Hope

There’s an unseasonal gale howling it’s way around my garden this weekend, but determined to be outside, in a dry patch I peer down through the thrashing grass of my meadow lawn into the now shrinking gaps of bare soil for any signs of germination from the yellow rattle which I sowed in hope last autumn.

I can just see the tiniest seed leaves, as yet unidentifiable, and hope that they have endured the wettest of winters and will now begin to grow.

I also scan the surface of the water at the very edges of the pond for evidence of the wriggling black commas of tadpoles in the hope that some of the far fewer than usual blobs of spawn may have survived. I see a predatory newt suspiciously hanging mid depth just a few feet away and wonder if he’s spotted them first.

It is also in hope that I lift the bubble wrap covering rows of pots in the greenhouse and ask after their welfare. They are labelled cosmos, broccoli, kale, foxglove and sunflower, a motley assortment, all of which are as yet unmoved by my attempts at conversation..

The pots appear to contain nothing but compost, but experience has taught me that hope in the processes of nature is seldom misplaced and that patience really is a virtue worth cultivating. I restrain my itchy fingers from poking about in the compost.

In the veg beds however, new life is romping away. Self sown from last year’s plants, the forget me nots are not only a picture of vigorous growth but beginning to flower too, so in hope that they will not notice a change of location, I bless the fact that April is a very accommodating month for uprooting and replanting, and carefully move them to share space in the pots of tulips by the front door. Despite the forecast rain I water them in well, settling their roots as if tucking them into bed and hope that they will forgive the intrusion and continue to thrive.

It’s human nature to hope, and I seem to do an awful lot of it in my garden. Hope in people I find can sometimes be misplaced, but it’s also been my experience that pinning my hopes on mother nature never disappoints.



Life on the edge

As my garden continues to wild itself, the definition between the areas conventionally thought of as border, lawn and pond margin has all but disappeared. Traditionally gardens are all about definition and clearly demarcated areas, but nature is all about ebb and flow. Never static, plants move around, flowering and seeding in conditions which suit them and then their offspring, perhaps finding themselves in an even more comfortable home, thrive and spread their seed in turn.

If these plants are natives, they are usually called invasive weeds, but if they are ornamentals they might stand more chance of being appreciated and their reasons for moving around might be considered.

This spring is still at an early stage, but its lovely new growth has already shown me how the Primula family members have spread themselves from shady borders to the now semi shaded meadow lawn. Little rosettes of leaves drifting out into the grass and a false oxlip, just coming into flower, a hybrid between a cowslip and primrose, nestling at the base of an old decaying log. One parent preferring the sun, the other the shade, a child of the edge of both conditions.

In my garden hellebores excel, their ancestors I can only assume were planted over many years and finding the conditions so much to their taste they interbred, hybridised, spread and are now so numerous as to form a carpet beneath the apple trees, through a gap which the sun reaches and along a path by the boundary hedge. The previous owner called it the spring walk so perhaps this is where they all began and as they continue to spread I wouldn’t dream of trying to halt their progress.

These are not native plants certainly, but they have found their niche and besides providing food for the big fat buff tailed bumble bees which are coming out of hibernation now, for me they are a joy to see. As the world of my garden wakes from winter, I wander through it and lift their downturned faces up to look at mine. They never fail to make me smile, each one uniquely beautiful and living their best life exactly where they want to be, on the edge.

Waiting for the frogs


The crows are still calling winter as they play in the wind gusting over my wild garden, but from a hedge a pair of robins are singing and from other perches, blue and great tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and a wren join in the chorus. Their tunes have changed in just a week, there are now signs of spring in their songs and in the air. I can smell the green smell of early growth, still faint but it will grow with the leaves.

Today the sun is out, now just that bit higher in its arc and with the first promise of warmth. Encouraged, I peer into the pond looking for signs of returning frogs, but the ripples are caused by mallards, three drakes circling an unimpressed female. I’ll have to be patient and keep waiting, perhaps the frogs are waiting too. I read that spawning can coincide with the full moon shining her light on their amorous adventures, but there are also social media post of frogs back in ponds to the south and west of mine. I persuade myself that the wait won’t be a long one.

The snowdrops are all up, full out and dancing daintily around the garden, they nod to the touch of a single honey bee as she forages, moving methodically, from flower to flower. New hellebores are lifting their heads daily, ready and waiting for the fatter, heavier bumble bees to come searching their wide open faces for pollen and nectar.

