Shrewdunnit: The Nature Files

Advance praise for Shrewdunnit

A wonderful collection by a gifted and thoughtful writer: a delight both to dip into and reread for insight and enjoyment…

Jonathan Elphick, author of Birds: The Art of Ornithology

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 Mcdonald, author of H is for Hawk

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’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

Shrewdunnit is a delightful read, wonderfully crafted by a writer and naturalist at the top of his game. Conor Jameson takes us through the seasons in his own inimitable way, introducing us to an array of wild characters, at home and abroad. This is a lovely book, something to dip into at leisure or, as I did, to read cover to cover in just a few days. It’s a must have for anyone with a passion for the countryside and an appreciation of great writing.

Iolo Williams, author of Wild About the Wild

Conor is a man who hears cuckoos breathing. That should tell you all you need to know about this book. For most people, hearing that bird’s unforgettable spring call would be thrill enough, but Conor’s unquenchable curiosity is satisfied only by getting closer, seeing more and understanding better than your average wildlife enthusiast. And in Shrewdunnit, we reap the rewards. Like a magpie, Conor has collected an assortment of stories that sparkle with insight, imagination and affection. Nothing escapes his all-seeing eyes, whether it’s in his garden (which is a veritable hotbed of murder, sex and violence), Kings Cross station or a park in Berlin. It’s almost as if the wildlife chooses to reveal itself to Conor’s appreciative gaze. Adventurous water shrews, troubled common lizards, neurotic blackbirds and devil-may-care stoats all put on private performances for him. And through his stories, we are privileged to share them.

Sophie Stafford, former editor of BBC Wildlife Magazine

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. In Shrewdunnit, Conor has written a book of great charm and variety – from day-to-day observations of common species throughout the year to the defence of vultures and the beleaguered migrating birds of Cyprus, from Conor’s own English garden to his work in New Zealand, the Seychelles, Italy, Berlin and Cyprus, he involves us delightfully with his thoughts on a dazzling array of subjects and species while making the case powerfully for the importance of the preservation and restoration of an astonishing catalogue of species and habitats. Equally delightfully, the book is scattered with excellent advice on gardening, hedge planting, creating ponds and providing everything necessary to attract and look after birds – including how to turn an old football into a robin’s nest. More than this though, the book gives an awe-inspiring insight into the work done by those who like Conor, work for organizations such as the RSPB – you cannot read it without a sense of gratitude.

Esther Woolfson, author of Field Notes from a Hidden City

Conor Mark Jameson

Conor Mark Jameson has written for the Guardian, BBC Wildlife, the Ecologist, New Statesman, Africa Geographic, NZ Wilderness, British Birds, Birdwatch and Birdwatching magazines and has been a scriptwriter for the BBC Natural History Unit. He is a columnist and feature writer for the RSPB magazine, and has worked in conservation for 20 years, in the UK and abroad. He was born in Uganda to Irish parents, brought up in Scotland, and now lives in England, in a village an hour north of London. His first book, Silent Spring Revisited, was published in 2012 and his second, Looking for the Goshawk, in 2013, both by Bloomsbury.

He is a recent recipient of a Roger Deakin Award from the Society of Authors. When not campaigning for a better, safer planet, and writing sketches such as those you find here, he tries to find time to tinker with shrubs, and look for goshawks in a variety of habitats.

Photograph copyright © Sara Evans

Shrewdunnit

The Nature Files

Conor Mark Jameson

Pelagic Publishing

Shrewdunnit: The Nature Files

Published by Pelagic Publishing

www.pelagicpublishing.com

PO Box 725, Exeter, EX1 9QU, UK

978-1-907807-76-3 (Hbk)

978-1-907807-75-6 (Pbk)

978-1-907807-77-0 (ePub)

978-1-907807-78-7 (Mobi)

Text and illustrations copyright © 2014 Conor Mark Jameson

All rights reserved. No part of this document may be produced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher.

While every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the information presented, the information contained in this book is sold without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Pelagic Publishing, its agents and distributors will be held liable for any damage or loss caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Jacket artwork by Delphine Lebourgeois

www.delphinelebourgeois.com

This one’s for Mum

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Introduction

Southern Solstice

January

February

March

Northward Equinox

April

May

June

Northern Solstice

July

August

September

Southward Equinox

October

November

December

Organisations mentioned in this book

Bibliography

Index

Preface

Recently, I found a rare gem of a book in the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) library. It’s called The Vertebrate Fauna of Bedfordshire, by J. Steele-Elliott. It was published in 1901, and just 150 copies were printed, which may say something about the niche this precious little record occupied then. This copy is number 77, issued and signed over to Howard Saunders, Esq. (who may have later donated it to the library) by the author himself. ‘Bedfordshire in the hands of the Zoologist has received less attention than almost any other county,’ it notes in the preface.

