NORTH DOWNS & BEYOND

Yesterday, in the numbing heat, I stood on a bridge that straddled a section of the River Hogsmill, close to Ewell. The water running beneath, not 12 feet wide and but a few inches deep, was choked on either bank by majestic stands of Himalayan Balsam, in full flower. I leant on the rail, looking down onto the tops of the Balsam, which were being visited by bees. Many bees. They busied themselves, as bees do, by climbing inside the elongated throats of the blooms, and after finishing whatever they were doing, backing out before investigating another flower. There were several species before me, some fat, furry, good old-fashioned ‘bumbles’, many narrower bodied Honey Bee types, one with a hoary frosted body, another with a long and pointed abdomen - as to their specific identities, I hadn’t a clue. I didn’t feel the need to know. Watching them for maybe 15 minutes was relaxing. Not trying to photograph them, or net them, or pot them was an additional pleasure. My binoculars and camera ...

It was dusk, and as I walked along the edge of the copse looked up into the top of the trees. The branches and twigs were etched out in a pitch black, a stark relief against an ice-blue sky that was tinted with rose petal pinks and moody violet. It was enough to halt my journey to take in this simple, common -  but beautiful - composition. My first thought was to take a picture of it - then, secondly, to use the resulting image for the basis of a painting. But I carried no camera. So I stood stock still and took it all in. And while I did so, had a little think... Why is it that, for some of us at least, when confronted with an arresting scene/plant/bird/insect our first thought is to reach out for the camera. Is it part of an ancestral need to own or shackle nature? To lock it down so that it cannot escape and becomes our possession? The written word is another tool that can be used to obtain the same result - do we feel the need to annotate, describe and commit the subject to...

Between 1962-1970 I lived in Tring, Hertfordshire. It was (and I believe still is) a small market town and it was a wonderful place for a young boy to grow up in. We lived in a new-build on the edge of town, literally a stones-throw from open fields that stretched away to the reservoirs. The new estate on which our home was built had attracted mainly young families, so that there were plenty of children about - and as we lived in a cul-de-sac, the boys that also populated it with me formed a ready gang. Back then 'stranger danger', health and safety and paranoia were largely missing from the world of the grown ups, so us kids were left alone to get on with our lives. Because open countryside was literally on our doorstep we used to go off an explore it, sometimes on foot, at other times on our bikes. We cycled the pavement-less country lanes as a peloton of seven and eight-year-olds, oblivious to traffic (mainly because there was none). We found farmers gateways in which to r...

I'm a sucker for books, particularly of natural history books, and especially those that could be termed as having a literary bent. In recent years the market has been flooded with them, coining the phrase 'new nature writing'. One of the architects of such works, Mark Cocker, has written an interesting piece about this subject for the New Statesmen. You can find it easily by clicking here. My bedside table currently has three natural history books awaiting my attention: The Natural History of Selborne (Gilbert White), Island Going (Robert Atkinson - thanks Pete!) and Common Ground (Rob Cowen). Two of these are works from many years ago. Whether or not I am largely an avid reader of such publications because they invoke a sense of nostalgia is a moot point - but the prerequisite of any book worthy of my (or your) attention should be that they are well written. I think it is fair to say that the level of penmanship in this particular field of subject is very high indeed...

The work of Jackson Pollack? Paul Klee? Mark Rothko? No, it's an abstract produced by one Mother Nature, using the medium of lichen. Stunning, isn't it? If you want to see more artwork like this, don't bother going to your local gallery, but visit a churchyard or stone wall near you. The show is open all year round and entry is free!

Please take a moment and click on the picture above (I've saved it to a larger size to better appreciate it). I took it on a Cornish headland. If it were to be hung in a gallery of abstract art, it would not be out of place. Lichens... just don't ask me to identify them all!

Christmas is coming, The waxwings are getting fat, Please put a penny in this ex-twitcher’s hat… May I present the North Downs and Beyond Christmas book round-up. Over the past 12 months these books have caught my eye and are worthy of gracing any naturalists bookshelf. Ask your loved ones or friends to buy them for you as Christmas gifts – it beats a pair of socks and a Jeremy Clarkson paperback any day. The Running Sky by Tim Dee This is quite simply the best book that I have come across that explains the wonder, joy and hurt that watching birds can bring to human beings. Part autobiography, the author cherry picks events from his life and couples them with a month of the year, starting in June and ending in May.Birds act as a conduit to exposing his emotions towards the natural world and the people who share his life. The first chapter sets the reader up for the delights to come, with a vivd description of a cliff top vigil at a seabird colony. I almost considered an o...