A beautiful walk around the Bolderwood Deer Sanctuary

We recently had a few days away in the beautiful New Forest, which has become a favourite place of ours in the last few years.  I love the pace of the forest, which I find to be a capsule of peace and tranquillity in amongst the hubbub of fast-paced modernity.  Here, it feels like things change slowly, if at all, and when I'm in the forest, I get the sense that I'm living the same experience that people have enjoyed for hundreds of years.  There are many walks throughout the forest, of which we've done a few in previous visits.  On this occasion, following a brief stop in Ringwood, we took the slow lanes to the Bolderwood Deer Sanctuary where, on a drizzly day, the forest is exhibiting its first displays of Autumn.

Our walk begins with the Canadian Memorial, a wooden roadside cross set up to remember the Canadian forces who were present in the New Forest on the lead-up to D-Day. The site was chosen because it marks the spot where Canadians frequently gathered for church services.  It's a lonely place, and the juxtaposition of the peaceful forest and the recollection of the Normandy beaches is stark and reflective.  It feels a world away from the horror of war, and yet many Canadians who enjoyed the simple quietude of the forest in 1944, would very shortly lose their lives in the defence of liberty.  It's worth a moment to pause and consider this.

A gravel trackway takes us away from the memorial, across heathland and down into the depths of the treescape.  Sensing the downturn in the weather, the local ponies begin taking shelter in the bracken, and we pass a number of them nestled in the ferns.  Further down the track, signs indicate that we're entering the deer sanctuary, and it isn't long before we spot a couple in the nearby field.  As far as I can work out, the deer here are wild, but the herd is fed daily by the local New Forest keeper between April and September, meaning that they tend to remain fairly local at this time of year. The type of deer here are wild fallow deer, evidenced by their typical spotted coat, and were of course a joy to see.

Beyond the deer sanctuary, we have a good walk in the trees, eventually making our way to an enormous yew tree, which I just have to take a look at.  I'm fascinated by yew trees, mostly because their ancientness makes me marvel at what they have witnessed in the passage of time.  It's amazing to think that the tree I'm looking at could well have been standing when William the Conqueror evicted the peasants to create this forest, nearly 1,000 years ago.  In fact, it could be even older than that - I once read of a yew tree in the grounds of the churchyard at the Hampshire village of Lockerley, which was growing at the time of Christ.  I just love that thought.

Not too far from this tree lies the Radnor Stone, an ornately carved stone dedicated to the late Earl of Radnor, Forestry Commissioner from 1942-63, and Verderer of the New Forest from 1964-66.  One may instantly draw comparisons to the Rufus Stone, and I wonder whether that was the inspiration for this modern memorial.  I suppose if I was a Verderer and a life-long forest man, the location would be perfect for my memorial - untouched by the modern world, sitting quietly amongst the trees, no doubt visited more frequently by deer and ponies than by any human, a lovely place in which to be remembered.

Our walk from here takes us past the north side of the deer sanctuary, and back to the car.  The weather has further deteriorated, but it's been a lovely walk, punctuated by Schnitzel meeting a similar-sized sausage dog in the car park.  William is full of fresh air and fast asleep, so for us it's a slow and scenic drive back through the reaches of the forest to our hotel, where a comfy and cosy bar awaits.

Gardening for wildlife

 I have been spending a lot of time in my sanctuary recently, and it is glorious.  Cicero said (and I have it written on a cushion, so it must be true) that "if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need", and I completely agree with him.  The library is of course essential year-round, but takes on a particular significance in winter.  As for the garden, it too can be enjoyed across every season, but it really springs to life about now.

We recently took a trip to Plant World, our lovely local garden park and nursery.  Ridiculously not allowed to open until April (despite garden centres being allowed to open throughout lockdown!) it was very special to visit again.  The gardens were their usual splendour, particularly the azaleas, cherries, and the last of the magnolias, whilst all over there was the promise of colour yet-to-come.  Of course, as well as the gardens themselves, Plant World sells all manner of homegrown plants, which are consistently amongst the best quality you can buy locally, and a fair price too.  Well, we filled two baskets and took note of other things, for which I will likely go back.

