, I find myself drawn increasingly into the avian world. Not because birds, in spite of their beauty and appeal, are somehow grander than other life, but because unlike plants, amphibians and even mammals – whose occurrence and actions one can quite easily, with some research, predict – they are erratic. Unpredictable in their movements to such an extent that one can never really know what will occur next, or what to expect.
Traditionally, March is the first month of Spring: a time of pleasant birdsong, early blooms and fresh, new life. This year, things appear somewhat different. Storm Emma and the Beast from the East have collided and merged and Britain, for the large part, finds itself enduring what seems to many like a second Winter. Snow blankets the floor, ice our rivers and lakes and, generally, conditions outside seem rather horrid. Both from a human perspective and from that of the wildlife set to suffer should such conditions continue. The only positive aspect of the latest bout of bad weather is that many of us, concealed in the relative warmth of our homes, now have ample time to catch up on reading…
In our March 2018 edition of New Nature you will find articles on aquatic insects (p.28), courtesy of Ele Johnson and foxes, brought to you by Abby Condliffe (p.12). Here too Liam Whitmore brings readers some top-tips for returning nature to their gardens (p.30) and Giuliana Sinclair discusses the future of the Breeding Bird Survey in her intriguing interview with Ken White, the regional BBS representative for Berkshire (p.20). Add to this talk of student activism, cetaceans and wild daffodils and it is clear that this is not an issue you can afford to miss.
Our regular features also make a welcome return in the present issue, as Alice Johnson interviews Dr Nikki Gammans, and Elliot Dowding details some of the evocative sights to be enjoyed outdoors this March. All of which goes without mention of A Focus on Nature’s own section, this time featuring an introduction to the organisation’s Scottish branch, and information regarding the renowned University Mammal Challenge.
As the ‘Beast from the East’ rages outside and many of us, against our nature, find ourselves confined indoors, why not download the latest issue of New Nature today. You can pick up a copy using (free) using the following link: https://goo.gl/wjeBjQ
If you, yourself, are interested in writing for the magazine, we welcome all submissions/pitches and would be thrilled to hear from you at editorial.newnature@gmail.com or on social media at @NewNature_Mag.
It’s been a very busy time lately with lots of interesting environmental news being released this month. Don’t worry if you missed any of it though as, in this issue of New Nature, Abby Condliffe gives us 10 easy ways to help the environment right now (p.26), and our own Emma Pereira recaps the government’s 25 Year Environment Plan (p.41; looking at just how connected all of us are to the natural world. Later, Lucia Speroni rounds everything off by looking at the impact of plastic in the North Atlantic (p.30).
We still have our regular features too and, in this issue,, Alice Johnson interviews wildlife photographer and filmmaker, Jake Perks (p.38), and finds out just what it takes to make it in the photography industry. While, for photography a little closer to home, we have Matt Livesey extolling the benefits of winter photography and explaining why we should all be braving the cold this month for the perfect shot (p.44). Elsewhere, Elliot Dowding tells us what fantastic wildlife there is to look out for in the month of February (p.8) and explains why he thinks the earwig is a truly underrated species. Let us know on our Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/NewNatureMag/) if you agree with his choice!
The articles mentioned above are only the tip of the iceberg this month and, elsewhere, we have features on everything from rural sheep farming in Scotland (p.22), to urban foxes in Bristol (p.14). It is another fantastic edition and we are hugely grateful to everyone who has written for us this month. So, if it is cold and miserable outside, go put the kettle on and settle down for an enthralling and entertaining read!
Words by Scott Thomson – Content Editor
You can download the latest edition of New Nature here (https://goo.gl/ad1q2r) and find out more about our current young writer’s competition, judged by the phenomenal Robert MacFarlane. If you would like to see your work published in New Nature, photos, articles and art all included, do not hesitate to get in touch at editorial.newnature@gmail.com
Ben’s blog is fast becoming my go-to resource for unbiased, pragmatic commentary on rural issues (particularly those associated with agriculture). Hailing from a farming background and focused on promoting dialogue and thus, bridging the gap between all facets of the environmental community, Thinking Country features opinion, personal musings and guest posts on everything from soils to sustainability and land-use. It is well worth a read for those looking to broaden their understanding of often complicated environmental issues. Regular forays into alternate fields such as seasonal recipes and book reviews, as well as Ben’s status as a damn good writer, help ensure that a visit to this blog is seldom boring.
Elliot is a 23-year-old amateur naturalist and posts regularly on a range of topics including nature conservation and birdwatching. Unlike some of the others on this list, Wildlife and Words focuses greatly on the authors own perception of and experiences in nature – something which often leads to some excellent creative writing on the subject. Much of which, such as this post about the Mistle Thrush, reads just as well as any natural history book or author’s column. This blog gives a top-notch account of the seasons and helps readers enjoy wildlife-spectacles absent personal observation. I really could not recommend it more.