The little fat buds of the cherry plums are beginning to open too, single stars for now, individually small and insignificant, but soon they’ll form a frothy white haze covering the trees.

From now on we’ll see more colours ebb and flow as they wash over our gardens, sunny yellow celandines, daffodils and dandelions will give way to waves of bluebells and forget me nots, the blue of the spring sky.

Just like every other flower in my garden they are oblivious to the joy I take in seeing them and I find their indifference appealing and a strange sort of comfort. They will carry on their lives, following the seasons and the sun whether I’m here to watch or not. I like that.


Happy New Year

New year’s day began in my garden without any apparent difference to the one before it; grey, cold and wet. After the fireworks of new year’s eve, what a damp squib.

My first look out of the window revealed three wood pigeons sitting miserably, shoulders hunched in a bare cherry tree, a female blackbird shuffling through the rotting leaves beneath the beech hedge and the only visible bird showing any sign of perkiness, a little wren, her natural demeanour an antidote to a general lack of interest in anything much.

The problem is I think, that for us in the northern hemisphere, January is such an inappropriate time to celebrate anything new and we expect too much of it. The wildlife in our gardens is just concentrating on getting through the winter alive and my over riding emotion is one of concern. For new beginnings, my own favoured date would be the spring equinox on the 21st of March when the fulcrum tips, the days lengthen towards summer and we can all look forward to our gardens picking up the pace of life.

It’s the time for fresh green leaves to unfurl and new flowers to open daily, for insects to emerge and take advantage of flowing nectar and pollen and for the first of our migratory birds to begin to arrive home. The natural world tells us loud and clear through the amplifier of our gardens that spring is on its way and new life is everywhere.

I’m not alone in my preferred choice for a date to mark the new year. I read this morning that the brilliant nature writer Robert Macfarlane would prefer that date too and if we’d been born between the fall of the Roman Empire and 1582 when Pope Gregory X111 decided to change it, we would actually celebrate new year on the 25th of March.

It worked well with our agricultural way of life and much more sensible in my opinion, immeasurably more in tune with nature at our latitude. But as with every other aspect of life that I have no choice other than accept (after I’ve had a grumble), I’ll make the best of it and look forward to lengthening days, less inclement weather and a new year in my wild and wonderful garden. Happy new year!



Solstice

I seem to have been moving slowly this month, dragging my feet towards the shortest days. Not long to go now to the winter solstice and I have become like my garden, hunkered down, just waiting out the dark days while the human world is frantically busy with its heavy sell marketing and last minute panic buy shopping.

There is so much I feel I really should be doing in the pressured days before Christmas, but the dark heavy clouds and cold blustery winds make everything feel more of an effort than it should be.

The birds zipping to and from the seed feeder and squabbling over their position on it show that the need to feed up and keep warm is urgent, each day’s activities compressed into a few short hours before the light is lost again. So short that I find another day has passed and the hedge trimmings I had planned to chop up for compost remain a heap of branches. They sit in front of the bee hive, in nobody’s way but mine and I have no intention of disturbing the bees so there is no rush.

But there are seasonal things to do which won’t wait, like the Christmas tree, a festive wreath for the front door and bunches of holly and ivy to hang inside, both of those foraged from my wild garden. Traditional acts that our ancestors engaged in for generations, that we still follow and which link us to our history and the natural world.

We still bring nature into our homes with evergreen foliage to mark the darkest days and welcome the return of the life giving sun, each species with its own symbolism to past cultures and each still a reminder to us that life outside continues despite the short dark days. The welcome reassurance that new growth will return with the strengthening sun and all will be well.

Our gardens connect us to the natural world like nowhere else, they give us roots strong enough to hold us firm, while like the trees in them, we bend and adapt to the winds of change, wherever they come from.

Our gardens are not spaces for us to exert control, they are places for us to find our inner nature even in the darkest of days.





Changes

Autumn proper has arrived, it barged its way through my wild garden on gale strong winds ripping the leaves from the trees. Nature knows that winter is on its way, the number of extra blackbirds make me think they are recently arrived migrants, poking and rustling about in the undergrowth, hunting for tasty snacks, and the ducks have returned to their cold weather home too, floating sedately on the pond

The garden paths and steps have disappeared beneath the flurry of fallen leaves and on the paving around the house, little mossy cushions have suddenly appeared .They squatted on the north facing slopes of the roof all year, fattening up nicely in the shade, drinking in rainfall. But the recent heavy downpours have dislodged them. and losing their grip of the slates, they have fallen to land bottom side up exposing their shallow hair like rhizoids which anchored them.