Back home for a planting session, and despite the frosty nights, spring has certainly arrived in the garden.  My favourite thing at the moment is my honesty, not least because I grew them from seed myself.  They've grown to a very good size, have billions of buds, and provide a massive splash of colour, leading the charge to May.  They're also brilliant for butterflies - see the orange tip below, my first sighting of the year for one of those - and what's more, when the flowers are all spent and the plant dies, it will leave behind the most beautiful seed pods, well worth keeping in the border all year long.

Butterflies aren't the only wildlife visiting now, for the birdsong and general activity has been brilliant this year.  It has taken a serious amount of time to attract a variety of birds, but our persistence has paid off, and I've now seen more than 25 different species in our garden, which I think is pretty good for a suburban estate.  Most recently I noted the first ever sighting of a siskin, whilst greenfinch and goldfinch visits are massively up compared to past years.  I've put so much effort into increasing feeding spots and observing which locations work best, and I finally think the balance is right - certainly the disappearing food tells its own story.

We've always had frogs in the garden, and frogspawn arrived for the first time last year.  I've already seen the frogs two or three times this year, most recently when doing my annual sorting of the store behind our summerhouse (a truly unpleasant job).  However the one creature I always look out for in spring is the slowworm. To me, they're like the harbinger of the growing season here - a bit like the Ravens in the Tower, gardening doesn't really work properly without them.  If I don't see them by the end of April, I begin actively looking for them (the compost bin is the best place to start), but this year no hunting was necessary, as a mammoth specimen appeared out of the blue as I was carting compost up the steps.  It didn't seem too bothered by my presence, and I lingered to watch it for a minute, its tongue flicking in-and-out in a relatively relaxed manner.  I think it's the biggest one I've seen to date, and I was thrilled.  After enjoying it for a moment, I carefully covered it over and went about my business, safe in the knowledge that the garden season has now officially begun.

So what else?  Well, we've got hedgehogs.  We've suspected it for a while, but after borrowing a trail camera from my parents, I can now confirm at least two regular visitors to our garden.  Again, I'm thrilled, and have quickly fallen into the routine of leaving out hedgehog biscuits, dog food and water, every night.  Hedgehogs visit at least two different parts of the garden, although I've no idea if it's the same pair in each place, or different pairs (which would really be something).  At the moment I'm using the camera to try and establish if they're sticking to a regular route, so I can tailor the garden more to their needs.  In the meantime though, here's some of the best footage I've captured so far:

 

Gardening for wildlife is a passion, and I feel that really for the first time since we moved here, the natural balance is now falling into place.  I don't suffer the same problems with slugs these days, nor any garden pests really, and I think it's because we've tried to encourage nature in all its forms.  I don't use slug pellets; I don't spray chemicals; I don't kill anything; and I leave wild areas.  The result, in all honesty, has been life-changing for me - every day in the garden is a new adventure, I always see something of interest, and I get the sense that the garden as a whole is sending up a little bit of thanks for the style of stewardship we're trying to provide.  We - the garden and I - are on the same page now, and that's a great place to be as we head into the summer months.

The Great Pacific Adventure - Cairns

"And so our wedding, which of course preceded this honeymoon trip, happened one month ago!  It has of course been a brilliant month, and really has been non-stop ever since - fair to say that we haven't quite comprehended it all yet."

So read my diary on 13 November, written whist sitting in a hotel bed in Cairns, Queensland.  The view from our hotel balcony confirms what we've been missing for the last few days, for here our old friend, the Pacific, laps tropical shores.  Sultry Cairns is a holiday town, nestled along Australia's tropical coast, the only place in the world where two UNESCO World Heritage Sites meet - that is, the Daintree Rainforest and the Great Barrier Reef.  We intend to explore both during our time here, but first off it's a stroll down Cairns Esplanade, where signs warn of the dangers of saltwater crocodile attacks, and nobody dares set foot on the beach due to the potential presence of the deadly box jellyfish.

