Hardcover(First Edition)
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
From his back door to the peaks of New Zealand and the swamp forests of the Peruvian Amazon, he carries on the biogumentary style he perfected in his earlier books showing – never telling – how to bring nature and conservation home. He may just have invented a genre.
Praise for Silent Spring Revisited
“A vividly told, beautifully written account of the environmentalist movement of the last fifty years and his own involvement in it ... the author takes his place among the pre-eminent nature writers of our times. His clear, vivid writing skillfully weaves political and cultural history, personal observation and passionate advocacy for the conservation of our diminishing wildlife to create a book that will endure in the annals of natural history." Marie Winn
“If Nick Hornby loved nature, he might write a book like this.” Martin Harper, RSPB Director of Conservation
“A lively read... what makes Jameson’s work especially enjoyable is the personal slant...” Matt Merritt, Editor, Birdwatching
“A fine writer, who brings together an artist’s sensibility with a conservationist’s sense of reality... a vital read.” John Fanshawe, Birdwatch
Praise for Looking for the Goshawk
“Conor’s cultured writing and enthusiasm for the natural world and the people, like him, who care about it, will carry you along through the chapters.” Mark Avery
"Equally stirring as his Silent Spring Revisited... a passionate detective story... descriptive, at times poetic prose..." Peter Goodfellow, Devon Birds
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781907807763 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Pelagic Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2014 |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 300 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.20(w) x 7.80(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
He is a recent recipient of a Roger Deakin Award from the Society of Authors. When not campaigning for a better, safer planet, and making notes such as those you find here, he tries to find time to tinker with shrubs, and look for goshawks in a variety of habitats.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
January
A thousand years in a garden
The name Station Road does not immediately conjure an image of a rural place, but, if it helps, my Station Road has no station nowadays. This was closed to passengers in the 1950s, and to freight a decade or so later. Some stray evening primrose stems and a ground-creeping Boston ivy are remnants of the buildings and garden that once were here.
Station Road follows a line of alluvial soil, which penetrates a sea of blue clay under the open fields around. The alluvium is fertile, workable soil, deep and dark. The clays, meanwhile, are like Plasticine when wet, and hard as Bakelite when dry. My instinct was that our road had been long inhabited, surrounded by scrubby wetlands, long before these had drainage ditches gouged out of them.
I've dug this alluvium many times, but not to the depth I had to reach to meet the building regulations for a new soakaway. I was about halfway to the 1.2 metres required, where the dark soil starts to become paler and more gravelly, when I unearthed an earthenware socket, like the neck of a narrow jar. I might not have thought much more of it, but the depth at which it was lying made me curious.
I later cleaned it, and took photographs. I sent these to the county archaeologist, and awaited a response, expecting little. His email message a day later brought me up short:
The pot shard in your photos is a handle from a St Neots ware socketed bowl [he revealed, with reassuring exactitude]. It's Saxo-Norman (tenth to twelfth century) in date, but probably post-Conquest rather than earlier. It looks in good condition, not something that's been knocking around, so you may have actually dug into a medieval deposit. There is evidence for Saxon medieval settlements along Station Road, not least the excavated moat in Tempsford Park, so while your find is not unexpected it is interesting and useful evidence that medieval archaeological deposits do survive elsewhere nearby.
My enthusiasm for history has been re-fired by the find. I took a book called The Common Stream by Rowland Parker down from my shelves, to get reacquainted. It is the history of the village of Foxton, not far from here. It could be the story of many villages. The book itself was a chance find for me, in a charity shop in Scotland, back when I still lived there. By further chance I found I had settled in Foxton's vicinity when I arrived in England. It helped me feel a sense of place and belonging. The bowl handle find has helped even more. I love the idea that someone else might have liked living right here, a thousand years ago, and that the charring on their bowl handle is still visible today.
The hedge of reason
It's official. The hedge is back in fashion. This is largely thanks to the efforts of conservationists, and the RSPB's backers. We have persuaded most of the population – including those in a position to make a difference – of the value of a good hedgerow for wildlife. They also, in most cases, look nice too.
Wildlife, as a general principle, thrives on the edges of habitats, and hedgerows are often very much like the edges of woods. Without the wood, of course. It's heartening that they are springing up in the farmed countryside again, after years of taxpayer-funded persecution. We might never replace all 118,000 miles of hedge that have disappeared from the British landscape since 1950, the year my house was built, but we can compensate as far as possible.