I read an interesting phrase in a WWT magazine in which the term ‘management’ was replaced by ‘support’ which I highly approve of, so in that life saving spirit of support I mounted a little mission to rescue those mossy clumps not already shrivelled up by the day’s bright sunshine.

I placed some deep in bedraggled vegetation where I hoped they would find a humid atmosphere and some in the shade of trees where their fellow species of moss thrive.

Near the hive a honey bee was wandering over a deluxe deep carpet of moss which has laid itself over a rough stone where water collects and I wondered briefly if she was ill before I realised that she was actually drinking water from the saturated leaves.

Our garden ecosystems function on so may levels and scales. From their relationships with the larger landscape to the microscopic, and down there in the world of small but still visible things, we have a window onto a wilder world and can begin to see how important plant and animal relationships are.

I’m so pleased that a charity as influential as WWT has made an important change of emphasis to looking after their reserves, it might only be an exchange of one word, but they are words which we interpret very differently and if we gardeners follow the sentiments they embody, they could make a very big change.

My wild garden and I sincerely hope so.

The silver lining

The year is marching on at an alarming speed, bonfire night is less than a week away with its wood smoke smells, loud bangs and for me an internal conflict between what’s best for wildlife in general, hedgehogs in particular and the sheer splendour of our town’s annual firework display.

It usually also comes with the first really cold hands and feet of the season and the first outing of warm gloves and thick welly socks. But my garden seems very behind this year, the Acer palmatum is only now blushing scarlet, as if embarrassed by being late to recognise its seasonal obligation.

The big old hornbeam next door is just on the verge of yellowing and although the sumach, Cornus mas and rowan tree are doing their usual flaming bonfire impressions, the cotoneasters and hollies have not yet lost a single berry to the birds and most of the garden remains stubbornly green, as if still undecided and teetering on the edge of autumn.

Perhaps nagging climate anxiety is causing me to worry unnecessarily, but I do hope my garden’s wild creatures have a better grasp of what’s going on than I do and that their body clocks are keeping pace.

As our climate changes, plants’ flowering and fruiting times affect every creature which has evolved and adapted to live with their provision of food and have arranged their life cycles to suit. When the timing goes awry, it’s called a phenological mismatch and can have devastating consequences to both.

During the summer we can help in small ways, like encouraging Buddleja by trimming its tips to keep producing flowers for the later butterflies,. Sowing annual seed at different times to stagger when different shaped flowers appear for the different designs of foraging insect tongue types.

I don’t weed, so all the lovely native species can flower where and when they see fit to extend the provision of food, and now at the end of the year, there is something else we can do, or more importantly, not do.

Much to my husband’s displeasure, our garden remains untamed and untidy, just as wildlife likes it to be. His human desire for neatness and order is shared by most gardeners in their traditional autumn tidy up, but it’s anathema to nature which has known how to survive the long nights and cold, wet and windy winter weather for many millenia longer than we have.

I like to let nature be herself, when spring comes around we can be more usefully involved again. In the meantime, in my garden the windfall apples lie ready for invertebrates to feed on, the teasel and sunflower heads are full of seed, the hawthorn, wild rose and bay are ready when the birds are, and the ivy berries are now setting and will ripen for a late winter treat.

Leaf litter is beginning to accumulate and as it swirls around and the drifts grow, they’ll stay where the wind takes them and cover the soil in a protective blanket. Hollow stems and spent flower heads stand where they grew and where the overwintering insects now hiding in there found them.

Around the pond the grasses wave their delicate seeds in the wind in invitation, hopefully they won’t fall before the birds feel ready to eat them. But there I go worrying again, if they do, then they will germinate, grow and flower in their turn, all the more grasses and seed for future winters’ birds to eat.

The best thing about my wild garden is that nature is in charge and when the dark clouds loom, there’s always a silver lining, for its wildlife and for me too.


Late flying dragons


Scattered by a gusty wind, the first falling leaves of autumn have now settled over the surface of my pond. As I deliberate whether or not it is too early in the season to bother looking for the big fishing net and try to scoop some out, I take a few minutes to sit on a too seldom used seat and enjoy the un seasonally warm afternoon sun, while I try not to worry about the unsettling reason for it.