Our first destination, on a warm and muggy day, is Port Douglas, an hour's drive to the north, and accessed by the Captain Cook Highway, surely one of the world's most stunning and spectacular roads.  To the left, the rainforest cascades down, whilst to the right, pristine beaches give way to emerald seas.  Every now-and-then we cross little saltwater creeks, crocodile territory if every I saw it.  The twisting and turning road follows the coastline closely, but eventually we arrive at Port Douglas, embarkation port for a catamaran called Quicksilver VIII.  Quicksilver VIII is a speedy vessel, cutting smoothly through the waves and taking us some 30 miles off-shore, delivering us to a giant platform anchored on the Agincourt Reef, one small part of the 1,500-mile long Great Barrier Reef.  On the platform, numerous activities are offered for every taste - you can dive, snorkel, take a helicopter tour, and so on.  To boot, Quicksilver Tours have been given the highest environmental accreditation, and work hard to preserve this incredible environment.



We opt to snorkel, and after donning very silly wet suits (box suits - again, to protect from any rouge jellyfish,) fins and masks, we slip tentatively into the warm tropical sea.  For a moment all is calm, and only when I put my face into the water do I realise - with a little panic - where I am.  Beneath me, perhaps 50 feet down - is a crystal clear world of coral and fish, some of which are quite big.  It's a surreal experience to be suspended mid-water whilst the local wildlife swims all about you, but once I acclimatise to this, the whole experience becomes a pleasure.  My progress is very slow, the giant fins on my feet causing me some difficulty, but it doesn't actually matter, for we stick close together and within the recommended boundary rope.  I couldn't identify many of the fish we saw, but I do particularly remember the Maori Wrasse, known to be inquisitive creatures, and instantly likeable.



Back on the platform, we have our buffet lunch and then board a semi-submersible, which takes a half hour tour around the reef.  Corals and fish abound, although not as colourful as I had hoped (apparently 80% of coral is brown, and what you see presented on TV is something of a inaccuracy.)  we see sponge corals, brain corals, cauliflower corals, and huge boulder corals.  Our guide is comical and has slightly broken English, but squeals with delight on two separate occasions, beseeching us to turn our heads and take in the marvels of wild green sea turtles, a sight that is one of the highlights of our holiday.



The following day is a quiet and leisurely one in Cairns, before our time in Australia - and our honeymoon - draws to a close with a final excursion to the Daintree Rainforest.  The rainforest makes  up the greater Wet Tropics Rainforest, and is the oldest continually surviving tropical rainforest in the world.  Joining us on our excursion are a couple from Sydney, a couple from Brisbane, a couple from Texas, and a group of three from Bognor Regis, all taken under the careful eye of our guide for the day (and, we think, the best guide of our trip,) Kelvin.  Kelvin explains that, when the Australian continent slipped away from Pangaea, it evolved (or rather, it didn't) in a different way to forests in the rest of the world, retaining its ancient character.  We are taken first to Mossman Gorge, where an affable Aboriginal guide called Matty takes us for a fascinating walk, stopping here-and-there to show us interesting plants and flowers, and traditional tools and weapons.  Matty himself lives in a community of about 250 people in the gorge, one of five branches of his tribe.  The houses are wooden, but all come with air conditioning and satellite dishes, and Matty also mentions that 90% of the community are Christians.  I notice an interesting difference between Matty and the very few Aboriginals we encountered at Uluru - here, it seems, people are a lot more open and talkative.  Eventually we reached a tributary of the the Daintree River, a very beautiful spot with the water gushing over smooth stones.  It's a very enjoyable walk, but a very hot and humid one, and our comfort is made all -the-worse because of the layer of mosquito repellent we've sprayed on our hands and faces.

After our humid walk in the forest, we are taken to the Daintree Teahouse, where we are served a tasty lunch and offered the chance to try a number of exotic fruits.  The proprietor of the teahouse gives an interesting talk about some of the plants and fruits of the forest, and although I don't remember everything we tried, there was dragon fruit, passion fruit and pomello among the selection.  Our host is clearly knowledgeable on many things - when he hears we are from Devon, he remarks regrettably: "I'm afraid we don't have any clotted cream available."