Having said all that, there are hedges and there are hedges. And I've recently been involved in taking out a hedge. The hedge in question was a monoculture of Cypress leylandii in my back garden. I had developed very mixed feelings about it – as mixed as this particular hedgerow was unmixed. When I arrived here, it was already a monotonous green textured wall, really, and an increasingly large one. It ran almost the length of one side of the garden, about 30 yards of it in all. It was higher than the optimal height for these things – around seven feet – and formed a solid boundary between our house and next door.
According to the previous owner, its primary purpose was as a barrier. He'd planted it basically to assert the privacy of his domain, much as had been widely done in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries through the enclosure of common land. There's often politics, as well as wildlife, in a hedgerow.
The meaning of gardens has changed over time. These may have been small holdings and drying greens for the war generation, social spaces for the exchange of local gossip and root vegetables, but this was now the 1980s. Private ownership had arrived. Shrub roses were replacing vegetable plots, twirly washing lines were being planted, and regiments of cypress were supplanting rows of carrot.
By the time I arrived, the green wall was resolutely up. The hedge had already reached a difficult age. Cypress trees are just that – trees. They are straining every resinous fibre to be 100 feet tall, and quickly.
My feelings about what was now my hedge, and my responsibility to control, were mixed because, while I wrestled and teetered twice-yearly with vintage shears on an even more vintage step-ladder (with 'Alfie', the name of a former owner, lovingly carved into it) to keep it in check, I recognised its shelter-giving properties, both for me and for nesting birds, notably blackbirds, dunnocks and greenfinches. And although not exactly a tapestry of wildlife interest, it certainly offered a significant degree of privacy. I could sit on my side of it in a deckchair in underpants if I wanted to, in splendid solitude, at any time of year.
But somehow this wasn't enough. From my garden seat I could – and often did – daydream that instead I was gazing upon a different kind of hedge. In my mind's eye I envisioned a flourishing parade of hawthorn, blackthorn, holly, beech, wild privet, yew, elm, wild pear, gorse, hazel, maple, hornbeam (was I being greedy, do you think?) and guilder rose, laced with dog rose and honeysuckle, wild flowers woven into its base, with here and there a gangly ash sapling protruding skywards from the tangle. A bit like the one I had had the foresight to plant in the front garden as soon as I arrived here, for example. It needs management too, but it rewards me with its ever-changing buds, blossoms, fruits, insects and, yes, nesting birds as well, buried in its midst in summer, with loitering sparrows and foraging blue tits visible within the barer parts of its framework in the cold months.
The car on the roadside is increasingly obscured by the hedgerow plants I installed. I got these 'whips' from Cambridgeshire County Council's nursery, a mix of thorns and field maple, with some hazel, dogwood, dog rose and wild privet. I was delighted to find an old hawthorn stump refusing to submit and sending up fresh stems, and traces of blackthorn too, when I removed some stray cypresses. The immaculately maintained elm hedge next door also sent a sucker under the path that separates our two gardens, to add to the diversity and help make the link between our two hedgerows.
I added some cistus plants, for a Mediterranean 'maquis' feel, for scent in the summer sun, and for year-round green and drought-tolerance. I also decorated the hedge bottom with primroses, and slipped a few snowdrop and bluebell bulbs between gaps in the plastic, disguised with some leftover gravel.
Elsewhere, the garden path has been lined with lavenders, broom and box. A cutting of gorse rooted well, added in the corner, where I should be able to see the sunlight radiating from its golden flowers. And nearby I squeezed in a plump foxglove, fattened and ready to produce a flowering spike the following spring. In due course foxgloves with gorse will remind me of Dumyat, the hill that glows as the summer sun sets over Stirling.
Sitting there, at the back, I would rue the years of prevarication that had left me still confronted by this mostly lifeless partition of unchanging green that was indifferent to the seasons; like wallpaper for the garden – albeit wind- and neighbour-proof. It would take so long for the replacement to grow, I had told myself. Could I face all those years of exposure?
And then I hit on a compromise solution. I would phase it out and phase in the new hedge. Brilliant!
So, I began my own back-door habitat restoration scheme, a bit like a scaled-down version of the RSPB's work to extract modern spruce from ancient bog land. Okay, it wasn't really much like that at all, but it brought it to mind. In the first tentative thinning of the cypress hedge, I removed every second tree, to be used as biofuel (some people still call this firewood). And I began to phase in the new hedge mix.