My rewilding garden may be full of ‘weeds’ but it still has ornamental plants too, as long as they grow well without input from me and are as useful to nature as our own species, and just by the pond I’m surrounded by the gently waving heads of grasses. The dewdrops of Panicum, Miscanthus feathers and the delicate Molinia spikelets, all looking beautiful to me now, will soon be a living larder for the birds. They, and the low autumn light causing them to shine and sparkle, remind me how much we should appreciate these moments that we perceive to be perfect.

Some garden owners’ interest begins to wane as soon as the flowers fade and brown becomes a seasonal colour again as the greens go. But reds, oranges and buttery yellows are part of the pallet too, appealing to human eyes, in reality they are just an indicator of deciduous plants’ need to recycle nutrients, but no less interesting for that. When we learn a little about our wild gardens’ natural processes, it can open up a whole world of new interest where every garden encounter is intriguing and full of new knowledge which we can then use to act in positive ways to benefit our own and nature’s well being.

The shrubs, trees and hedges are still dense enough with foliage to disguise the goldfinches, dunnock and robin I know from their calls are in there, but it’s the dragonflies that are the obvious aviators here today and as I sit still they amaze me with their speed and accuracy zooming over the water and around the marginal foliage.

A common darter hovers like a kestrel right by my left ear then suddenly jinks away as a pair of hawkers appear twisting and turning together only to quickly disappear from view. I can still hear their surprisingly noisy flight and look up to see them continuing a dog fight up near the top of the birch tree until suddenly there is only one, down by the water momentarily resting on a Iris leaf.

Theirs is life in the fast lane and it isn’t over yet, while there is heat enough in the sun to power their flight, like the bees, wasps and butterflies covering the last of the ivy flowers, our gardens’ insects are still busy about the business of staying alive while they can and when they can’t they will provide a feast for birds.

The year and our part of the planet are turning away from the sun to face the cold of space, nature changes constantly, but life never stops, it works in seasonal cycles and there is a lot of life to see, enjoy and be part of in our gardens still.

Photo of common darter by L. B. Tettenborn, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported



Gardening on the edge

My garden is teetering on the edge of summer as it inevitably gives way to the beginning of autumn and the seasons blend, ebb and flow in a gently changing palette.

The purple loosestrife towers shocking pink above the pond and wild carrot’s delicate white lace still decorates the meadow lawn but the first colouring leaves are noticeable now, there are apples ripening and as the wild rose hips redden and shine the elder berries drip deep and inky purple from the hedge.

After their post nesting rest to moult and recuperate, the birds are back again and they and we seem to have the best of both seasons. Edges are our garden’s greatest assets, as well as the seasonal ones, those physical edges defining spaces are so important that ecologists give them a specific title, ecotones.

Where habitats come together and overlap their biodiversity increases, ecotones are to be found in even the smallest places, along a sheltering hedgerow, beneath a shady tree canopy and in the slightly damper dips and hollows or compacted patches of a meadow lawn. Along the margins and shallows of a pond as dry land transitions to deeper water and where a gravel path peters out into planting and the opportunities of sharp drainage meet those of more fertile soil, plant species change, variety and biodiversity increases.

We often think that our gardens are too small to accommodate the range of habitats which develop and thrive in the vast rewilded areas we read about, but we mustn’t forget that our own garden is not alone. There is also next door, next door but one, the rest of the street, village, town and onward over miles and miles of gardens.

As the crow flies and looks down, he doesn’t see our own individual patch, he sees a wide and ever changing landscape with opportunities to find shelter and food, big trees to set up home in and the landscape’s edges formed, not just from our built and planted boundaries, but the changes in habitat where diversity is greatest. Even the edges of busy roads where they meet the kerb and collect the occasional unfortunate roadkill victim, he’s not called the carrion crow for nothing!

Selective herbivory

It’s early August and for the time of year my wild garden is as strangely fresh and leafy green as if it was still spring.

It’s too wet to cut a part of the meadow lawn which is growing, as I watch in dismay, into a lush grass monoculture. In June, when parched and bleached to straw, I found that a sharp seeded arable grass had invaded, the emergency cut was too late even then to halt its take over and I can only hope that I catch this second crop in a dry spell before it seeds again.

My attempts at ‘selective herbivory’ need to be more ruthless next time, a very hungry whole herd of herbivores more like!

I think last summer’s heat as well as dog wee enriched soil were the initial reasons for this severe loss of diversity and resulting invasion, but wherever the blame lies the results show how very fragile our well intentioned attempts at habitat restoration are.