From the Daintree Teahouse, it's a short drive to the Daintree River, where we hop aboard a frighteningly small boat for a river cruise.  Here, mangroves and other forest trees edge the riverbank, and we feel decidedly that we are in the tropics.  We are joined on the journey by a very cute white-lipped green tree frog, who is fast asleep by our bench.  The Daintree River is quite sizable, and at this point feels utterly unchanged over the centuries, so mush so that I would not be surprised to see a dinosaur wander into view on the shore.  That, of course, is not an entirely inaccurate expectation, for lining the waters here are the dreaded saltwater crocodiles, and after some searching, we happen upon one sitting very still in the bank.  Our guide suggests that it's a female, sitting on a nest of eggs.  Shortly afterwards we encounter another one, a male, who slowly submerges when we get closer, in a sinister and uneasy manner.  Saltwater crocodiles are enormous animals - the largest of all reptiles - and have been known to take human beings here, although this is usually avoided with little bit of common sense, and my overwhelming reaction is one of delight that we've been able to see a couple on our trip.  Elsewhere, we encounter little mudskippers and fiddler crabs, whilst when we get back to the jetty, out boat attracts the attention of some archer fish, prompting our guide to place small pieces of fruit on the boat's edge, watching with delight as they spit and knock it into the water - they hit the target every single time.

Our drive back to Cairns took in the Captain Cook Highway once again, and we stopped for one final view at the Rex Lookout, which overlooks Wangetti Beach, a particularly stunning portion of the coastline.  Here, para-gliders set off from the cliffs and head up into the clouds (sometimes the owner of this business takes his dog with him) and whilst we opt to stay firmly on land, you can understand the desire to see this landscape from above - it must be spectacular.  As Lizzie and I stand looking out across the ocean, it dawns upon us that our trip is drawing to a close, for tomorrow we must leave Cairns and head ever-eastwards, back to Britain, back where the North Atlantic - and not the South Pacific - dictates the state of play.  With the exception of Uluru, the ocean has been our constant companion since we landed in Los Angeles, so much so that I'm sad to give it a final glance.  But despite this, we both leave with a heart full of gratefulness and thanks, for the opportunity to come out here in the first place is a huge privileged, and one that we have been determined to absorb in every way.  It's a wondrous part of the world.

The Great Pacific Adventure - Uluru

We step off our Virgin Australia aircraft and onto the sun-baked airstrip.  All around us the earth is red, and the hot air is clearly visible rising off the ground.  The temperature is in the mid-30s, and after five seconds in the open air, we are hot and sweaty.  "Welcome to Central Australia" says the man from AAT Kings, the dominant tour company in these parts (and, one has to say, excellent at what they do.)  The title of Great Pacific Adventure takes rather an odd turn here - we're 1,200 miles from the big blue ocean, in the middle of one of the world's most inhospitable deserts - Sydney is a world away, and Rarotonga a lifetime ago.

Our home for the next three nights in Yulara, a tourist resort 'town' in the middle of the Australian desert, created in the 1970s to formalise and keep check on tourism in the vicinity of Ayers Rock (or, as we call it nowadays, Uluru.)  Yulara came about to replace the unmonitored building of motels and other establishments at the base of the rock, to help preserve the world-famous landscape, and to filter tourists - like us - into a central point.  It was ahead of its time, built sympathetically so that the resort is not visible in the landscape, yet providing a comfortable environment in which to live, even in this remote corner of the world.  The name Uluru doesn't really mean anything - it's a proper noun, the name of the rock given to it by the Pitjanjatjara people (part of the Anangu people,) but the name itself has no particular meaning.  The site is sacred to the Aboriginal people, who since 26 October 1985 have been officially recognised as its traditional owners.  In turn, they have leased it back to the national park authority for 99 years, and together they manage and maintain the park.  Climbing the rock, which always seems to crop up in conversation, is a contentious issue - the traditional owners have always requested that people don't do this, and in October 2019 it will be officially banned.

We're up at 3.45am the following morning.  It's Armistice Day 2018, the 11th also falling on Remembrance Sunday this year, particularly fitting as it marks the 100th anniversary of the end of hostilities.  The Australian news has it pretty well-covered this morning - 65,000 Australians died in the First World War, and today they are remembered here and around the Commonwealth.  It seems bizarre that Australians were involved in that conflict, from the perspective of somebody sitting in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by desert, with galahs squawking overhead - how could a war on the other side of the world have affected anybody here? 

Our early rise is to board a coach destined for Uluru, to watch the monolith wake up in the sunrise.  A strange spot of rain doesn't dampen the excitement, and as we get our first real view of the rock, so we realise that all the reports are true - it really does amaze the senses.  The rock changes character completely in the sunrise, as it moves from its dusky grey to more familiar orange-red, until it shines bright in the full sun of the morning, totally dominating the landscape.  One can only imagine what it must have been like for the earliest explorers to come so suddenly upon this feature - and one can also finally understand why the rock is held in such reverence by Australia's earliest people.



