For the Birds
It was the prospect of hearing a unique, polyphonic, surround-sound musical that did it.
In a rash moment I can’t actually remember now, I agreed to get up and listen to the dawn chorus in nearby Dulwich Wood last weekend but, if you have ever risen early for this, you’ll know that Listening to the Dawn Chorus is an example of something that is Easier Said Than Done. That is, if you don’t have a three-month-old child, are an insomniac, or, er, a dairy farmer.
The issue with the dawn chorus is that it begins at least an hour before dawn, which is a problem for me those who suffer a degree of separation anxiety when parted from their beds for too long. So the 4am start last weekend wasn’t without its challenges. In fact the morning’s preliminaries went something like this:
V: Groan. What’s the time?
Fella: [Chirpily] Six thirty!
V: [Looks at clock] It’s fourteen minutes past four!
Since this rude awakening, I have discovered that in The Wonderful Weekend Book, Elspeth Thompson suggested that the hardest part of hearing the dawn chorus is getting up – or staying up all night, perhaps – at an unreasonable hour. It’s gratifying to know she had the same problem.
Fortunately Dulwich Wood – an exquisite, gloriously unpubliscised spot of London I’m almost loath to tell you about – was within walking distance and it wasn’t long before we were in the depths of a near iridescent wonderland, whispering and creeping about as if we were participating in a wildlife documentary.
But amid the green and to our delight we heard wrens – supposed to have taken a knock this year in the absence of winter food - blackbirds, blackcaps, robins and song thrushes. We also stalked a tawny owl for a bit, although I’m sure the joke was on us for that one.
Moving through the wood, it was interesting to pass through various territories and hear the according variances in song. I’ve read that at this time of year birdsong is crucial for establishing this territory – and for attracting a mate. In avian terms, it’s kind of now or never. Knowing that, you can almost hear the desperation in the males’ voices.
I’d hoped to be able to post a recording of the birdsong, with free breathing, footfall and aeroplane noise thrown in, but that hasn’t been possible, unfortunately. A picture of some lime tree leaves will have to suffice.
The RSPB has some useful information on the topic and suggests that birdsong carries up to twenty times further in the early morning, when the air is still and background noise reduced. Reason enough, perhaps, to consider getting out of bed before dawn again. Ha, ha.
Plants in Print
Am so enjoying the work of botanical printmaker Angie Lewin, whose output seems to be popping up everywhere right now – in galleries like Bankside, as well as places like Petersham Nurseries and the Garden Museum, where it appears on delightful greeting cards.
Angie lives in Norfolk and says her work is “inspired by both the clifftops and saltmarshes of the North Norfolk coast and the Scottish Highlands”.
“Still lives often incorporate seedpods, grasses, flints and dried seaweed collected on walking and sketching trips,” she says.
Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? BBC Homes and Antiques recently dubbed her work part of the ‘the new botanics’. Quite right. It’s so refreshing to see things like teasels and poppy seedheads portrayed in a contemporary way, when garden art so often falls into the staid.
Keep off the Grass
The lengths I go to, dear reader, to keep you in pretty pictures are nothing short of extraordinary. See this picture? See the those tulips? Nearly cost me 400 pounds.
I suppose I asked for it. There I was, merrily snapping away in one of the city parks yesterday evening, when a thick-set man came and stood solidly behind me. He coughed.
‘You’re on the grass,’ he said.
‘Am I?’ I asked, looking up and then around me. ‘Oh dear, I’d better get off then.’
I’ll admit I feigned ignorance about not being allowed on the grass because in actual fact I was standing right next to a sign instructing one to remove one’s person from said lawn, and you would have to be blind not to see it. Not even pretending to be Afrikaans-speaking would have worked because a) my Afrikaans is dreadful and b) Keep off the Grass looks the same in almost every language that cares about these things, and Afrikaans, you have to admit, has in the past been pretty good at telling people where they can and cannot stand.