As the weather patterns we’re used to seeing inevitably change, we must adapt as well as try to ameliorate the damage where we can, so while I ponder whether to try a rooting pig impression over winter and hope some soil bank wild flower seeds will germinate, I also have a packet of yellow rattle seed as back up.

But there is really very little space in my wild garden for doom and gloom. On the east facing slope there may be losses, but the areas of long grass leading down to the now nearly full to the brim again pond are a frothy confection of wild carrot flowers below which dozens of lower growing plant species are bouncing back and a few like birds foot trefoil are flowering again.

They are just in time for the butterflies, the sunny intervals last week were perfect for seeing them dancing over the garden and having the Big Butterfly Count a great excuse to watch them. Gatekeepers were the most numerous but also red admirals, holly blues, peacocks, small and large whites and a spectacular big bright orange fritillary. They and lots of other insects seem to like the wild oregano which will soon be over so to keep them in nectar for as long as I can I’ve been browsing on the buddleijas, which if nibble away at the terminal flowers with my secateurs, will just keep on flowering all summer.

They seed around when they’re happy, I realise I do have eleven of them now so I think they are fairly content and I hope the bees and butterflies will be pleased too.











My secret garden

At this time of year there are parts of my garden which are almost inaccessible. Weeds and wayward perennials have tangled themselves together in a jumble of lush growth over paths and around the pond and while my feet become ensnared, overhanging twigs and branches catch in my hair and make me stoop to avoid them.

To push through I bend almost double as if in homage to their dominance, but there is method in my seeming madness. Here within and beneath this dense growth there is cover and safety for the small creatures living out their life cycles in privacy. Where the sunlight filters through and leaves are illuminated, insects like butterflies can warm up ready for flight and down in the dark leaf litter below are the tiny things I know are there but are too small or well hidden for me to see, springtails, beetles, worms, centipedes and small snails.

I feel like an intrepid explorer, just meters from my door discovering the wild world my garden is becoming. Peeping out from the dense ivy hedge a baby robin is hiding, a pair of holly blue butterflies are mating on the edge of a leaf and are interrupted by another butterfly, perhaps looking for a piece of the action, and a yellow legged insect I don’t know, either a solitary bee or wasp, flies in to forage on a knapweed flower.

As I straighten up to leave the embrace of my secret garden, around me are meadow lawn flowers basking in the sun and I look up to see a greenfinch perched right at the top of a wayward piece of hedge. I can hear the swifts screaming as they swoop and swirl above me, I do hope they’re finding enough to eat, they’re especially welcome to the midges I realise have just made a meal of me!


Just a theory ...

While I mull over using terms like ‘wilding’ or ‘rewilding’ to describe the progress of my garden from its traditionally managed state to the loose and happy arrangement we now have with one another, I can’t help but be blown away by the roses this year. Those most garden worthy flowers, hybridised and developed from their wild ancestors for human pleasure probably longer than any other plant, and in my garden June has seen them bloom as never before. They have flowered with such generosity that I have to question how the spindly unhealthy plants I inherited ten years ago came to be so spectacular.

After their initial move from the formal rose garden I found them in when we moved here, to an informal mix and muddle along with herbaceous perennials, ornamental grasses and whole host of native plants which have since taken up residence, they have had very little care and attention from me. No mulch, no feed, very little water and perhaps most importantly, no pesticides or fungicides.

Last year’s hot summer and a wet spring might have had a part to play in this year’s abundance, but I have another theory, totally unproven, unscientific and without any evidence but it makes sense to me.

When we buy roses, we’re advised to give them a dusting of mycorrhizal fungi to help them settle in, a sensible purchase as an aid to their welfare, we know now how closely interwoven our plants roots are with the fungal networks below ground and how much they depend on one another. As my garden’s plant diversity has increased, it seems very reasonable to me that its fungal diversity will have increased too and that their symbiotic relationships should benefit both, even those least wild members of their community, the roses.

So that’s my theory, as biodiversity builds up in my garden so does the health and vigour of the plants. As good gardeners have known for years, the answer to most of our questions is in the soil.

Spring on steroids

No sooner had I put away my winter coat and woollies this spring, than the blue tits started zipping in and out of the next box by the back door. After a cold wet start, the natural processes of spring seem to have been condensed into this last few weeks of warmer drier weather. The apple trees had only just burst into their full pink petalled splendour when the ground beneath was a wash of confetti and tiny apples have taken the flowers’ place.