The first (but not the last) younger naturalist to appear on this list, James Miller maintains Knee Deep in Nature as a personal journal. One detailing his exploits in the natural world through no end of fantastic photos, film, art and writing. Reading this blog is a sheer pleasure – largely due to James’s infectious enthusiasm for all things wild – but visiting serves a far greater purpose also: it shows that some young people, despite prevailing stereotypes, do care about the environment. By following the author’s progress, adventures and observations, as I do, you will be left feeling altogether optimistic for the future survival of the natural history. See this post regarding The Devil’s Coach Horse.
Continuing the trend of more traditional, observational blogs, My Life Outside details just that: the author’s adventures in the natural world. And in doing so, inspires readers to get up, go out, and look harder in search of wild allure. Adams blog has been around for some time now and forms a cornerstone of the UK Nature blogging community, allowing readers to live experiences they have yet to enjoy themselves and travel to places they have never visited. Written exceedingly well and often featuring some fantastic photography, this is the perfect blog for those seeking a natural fix when circumstances prevent you seeking out your own. See this post regarding Bramblings.
Kate on Conservation is pretty unique among the nature blogs I regularly indulge in, focused on conservation in an international, as opposed to a local context. Indeed, as someone enthused primarily by British wildlife, I seldom read such sites, but this is the exception. Kate’s blog representing the perfect place to keep up to date with the latest happenings in global conservation, inform yourself about overseas projects and developments and, ultimately, learn how you, personally, can do something for wildlife. The author’s experience as a journalist really shines through when reading this blog, as does her enthusiasm for the world around her, and whether you are looking to broaden your own horizons or learn something new, I could not extol its virtues more if I tried. See this post regarding Jumbo the Elephant.
It is a rare blog that teaches you something new each and every time you visit, and a scarcer one still that manages to make complex research both comprehensible and enjoying to the average person. This, however, is exactly what Graham Appleton manages to do with Wader Tales, a blog which, in the authors own words, aims to celebrate wading birds and wader research. I, personally, found Graham’s blog extremely useful as a student looking to write about the topics covered here, but the subject matter featured on Wader Tales, and the way in which articles are presented and written, mean that everyone, not just those boasting prior knowledge of the field, are able to learn about the latest happenings in the field of wader research. Little wonder that this blog is so popular.
Well, that was part one of my 2018 reading list and I hope I have done those featured some level of justice with my comments. Of course, if you’re bored, you could also follow this blog…
It’s December, the blushed tones of Autumn now but a fading memory and vibrant greens of Spring and Summer a soothing promise of things to come. Outside, the air resonates with the nasally honking call of migrant geese and our fields and hedgerows have been overtaken by thrushes from afar: by redwings, fieldfares and immigrant blackbirds. It is a time of cold, dulcet tones and unfavourable weather yes, but also a time of wonder. A time of splendid wildlife, thrilling vistas and unforgettable wild experiences.
This December marks a milestone for the team at New Nature Magazine; an event myself and the other editors have been looking forward to for some time. Yes, this month marks the end of one full year of New Nature. The end result? Twelve issues published, hundreds of topics covered, two major events attended and a reach that now extends far beyond what I, personally, had even dared hope for. Better still, however, is the
fact that during our first year we have brought the views of almost one-hundred incredibly passionate young naturalists to an audience of thousands. Allowing them to have their say and discuss the topics which, as young environmentalists, interest them the most.
This issue, the final edition of 2017, continues along a similar, exciting vain. Here you will find talk of eco-friendly snorkelling with globally endangered species, right here in the UK; as well as evocative writing centred on the Hebrides, robins and wildfowl. Conservation is well represented too, in the form of a wonderful piece on otters by Helina Hickey; while youth nature, as ever, can be found in abundance. Brought to you on this occasion by New Nature stalwart Zach Haynes and newcomer Georgie Lamb.
We hope that you enjoy this issue as much as we have enjoyed producing it and very much hope that you will stick with New Nature through to the New Year and beyond. Big plans are afoot behind the scenes and with our team now back to full strength and raring to go, 2018 looks set to be another fantastic year for us as both a free, enjoyable magazine and a fledgeling community of cracking young writers.
There is poetry everywhere in the natural world, but for me nowhere more so than in butterflies. What is poetic about butterflies? Poetry is a heightened form of writing that plays on our emotions and imagination. Poems use imagery, beautiful or expressive words, rhythms, rhymes and sounds that encourage us to see the world a little differently, as if through a lens. At their best, poems inspire an intensity of perception that changes the way we think and feel.
Butterflies can have similar effects on people, and have done so for thousands of years. In the foreword to my new book Papiliones, published on 2nd December 2017 by Choir Press, the author and naturalist Matthew Oates writes about this:
“Butterflies have long been in the poet’s eye. This fascination flows back to the ancient Greeks, who believed that the human soul departs from the body on the wings of a butterfly.They created Psyche, the goddess of the soul, from their word for a butterfly – psyche. There is also the symbolism of metamorphosis, which from a poetic angle is deeply profound, offering myriad possibilities and analogies with the human condition.”