We leave the rock for another famous feature - Kata Tjuta (the Olgas) lies some 20 miles to the west.  Again very sacred to the Pitjanjatjara people, the name translates as 'Many Heads' for in Aboriginal lore, these enormous boulders are the heads of the ancestors.  There are 36 huge domes in total - a much bigger formation than Uluru - although tourists are limited to two permitted footpaths, one of which traverses the Walpa Gorge (translating roughly as 'Windy Gorge,') an awe-inspiring path into the rocks which gives an understanding of the majestic scale of the geology.  We are absorbed in our environment, for this is so completely different from anywhere we've ever been before, and there's a definite sense of both spirituality and ancientness about the place.  I want to learn more about the Aboriginal traditions here, but our guide can't tell us much as he's not allowed to know, which I find a little disappointing.  Nonetheless, it;s a remarkable place, and although we're back at our hotel by 10am, we feel as though we've had a whole day out.

The heat of the day dictates that any outdoor activity is reserved for mornings and evenings.  In the middle of the day, we walk to the resort's little museum and art gallery, then move on to the 'town centre,' really a collection of two or three souvenir shops, an art gallery, and a little supermarket.  The supermarket here isn't just for tourists - locals use it too, coming from remote settlements in the vicinity to do their shopping, so there's a good mix of foods and people.  Notwithstanding the tourists, there's more than 1,000 people living here - many employed by the resort, along with the Anangu living in nearby communities.  It is here that I realise that, far from being purely a tourist hang-out, the facilities are a lifeline for people living out in this remote stretch of central Australia.  We really are in the wilderness - the nearest town, the famous Alice Springs, is more than 200 miles away.

The next morning, in the cool of the dawn, we walk across the resort through the bush, to the Imalung Lookout, with good view of Uluru 20 miles away, the more distant heads of Kata Tjuta, and hundreds of miles of unbroken desert.  The trees in our immediate vicinity are alive with squawking, and we turn our heads to reveal what looks like a thousand galahs flapping in the branches.  These birds are my favourite thing about this part of Australia, for they are gregarious and vivacious little things, full of character.  From here we walk into the resort to catch the bus to Yulara Camel Farm, a little farmstead a couple of miles away, with an impressive collection of camels and other animals.  The camel is not native to this continent, but is an unofficial icon of the Australian desert since being imported in the 1840s.  Since this time they've gone feral and, being well-adapted to the climate and geography here, have evidently flourished.  Nowadays camel milk is lucrative, prized by soap manufacturers.  At the camel farm, the animals seem to live out a relaxed and care-free life, giving the occasional ride to tourists, and spending the rest of their time in spacious pens, with plenty of shade from the sun.  It feels as though we've stepped back in time, for there's an old-fashioned shop and homestead, a windmill water pump, and some old coaches and other artefacts on display.

For our final evening at Yulara, the clouds thicken and give us a light misting of rain, hardly ideal conditions for the Uluru sunset viewing we've booked.  In the end it turns out to be a damp squib, an unlucky reminder that, even in the desert, the rain can wreck even the best-laid plans.  Uluru disappears from view not with its legendary blazing, but rather dissolving into the darkness, until we stand alone, wondering if it was ever there to begin with.  It's a sad end to a memorable visit - tomorrow we leave this part of Australia, and unlike other places we've visited, we're fairly certain in the knowledge that we won't be back.  It's not that we haven't enjoyed every moment - it's just that now we've experienced the splendour of Uluru and Kata Tjuta, and felt the remoteness of the unforgiving desert, there seems little reason to return.  Still, we take with the curious depth of feeling that comes with being so far away from anywhere, and we feel almost intrepid as we board our Qantas flight to take us out of the iconic, mystifying Red Centre.

Suddenly Summer!

Well, it's certainly the case that nobody can complain about the bank holiday weather this time around, as we bask in blue skies and full sun, whilst enjoying the all ever-rewarding three-day weekend.  So far this weekend (for 'tis only Sunday evening) we've been quite predictable - a trip for lunch in Torquay, lots of quality time spent in the garden, and a long and rewarding walk in the countryside today.