The roses are smothered in blooms, their buds formed quickly as the leaves unfurled and after searching for the first flowers of bush vetch, I’m amazed that within days, the plants are rampaging through the borders and scrambling over everything creating glorious colour combinations especially with the catmint, itself now in full bloom. Purple flowers, the favourite colour of bees, are everywhere in shapes and sizes to suit lots of insect tongue lengths.

It seems as if the whole garden has been rapidly playing catch up but despite the sheer volume of flowers on show for me to admire and for the insect population to make full use of, I have a very uneasy feeling that in my wild garden all is not well. There are no aphids on the roses yet and my alarm bells are ringing.

I was thrilled to see the first early orange tip and holly blue butterflies a few weeks ago but their numbers have not increased with the amount of nectar now on offer, neither have the solitary and bumble bees, just a few here and there and only a couple of my favourite tawny and ashy mining bees. Perhaps they have just not caught up with the season yet, perhaps last summer’s heat has something to do with it or perhaps our human onslaught and seeming intent to eradicate the world of insects has caught up with them.

On the plus side, two May bugs came inside a few nights ago to show us that they are still around and for the first time my box balls are host to box caterpillars. As blue tits are known to feed on them I’m happy that their leaves are being shredded in a good cause and that the escapees will be food for wasp or hornet grubs.

I was cheered by feeling that part my garden environment’s food web might be working as nature intends but this morning I read that a well known chemical company has developed a pheromone disruptor that stops male box moths finding their females.

No mating moths, no eggs, no caterpillars, no more moths. We humans, when will we ever learn?



Saving species in the suburbs

After a brief visit to old friends last week, it was a long journey home diagonally through Wales from Anglesey to Monmouth, from their suburban garden back to ours

We passed through spectacular landscapes, past rocky and sandy shorelines, through rugged mountains and sheep grazed hillsides down which racing rainwater creates steep sided ravines.

Passing lower than expected rivers, scattered conifer plantations and scalped and patchy old hedges, my unease grew as I recognised a depressing lack of space for wildlife.

A few red kites soared above a feeding station but beyond that I spotted a buzzard, a few members of the corvid family and only two or three smaller birds. We were travelling through varied landscape, but not through an equal variety of functioning ecosystems, just mile after mile of sheep nibbled short grass monoculture with only tiny fragments of regeneration and valuable habitat. A surprising and beautiful rock wall dripping with water and vegetation, a patch of land not much bigger than my garden where birch saplings grew, and a few small coppices and occasional verges left for the cowslips and dandelions to flower.

Welcome as these small areas are, as such disconnected islands, they do little to help reverse our lack of biodiversity, and although change to land use in proposed and more regenerative farming and rewilding may be on the horizon, I fear changes will not be speedy or universally welcomed, so I returned home feeling quite deflated, very unlike myself.

The next morning I woke to sunshine, always a good start. In my neighbour’s garden, blossom dripped from every cherry tree branch and next door but one had left the lawn to itself and cowslips, primroses and false oxlips were in full flower. In my garden the many spring flowers were out under the apple trees, themselves just bursting into bloom, mason bees thronged around their nesting tubes and honey bees moved methodically over the rosemary, humming from flower to flower.

A peer into the pond revealed nicely fattening tadpoles sunbathing in the shallows, bluetits, goldfinches and greenfinches hung from the bird feeder until a gang of boisterous rooks took a swipe at it dislodging seed which was quickly hoovered up by a boy band of male mallards.

As diversity in vegetation and habitat fosters biodiversity, our gardens and their close connections to one another and their variety can help to save us. Nature doesn’t see our boundaries as we do, only opportunities to move around, our hedges are highways for insects, birds bats and of course hedgehogs.

Before bed we let the dog out and seeing his interest in something on the lawn I went to have look. The hedgehog’s beady eyes shone brightly back at mine and my spirits soared, our wild spaces may be wild only in small parts, but here in suburbia we can each bring wildness back to our own gardens.



Sunshine and showers

In forecasters’ terms, last week’s weather was ‘mixed’. Not so good for holidaymakers, but better for gardeners sowing seeds, and actually quite typical of the weather we might expect in April.

It’s lovely when the sun’s out, it feels as if spring has arrived. But rainfall is such a valuable asset and there will be less of it through the summer, so I for one can put up with getting wet for now, the blackbird’s crystal clear end of shower song is all the recompense I need for the soaking.