Predictably, it made slow progress in the first year. The remaining cypresses soon spread themselves into the gaps so, to hasten progress, I removed all their branches on the near side. It now looked like a cross-section of a cypress hedge – a bit Damien Hirst, really – but I figured that the surgery would lessen its competitive edge, maintaining the wind break while giving the new whips a fairer share of the sunlight.
And then, as the young mix inched higher, I bit the bullet and stripped the cypresses of their remaining branches, leaving the wood-ribbed, knobbly trunks in place as posts, as markers, dead woods, climbing frames for creepers, whatever.
The spring was a washout for many things, but for grass-growing it was nirvana, and grass types like bents and fescues soon bristled from the seedbed, at first a sheen of lime green, then a coat, and then a mop, ready for its first trim. I went for a seed mix to suit a thinner soil and endure the rainless phases of an eastern summer. I wasn't looking for Astroturf: I wanted character. This is on the southern side of the house, and I hoped the loose, fine soil would encourage delicate annual wild flowers and inhibit vigorous perennials.
Magically, creeping camomile appeared, and to help it establish and spread I carefully mowed around it, and the bird's foot trefoil that soon followed. Grasshoppers colonised, from who knows where. And the final seal of approval in late summer was a juvenile yellow wagtail, accompanied by a more streetwise juvenile pied wagtail, passing acquaintances blown in on a westerly wind, looking for insects on the sward.
So, that's it. My garden is finally laid largely bare again for all to see, inspect, comment on, gossip about. But they had better be quick, because the new-generation mixed hedgerow is coming. It is well on the way to realising my vision. It may not yet be ancient, but it is already species-rich. And I'm not too worried if it will never be 100 per cent year-round neighbour-proof. I like my neighbours. And besides, I figure they'll be too busy inspecting and enjoying their side of the new hedge, and what it produces, to bother looking over or through it at any strange fellas in deckchairs.
Notes made for successful hedge planting
As more and more of the stewards of our countryside realise the value of hedgerows in landscape, wildlife and amenity terms, so too can the gardener help to put back hedgerow species and the life they sustain. Most gardeners have boundaries to manage: perhaps a Cypress leylandii hedge that has been mismanaged or has reached unruly proportions. These walls of green can be great places for wildlife to shelter, roost and nest, but they are often a source of tension between neighbours and outstay their welcome. Long-term headaches can be avoided by replacing these with a more traditional, varied hedgerow.
Where privacy is important, a few leylandii have their place. Birds like song thrushes and dunnocks often like to nest in them. But there are also native species such as beech, holly and wild privet that keep their leaves all winter. The mixed hedgerow is a weatherproof alternative to panel fencing, but will also allow the pleasure of selecting the species to plant and of watching them grow and develop, season by season, year by year.
Here are some of my tips for hedge planting:
• Go for a rich diversity with a solid thorn theme running through it – hawthorn and blackthorn laced with holly, guelder rose, dog rose, spindle, wild privet, cherry plum, dogwood and beech, for example. I have also found yew to be a wildlife-friendly evergreen native alternative to cypress trees, and box can be good too, though slow-growing.
• Plant in winter.
• Put plants in at 45 degrees, to encourage a denser growth.
• Plant in two rows, ideally, spacing plants about 18 inches apart in each direction.
• Reduce unwanted competition from grass and other plants by using a recycled mulch, such as old plastic sacks.
• Don't water too much, except in the first year or two during droughts.
• Prune hard each winter, down to a strong shoot, to promote thick growth and prevent gaps low down.
• When established, trim the hedge on alternate sides each year, but not when it is flowering or fruiting.
• Taper the sides into an A-shape to let light reach the bottom.
• Consider laying the hedge when it has matured, about a decade on.
Pour yourself a large one
Garden ponds can be idyllic. They are refuges for increasingly uncommon things, sequestered from the cut and thrust of the outside world, with its pollutants, its vagaries of weather, its drainage operations, its large predators. Anything that holds water can bring life to a garden, whatever its size. You learn about birds, and much more besides.
You can learn a lot about the principles of providing water by putting out a bird bath – any small, shallow, bowl-shaped receptacle. You realise it needs regular topping up and cleaning. That algae swamps it – in warm weather – almost as quickly as the birds get into the habit of sipping from it and immersing in it. And that the smaller and shallower it is, the faster water evaporates from it.