It was actually one of the most enjoyable walks I've ever been on, as we left the front door and headed over the hill towards the Teign Estuary.  The footpaths and public right of ways here are quick to leave the suburbs, and we were soon strolling in delightfully Devonian lanes, high banks giving way every now-and-then to field gates, from which one leans to take in spectacular views.  The banks were thick with scented English bluebells, stitchwort and red campion, to the delight of all manner of butterflies - peacocks, orange tips, speckled woods the most abundant.  Even better, when we paused at one gate to admire the vista, we noticed a rustling going on at the foot of the gatepost, glancing just in time to see the back half of a grass snake disappear into the undergrowth.  No time for a photo, but certainly a great wildlife moment for me - it's the first wild snake I've ever actually seen.

The lane here eventually wends its way to the village of Netherton, which looks like a lovely place to live, contains many a thatched cottage, and is home to the Mare and Foal Sanctuary at their idyllically-named Honeysuckle Farm.  We soon found ourselves walking through fields of rescued horses and, true to form, Lizzie was soon saying hello to one friendly equine.

Netherton behind us, we eventually came across the estuary, and Coombe Cellars pub, which was in its element in the midday sun.  Sail boats drifted by, people were paddling away in canoes, whilst others looked on from the shore sipping their drinks and watching the world go by.  We found a spot in the shade, and as we listened to the waters lapping the shore, I had the distinct feeling that I was on holiday.  Could you possibly want to be in any other part of the world on such a day?  I couldn't imagine it.

Moving on again, our walk turned from the lovely countryside, and we followed the Teign estuary - still tidal at this point - back towards Newton Abbot.  The walk here follows the historic Templar Way, although they're being a bit liberal when they call it a footpath, for here were slippery rocks and big trees blocking our path.  Nonetheless, it's a very lovely aspect - looking across the water we watched trains come-and-go, whilst up the estuary was the very familiar shapes of Hay Tor and Saddle Tor, and the hills of eastern Dartmoor.  Eventually we reached the A380 road bridge, under which we passed before picking up the Aller Brook, which guided our way home.  A six mile, four-hour adventure that we would both do again in a heartbeat, and no better way to spend a sunny Sunday in our wonderful part of Devon.

Easter garden

It's fair to say that the garden has hardly sprung into life, during what must have been one of the coldest - and wettest - Marchs for years.  Pretty much nobody in the UK needs a reminder of the weather, which brought heavy snow (twice) and an array of precipitation, from sleet and hail to good old rain.  Hardly a month for getting out and being enveloped by the unfurling spring weather, but we've nonetheless made the best of it here, and have been very busy prepping for the coming seasons of warmth.

Looking around the plot, it's easy to think that winter is still in charge, with plants sensibly deciding to keep their heads down until all is clear.  However, look a little closer and there's more than meets the eye.  There's erysimum Bowles Mauve that never really stopped flowering, providing lovely light purple spikes that are so important for those early-flying pollinators.  Emerging on the woodland bank are snake's head fritillaries, a firm favourite and a flower that seems to relish being in our garden, along with grape hyacinth and cowslips, those lovely English wildflowers that remind me of childhood.  In the shade, pulmonaria - lungwort - has poked its flowers up again (and I have added some more.)  Our camellia, having established itself last year in our ericaceous soil, has also popped out numerous buds, and although they're not long-lasting flowers, they do have a certain regal charm.

On to the main project this month, which is largely spurred by the really tragic news that Sudan, the last male white rhino, died two weeks ago, probably spelling the end of this subspecies (notwithstanding IVF treatment, which we all hope is a success.)  As human beings, we're all responsible for our environment and for ensuring that the diversity of life on Earth continues and flourishes.  When a species becomes extinct, every single one of us, and the whole world, is poorer for it.  When I was a kid in school, we learned about the dodo with fascination, and by the age of 10 understood extinction, along with what we as humans could do to stop it.  Now, short of writing to my MP to urge greater pressure on global environmental issues, I feel powerless to save entire species around the world.  But what I can do is provide suitable habitats in my own sphere of influence, in which local wildlife - which is all under pressure from human activities - can live and thrive.  I get frogs, slow worms, butterflies, moths, bats, birds, and all manner of insects, which make my life a richer and more rewarding place to be.  So whilst there is breath in my body, whilst I have strength to pick up a trowel, or am able to make a wood pile or water a plant, I will not allow that wildlife to starve, be homeless, or to needlessly die.  Life without it would be no life at all, and in my garden, I will do everything in my power to preserve them and give them a home.