As the saying goes, April showers bring forth May flowers, April ones too, and I’m very pleased to see that they, and the warm sunny spells, seem to be encouraging insects to hatch. I spotted one of my favourite solitary bees a few days ago, a tawny mining bee and close on her heels, one of her predators, a bee fly. She will be watching where the bee nests and lay her own eggs in there for her larvae to consume the bee’s. Knowing that however gruesome it may seem, this is how the garden functions, there are predators and there is prey, I try not to take sides, but I can’t help but wish the little bee well and much as I love the blackbird too, I do hope she wasn’t on his menu.

The bright slanting rays of sun, when they appear through the sparsely leaved trees, light up the understorey and remind me of how much of my garden mimics the edge of a woodland where the trees thin out and the ground covering vegetation changes. The edges of places, where habitats meet and merge are important places for nature, and where nature flourishes then so do we, whatever the weather, come rain or shine.

'Weed' of the week

I had a wonderful day yesterday playing in my garden, the sun shone and the rain stayed away, so I made the most of the opportunity to cut back and pull away some of last year’s dead stems and discover a world of new spring foliage beneath.

Because I don’t ‘weed’ my garden in a traditional way, the soil is covered by a thick and diverse carpet of plants, some expected and very welcome like the wild strawberries which are so good for insects when they flower and sweet and tasty for me to eat when fruiting. That’s if I can find them before the blackbirds do, and there are others which I’m puzzling over too.

I would expect mosses to thrive in the drip line of trees and at the edge of the pond where they have access to moisture but I’m very surprised to find them colonising a south facing, hot and dry border as happily as they have. Holding in what moisture there is and forming a ground hugging micro climate for the soil organisms, they’re contributing to my garden’s biodiversity and with the most interesting delicate leaf structure, what’s not to like.

With a wildflower meadow lawn as their anti social neighbour, various grass species pop up throughout the borders, they are not unexpected but neither are they particularly welcome, so I try to act as a selective herbivore and pull them where I can. With an image in mind of a cow wrapping its tongue around the tussocks I hope to remove the roots from the damp soil too, but as the rewilder and gardener within me battle I do use an small adze as well, my version of a rootling pig!

Although our very real dog does his best to help the garden rewilding process, I can keep my imaginary animals away from the plants when I’m pleased with how well they’re doing. My favourite plants for seeding around and being beautiful as well as useful for the increasingly active bees this week, are primroses. I’ve watched over the last couple of years as their little crowns of leaves popped up around the garden and now they’re flowering. The wild ones look to have interbred with a couple of old established cultivars there are pink, cream, blue, white and pale yellow ones in the grass and the borders. Like the moss they don’t seem to mind full sun or deep shade or a mix of the two.

It strikes me as I rummage in the undergrowth of my garden not weeding, how much gardeners who do are missing and how much the nature of our gardens and we benefit if we just stop weeding.


A tipping point

The earth’s scales tipped in our favour yesterday as we passed the spring solstice when every point on our planet received light from the sun for 12 hours. Some places saw the sun no doubt, my garden had heavy cloud and rain, but above the clouds there was the sun, high over the equator and ready to head north and give my part of the world a taste of summer.

It wasn’t just me who noticed either, as if by magic after a winter of very sporadic laying, yesterday my hens each produced an egg. The wild birds were the most vocal and numerous yet this year and this morning a noticeable haze of green covers the garden as this year’s new leaves are all beginning to unfurl. Almost overnight a rose by the house wall burst into full leaf and my meadow lawn is now definitely appearing to be more meadow then lawn. Soon it will be time to mow a narrow path through so that I can wander around bee and butterfly watching without trampling emerging seedlings.

The frogspawn has gone, the eggs have hatched and somewhere around the edges of my pond will be tadpoles. Although I can’t see them, I have faith that they are there, ready to grow themselves through all their stages of metamorphosis until one day I know they will appear, deep down under the long grass as fully grown little frogs.

The cherry plum flower petals are scattered around like confetti and in their place are leaves, primed just like every other leaf, ready to absorb the sunlight for as many hours each day as they can.

Our gardens are all about change, it’s how the world works and here we can be part of the process and enjoy every moment.


My rewilding garden

There’s a part of my garden which looks spectacular at this time of year. I’m so proud of it, at the least excuse I’ll drag any willing visitor out into the cold as I ramble on about its many joys, but I’ll willingly admit to having had very little input into its success.

The passage of time has played a big part, as the original ornamental planting has settled down, interbred and accommodated all the species of native plants which have seeded or crept in and now there is a very settled community, happily coexisting. Hellebores, lungwort, violets, wild strawberries and Geranium macrorrhizum carpet the ground and snowdrops, bluebells, wild garlic and crocuses push up through them.