Nope, I’d just chosen to ignore the sign, which isn’t fair or proper considering council gardeners work awfully hard at patching up gardens after dozens of people like me have traipsed through them. So perhaps what came next was karmic justice.
I’d snapped and snapped, even lain on a tarmac path with my head just on the lawn to take a picture of some forget-me-nots, when another thick-set man alerted me to the approaching closing time.
As I folded up my tripod and packed away my camera, he looked at me for a bit, took a breath and said, ‘Do you have a permit for this?’
Oh, the power these men wield. Of course I didn’t have a permit. A permit to take pictures of flowers in a park through which all and sundry pass every minute of every working day?
‘No,’ I said, looking at my shoes, which was about the point to which my heart had sunk.
‘There’s a fine of 400 pounds for that, you know, taking pictures without a permit. It’s more with a tripod. And are you a professional?’
‘No,’ I half lied, suddenly awfully glad I don’t have ads on this blog and that I earn more money off writing than photographs.
‘Oh. It’s more if you’re a professional.’
Sighing, and swallowing a small, anxious lump that had rather inconveniently materialised in my throat, I explained that if he charged me 400 pounds for something that wasn’t pointed out on the entrance board, I probably wouldn’t be able to pay him because there just isn’t a spare 400 pounds floating around right now.
Suddenly he changed his tune.
‘Mmmm. See that building? That lot are always taking pictures in this garden. Books, you know. And our parks and grounds people might need some pictures.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Come back on Friday afternoon and ask for me. I can’t promise anything but come and put your ‘ead in.’
Later, when I huffed and puffed about nanny states and curious groundsmen to my fella, I found no sympathy. Instead, he laughed like a drain.
‘Seriously? Come back on Friday after he’s just let you off a big fine? That’s the best pick-up line I’ve ever heard.’
Sugar and Spice and All Things Nice
When you have spent almost an entire sunny weekend day indoors, there is nothing like popping outside and being confronted by a sea of hobbling marathon runners to make you feel like a total slug – especially if the only constructive thing you have done all Sunday is make Lemon Drizzle Cake.
Lemon Drizzle Cake? Well, it began with a homemade recipe book I bought last week at the Open Garden I mentioned in my previous post. I love homemade recipe books, especially when they are called things like Other People’s Cakes, as this one is. That said, I must admit that the recipes in this one do sound a little suggestive – Granny Meg’s Fruit Cake with Ginger, for instance, or Nellie’s Gateau au Chocolat. I’ll stop before I blush.
What got me onto making cakes this weekend was a miserable packet of malted biscuits I’d bought, earlier in the week, in the hope that they’d fill a little tea time gap. My, was I disappointed: they tasted of precisely nothing, the reason for which became abundantly clear as soon as I read the ingredients list (which I ought to have done in the first place). It was palm oil and corn syrup, rather than butter and sugar, that were sinking their way to my hips. What a shameful waste of calories.
This does, however, bring me to two blogs I’ve wanted to tell you about for some time. The first is Wandering Gaia, belonging to science and nature writer Gaia Vince,who has the kind of career I’d love were I more intrepid and better at figures. Previously an editor at Nature and then New Scientist, she’s travelling the world looking at how climate change is affecting those most vulnerable to it. She’s already visited Indonesia, where natural forest is being cleared to accommodate our palm oil habit.
The second is from über blogger and ladies’ man James Alexander Sinclair, usually of Blogging from Blackpitts, who has begun (ok, a while ago now) with some mates a blog all about biscuits. Unsurprisingly, it’s called Encounters with Remarkable Biscuits. I’d recommend a nice cup of tea and a happy hour dipping into it.
The picture is of some blossom, which I’m beginning to think is all rather too ephemeral for my good mental health. You spend months anticipating the stuff, it arrives and, before you know it, it’s over, gathering in papery drifts on the pavement. That sounds like a lot of things, actually – a slice of Lemon Drizzle Cake being one. I’d post a picture, only it’s all gone.
2 comments