Jumping off my soapbox, practically this has meant building a pond, both to draw more wildlife in and to keep what already resides within my fences.  It's not massive, but it's enough to make a difference, and as it establishes, and as the aquatic plants grow and flower, it'll be a new haven for pollinators, along with all the creatures associated with water.  Growing out of the water are natives such as marsh marigold, spearwort, water iris, and golden stripe rush.  Filling the cracks in the slabs, meanwhile, I've added aubretia and erigeron, the "Devon Daisy."  Here's the before and after shots:

Recently, on a trip to the local Oxfam bookshop, I picked up a lovely book called A Selborne Year, publishing pages from Gilbert White's journal of 1784, in which he records his observations in the garden.  It has spurred me, perhaps a little late, to start keeping my own garden journal, a place to record improvements, experiments, and observations about wildlife.  One of my major points of celebration this month has been the visit of a bullfinch to the bird feeder, the first time I've seen them in the garden - it's now in the journal, and will be a great point of reference as the years pass by.

And so we come to the Easter weekend, a time to reflect, a time to be grateful for what we have, and celebrate the rebirth which takes place both in the Christian faith, and also in nature, through the coming of spring.  To me, it's a time for everyone - religious or not - to share in the glories of new life, with all the hope and promise that this represents, and is all the more poignant given the dreadful weather of late.  Now as I write, I realise it's all coming back again - the first bumble bee of spring, the new buds, that wonderful spring birdsong - the first page of the next chapter being written as each day passes, and we once more jump aboard for the journey.  Happy Easter everybody!

The rhythm of Autumn

Autumn is in full swing again, bringing with it the usual blaze of colour, chilly skies, and earthy emotions.  The garden is preparing to shut down for another winter - or at least, it is moving into a new phase in its life - as late summer's passionate and exotic hues give way to the season's mellow tones.  For me, autumn is the greatest time of year, offering an opportunity to reflect, to bring in the last of the garden's harvest, and to be thankful for the season of plenty - as well as the festive time to come.  The focus of life, so firmly rooted in the garden over the June, July, August and September, shifts dramatically to indoors now, and leisurely sunshine barbecues and evening al-fresco beers are replaced with hot chocolates, and warming homemade crumbles on the sofa.  Talking of crumbles, Lizzie's first effort of the season is another stunner, made all-the-more pleasing by the fact that all the fruit (and there are apples, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries and blackcurrants) come from our own plot.  They're ingredients that make each-and-every mouthful that much more delicious.

Out on the plot itself, the party has finished amongst all but the hardiest of plants, and the world is bedding down for the cold weather ahead.  There's an urge amongst gardeners to clear and tidy their gardens at this time of year, but I take an entirely different approach, and will largely allow mine to die down naturally.  Fallen leaves and spent stems may not look all that attractive, but they're a God-send to all manner of insects and mammals seeking shelter in the cold nights, and seed heads will provide that extra bit of food to the birds that live in our neighbourhood.  Seed heads also add a wonderfully architectural element to the garden - they can definitely stay for winter.

The season is a very interesting one for those with a naturally inquiring mind, and around the garden at the moment I'm seeing plenty of fungi (including this superb toadstool, below) and a number of oak galls.  Oak galls are formed when an oak tree becomes host to a tiny type of parasitic wasp (Andricus kollari,) which lay eggs on oak buds.  The larvae inject chemicals into the buds to induce abnormal growths which enclose the larvae, giving them a safe space in which to develop.  Oak galls will frequently be seen with a small hole in the bottom - these are emergence holes, which gives you an understanding of just how small these creature are.  As usual, nature is amazing!

November arrives with the first frosts, and by the time I get home from work in the evening, it's already pitch-black.  Over the coming months, I will get but a glimpse of life in the garden, but whilst I leave it to its own devices, I have a strong sense that we're still living on the same rhythm, sharing the beat of the winter as it continues its inexorable march to the spring, when life will once more begin anew, and we will again greet old friends with excitement and vigour.