Above are the branches of a cherry plum, so prettily spangled with blossom, and a witch hazel with its weird spidery yellow flowers erupts out of it. All these flowers, of so many shapes and sizes, are a feast of forage for any brave pollinating insects daring to be out at this time of year. Usually it’s the big fat queen bumble bees, but any bit of warmer sun and the honey bees venture out too.

Ivy marches determinedly across the path and creeps through and beneath everything. Evergreen shelter to the soil and all its millions of its tiny inhabitants. I don’t now who they are, but I do know that they are there, no doubt some are food for the wren, robin and dunnock I see hopping through.

From time to time there are changes which bring me a bit of excitement and add to the diversity. This spring’s new foliage includes lots of teasel seedlings in a patch where more light comes in after a tree removal next door and also a little woody plant has popped up, which now it has a few leaves, I can see is a member of the currant family, no doubt I’ll discover which one in time.

This is my garden rewilding itself, an ecosystem developing where everything works together harmoniously and planting changes happen as habitat changes do. At its most appealing as a garden for me to enjoy right now, all year it offers shelter, food and home to something wild.


They're back!

I’m still cold and a bit grumpy outside, but despite the grey gloom, my garden’s wild inhabitants are already gearing up to make the most of a new year. The frogs have survived another winter (phew) and returned to lay a small mountain of spawn in my pond and the courting mallards are back with their ritual head bobbing and, to my ears, monotonous quacks, which of course must be music to theirs.

A big increase in bird song is really noticeable now, as is a lot of frantic zipping around the garden, particularly by the blackbirds which seem to be a bit argumentative from my human point of view, as do the goldfinches, squabbling with the greenfinches and each other over the sunflower hearts in the feeder until the magpies fly in and everyone else makes a sharp exit.

Like all their corvid family, quick to learn, they’ve worked out how one of them can cling on to the feeder and dislodge the seed so that their other corvid relatives waiting patiently below get a good feed. Then as quickly as they arrived they’re off again and a blue tit might get a look in before a sudden explosion of birds and feathers and I catch a glimpse of dark wings as the terror of all small birds zooms through the branches of the apple tree.

There’s an uneasy quiet for a while as we all draw breath and recover, me from excitement, they from fear as the sparrow hawk shoots off like an arrow to aim for more luck elsewhere, but he/she knows this garden is a prime spot for a take away and calls by most days.

That’s how nature works, unkind as it might seem to us who can buy our food wrapped tastefully with no indication of any bloody origin. It’s called a trophic cascade by ecologists. The top predator preys on what he/she can catch keeping everyone else on their toes. The smaller birds in my garden will then feed on all sorts of invertebrates as well as the seeds I mess up the system by giving them, and help my roses thrive by feeding their babies on the aphids which would otherwise suck the sap from their juicy fresh stems.

I grow roses in my garden for the aphids, blue tits and sparrow hawk. Their beauty and scent are just the icing on the cake.

Winter garden beauty


Today began as we would wish all midwinter days to begin, beautifully. An early mist lay in strands over the river valley as the sun rose in an ice blue sky to lighten the garden with a cold glow.

The Panicum grasses around my pond are hanging with seed sparkling pale gold and now they must be perfectly ripe, the birds know just when to visit and as they dance around the stems eating their fill I can watch through the window and shiver on their behalf.

In my home office all day, I’ve looked out on and off and the birds have come and gone in turn, to eat, drink and bathe. Goldfinches, bluetits, dunnocks, chaffinches, sparrows, a solitary robin and always two or more blackbirds.

Later in the day, as the light gathered along the western horizon, there were larger ripples on the water which as I watch, transpired to be caused by a large rat swimming across to the soundtrack of a blackbird ‘pink pinking’ in alarm call from a cherry tree.

What a treat of a bird reserve my winter garden is, no long journey to visit, no entrance fee or queuing for a hot drink or a cold toilet, just a moving feast of birds by water and fine foliage.

It’s true that there are more exciting sights at an official nature reserve, like the lapwing flock and starling murmuration I was lucky enough to see recently, but my garden birds and I do have a particular connection.

They wouldn’t come to congregate here if I hadn’t dug the pond and planted food and cover plants around it, so we have a symbiotic relationship, each benefitting from the other, they find food, water and shelter and I find that my winter garden is full of beauty.