He goes on to remind us that the poets Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote about butterflies and that a few years ago some modern poets published a collection entitled Shropshire Butterflies: A Poetic & ArtisticGuide to the Butterflies of Shropshire, published by Fair Acre Press in 2011. T.S.Eliot, Edward Thomas the war poet, Vladimir Nabokov and many other poets and novelists have written about butterflies and their symbolism.
In my own case, I was originally drawn to butterflies by my children when they were young. On our country walks together I found that trying to stalk and spot birds with noisy toddlers was very frustrating because the birds would just fly away, and butterflies were less scared of us. Besides, they did not fly as fast. So we searched for them instead. They are so colourful, and occur in such beautiful places, that we were all captivated. My daughter and son now have children of their own and I am sure they will enjoy butterflies just as much.
Butterflies soon became a passion; then I realised that without friendly habitats they could not flourish, and that they represent a highly sensitive barometer of the natural world. Pollution, pesticides, reckless building development, loss of green spaces, and reduction of plant diversity, all result in the death or even extinction of butterflies.
Since the age of about fourteen I had always also loved poetry, and had written some of my own from time to time. My two passions for butterflies and poetry started to converge and the idea formed in my mind of writing a poem about every one of the sixty or so butterflies regularly seen in this country. As far as I could tell from my researches no-one had, or for that matter has now, ever done such a thing. When I had finished thirty-three of the poems I decided to publish those, with the intention of writing the rest in due course. I am trying to live a healthy life so that I have a chance of living long enough to finish the task!
My book Papiliones contains my thirty-three poems and one written by a poet friend, Mick Escott. Each of the butterflies featured in the book has a passage telling the story of its names in English and Latin. Some of these are poetic in themselves. The Small Blue butterfly for instance, which is scarcely bigger than a thumbnail bears the scientific Latin name “Cupido Minimus”, which roughly translates as “Tiny Cupid”. There is also a photograph of each butterfly in a natural setting. Here is the Small Blue story, quoted from my book:
“Known as Eros by the ancient Greeks, Cupido carried off the beautiful maiden Psyche, who then became his wife and a goddess. Psyche is also the Greek word for soul and, by happy coincidence, for butterfly. Cupido is traditionally depicted in art as a winged cherub carrying a bow and arrow to fire love-darts. In this case he is minimus because the Small Blue butterfly is tiny…”
My poem imagines a Small Blue butterfly needing only a tiny meal – a drop of nectar – to satisfy its “cupidity”, that is desire, appetite or even lust, and refers to the ancient concept of angels dancing on pinheads. Here is the poem, with a picture:
SMALL BLUE
Cupido minimus in the book
is small enough to overlook
and in the field
is well concealed
it’s a shy
little fly
a dullish hue
of muddy blue
a twinkle in its eye
and winking antennae
it indulges in
minimal cupidity:
a monstrous meal –
a tiny nectar drop
would perch atop
a pinhead
large enough
for minute angels
to light on
take flight from
like a new Small Blue.
In some ways butterflies lead ambivalent lives. On the one hand, they suffer the melancholy fate of decline or even extinction because of an implicit trust in human beings, who should be their guardians but have betrayed them. On the other hand they have a way of fighting back and surviving against the odds: they colonise railway embankments and vegetable gardens.
I feel that butterflies are part of the poetry of nature, and a world without butterflies would, in the end, be a world without people. The poems are about butterflies and about people; we depend on each other. Though they may not be aware of it, butterflies give us enormous pleasure, and in my case the inspiration to write about them. I very much hope that my book will help readers to enjoy the beauty and poetry of butterflies.
October is an exciting time in the naturalist’s calendar: a period of conspicuous and adrenaline pumping change as leaves redden, red deer roar and myriad migrant birds grace our coastal watch points. It is a time of returning wonders – geese, swans and thrushes, of succulent fruits, curious fungi and tumultuous weather. All of which, combined, provide a true feast for the senses, ensnaring all as days shorten and the British Autumn steams ahead.
The wonder of autumn is captured perfectly in the latest issue of New Nature Magazine. Through in-depth accounts of seasonal specialities – Redwings (Page 40) and Grey Seals (Page 14) – and through fine nature writing from some of the most remote reaches of our small island. Indeed, Camila Quinteros’ look at the autumnal flora of Fair Isle (Page 32) is not one you can afford to miss.
In this issue, readers will also find talk of Lundy Island, aptly labelled as the British Galapagos by contributor Hannah Wolmuth-Gordon (Page 28); while on page 38, the Woodland Trust’s Chris Hickman delivers a thrilling account of Britain’s favourite trees. Also inside, Sophie Watts issues five tips for students looking to choose a university this Autumn (page 42), Kayleigh Crawford delves into community engagement in woodland conservation (page 41), and New Nature’s own Scott Thomson interviews freshwater ecologist Peter Walker (page 22).
As the director of New Nature, I would once again like to offer thanks to all those who read, download and share our publication each month. It has been almost a year since the magazine was established and things are advancing marvellously – all thanks to you. Please keep it up, and in doing so, help us continue to bring the thoughts and views of young conservationists to an increasingly wide and diverse audience. Their voices must
be heard.