A cool, shady damp corner can add a new dimension. I've provided piles of sticks, logs and leaves and piles of weedings or grass cuttings on an old polythene sheet. Amphibians and insects gravitate to this. Any old receptacle will do for amphibians to hang out in through the warmer months. A basin, bucket, sink, planter or bath tub sunk in the ground and given a bit of overhanging cover will surely sustain life.
Among debris in the back garden of my house I found the original cast-iron bath. Standing in the corner, it was unsightly. Sunk in the ground, bordering the lawn, it became a habitat. I added pondweeds in pots, to help oxygenate it. Partly shaded, the bath retains its water effectively. I added slabs on one edge, to allow sparrows to sip from it and me to peer into it.
The first summer, a small frog took up residence on the lip of the shallow end, and could be seen until the chill air of autumn sent it into cold storage. I looked for it this spring, and sure enough in March it resumed its bathside vigil: soaking up the warmth, absently engulfing unwary insects, getting steadily bigger, plopping into the weedy drink if I got too close. Perhaps next year it'll journey the 20 feet to one of my 'real' ponds to breed.
In a previous garden, the first pond I made was too shallow. In my haste and excitement, I dug a big hole, lined it with old carpet, slid the butyl liner into place, added a thick layer of soil and turned the hosepipe into it. Result? A half-filled bomb crater effect.
Frogspawn appeared, some sort of thumbs-up, and the initial algal bloom was overtaken by pondweed proliferation. But, deep down, I wished it held more water and was properly shaped, and that the surface was flush with the surrounding landscape. Pond plants soon turned my starter pond from consommé to salad. Mental note: too much soil in pond.
Enter Boswell, next door's usually mild-mannered golden retriever. One afternoon, in the vicinity of my pond, he answered some primeval stirring and wrecked it. I consoled myself that this was the excuse I needed to start again. With a bigger butyl liner. You need more than you think.
Pond (mark II) was in a different league. With so much more water capacity, it maintained a more constant temperature. Channelling rainwater from the roof via a water butt and lengths of old guttering meant there was less of an algae problem to deal with in the early stages. There's also something really gratifying about saving and using your own water. And I was able to make a better shallow shelf around the edge – which is important for marginal plants and for allowing birds and other visitors access.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Shrewdunnit"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Conor Mark Jameson.
Excerpted by permission of Pelagic Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Preface, xiii,
Acknowledgements, xvi,
Foreword, xix,
Introduction, xxi,
Southern Solstice, 1,
January, 3,
February, 26,
March, 45,
Northward Equinox, 71,
April, 73,
May, 99,
June, 121,
Northern Solstice, 151,
July, 153,
August, 182,
September, 202,
Southward Equinox, 221,
October, 223,
November, 236,
December, 250,
Organisations mentioned in this book, 272,
Bibliography, 274,
Index, 276,
What People are Saying About This
A delightful diary of 'everyday Britain', seen through the eyes of one of our most perceptive nature writers. Stephen Moss, author of The Great British Year Conor Mark Jameson is one of those people who, if they didn’t exist, would have to be invented by SOMEONE in a world which so desperately needs his profound knowledge, his wise and amusing observations and his tireless campaigning on behalf of the natural world. Esther Woolfson, author of Field Notes from a Hidden City
This is a fantastically detailed and very visual diary of British natural history. It’s a journey through the colourful landscape of Conor Jameson’s countryside. David Lindo, author of The Urban Birder
…a delightful read, wonderfully crafted by a writer and naturalist at the top of his game. Iolo Williams, author of Wild About the Wild
A wide-ranging, warm-hearted and generous love-letter to wild things, near and far, Shrewdunnit is a delightful and beguiling collection in the great tradition of local naturalists. It is alive with the mysteries that surround us, while showing us how nature is something cherishable and very close to home. Helen Macdonald, author of H is for Hawk
Conor’s stories are gently beguiling, strikingly original. They speak from his heart to our souls and carry the profound wisdom of a thoughtful and perceptive observer. Derek Niemann, author of Birds in a Cage
A wonderful collection by a gifted and thoughtful writer: a delight both to dip into and reread for insight and enjoyment… Jonathan Elphick, author and editor
Conor's is a rare talent, one that seems so simple, but that he works on long and hard to perfect. This new book is a joy, and we can all feel grateful that he has given us the opportunity to benefit from his wisdom and his delight in the natural world around him. Rob Hume
…an assortment of stories that sparkle with insight, imagination and affection. Sophie Stafford, former editor of BBC Wildlife Magazine