The book is full of revealing old records of species found here then, some of them long gone. I love that corncrakes – or land rails, as they were then known – disturbed the author’s sleep as he camped by the River Great Ouse here at my village. ‘I was kept awake a considerable time by one so vociferous, that it caused me to seek an interview; it was found perched on top of a tall hawthorn hedge, to which, much to my disgust, after being disturbed it soon after returned.’

He may not have guessed that a century later the land rail would be unknown not only in the village but in the county, and indeed virtually all of mainland Britain. Had he done so, he might have been more forgiving of its antisocial, nocturnal raspings.

Tis like a fancy every where

A sort of living doubt

We know tis something but it ne’er

Will blab the secret out.

John Clare, from The Landrail

Steele-Elliott, needless to say, had the best of intentions with his book. ‘In conclusion,’ he writes, ‘let me hope that in making these notes public they may promote a further interest in the study of Natural History within the county, and if possible to kindle the flame of such knowledge...’

I feel I’m carrying that sputtering flame now, a hundred years or more later. Mr Steele-Elliott is one of the guiding spirits through this journal, along with W.H. Hudson, John Clare, Rachel Carson and others. I will be comparing notes with these luminaries and others as I go along.

Today, this part of the village is essentially just one long street, off the A1 (the Great North Road of Roman times), with houses from many periods lining it on both sides, punctuated with working farms, and laced with mature trees. It’s separated from the church end of the village, close to the junction of the rivers, by the A1. We have woodland, parkland, sheep, cows, horses, chickens, ponds, old walls, churches, pubs that are now houses, ditto blacksmiths and tanneries, crops, scruffy pastures, hedgerows and spinneys.

The house I live in is semi-detached, the last before the open fields. It has generous garden space, front and rear. Beyond, there are a few more farms and then the railway. The station was closed, as many stations were, in the 1960s. There is a level crossing which takes the walker or cyclist across the tracks to a fork in the road, both leading to more farms and dead ends to vehicular traffic. There are then bridleways, and the disused airfield, a secret place in World War II, used back then for flying spies and supplies to the Low Countries in the dead of night. Beyond that is the greensand ridge – our local uplands – whereon the RSPB has its headquarters at The Lodge, Sandy.

This book is about everyday, lowland Britain, and forms a record of some of the things I’ve done in my garden and on mostly short – but some longer – trips that involve wild nature, and captures some of my thoughts about them. I hope the reader can connect with some of the things I describe, and can enjoy a similar connection with nature in everyday life – if this isn’t the case already – wherever they are.

CMJ

Bedfordshire

Spring 2014

Acknowledgements

I am sure that hundreds of friends and colleagues have shared in or contributed in some way to the files in Shrewdunnit. These are just a few, and I thank you all.

Carry Akroyd, Cliff Andrews, Umberto Albarella, Brigid Allen, Elizabeth Allen, Rainer Altenkamp, Guy Anderson, Sue Ansell, Mark Avery, John Barrett, Neil Barton, Richard Bashford, Alfredo Begazo, Chris Bettles, Dorothy Bettles, Mont Bettles, Tim Birkhead, Lynn Blackadder, Richard Bodmer, Chris Bowden, Rachel Bristol, Richard Bradbury, John Brown, Catherine Buchanan, Peter Buchanan, Abi Bunker, Dan Burnstone, Carles Carboneras, Pete Carroll, Clare Chadderton, Chipangura Chirara, Dan Clark, Paulina Clark, Mark Cocker, Paula Cocozza, Martin Collinson, Dominic Crawford Collins, Jason Cowley, Rob Cunningham, Steve Dakin, Ian Dawson, Paul Donald, Euan Dunn, Tommy Durcan, Mark Eaton, Jonathan Elphick, Aniol Esteban, Sara Evans, John Fanshawe, James Fair, Andre Farrar, Viktar Fenchuk, Rob Field, Graeme Gibson, Gillian Gilbert, Stephen Gosling, Jenny Green, Richard Gregory, Emma Griffiths, Mark Gurney, Rachel Hammond, Sandra Hanks, Martin Harper, Sheena Harvey, Katya Hauptlorenz, Malcolm Henderson, Alison Hibberd, Richard Hines, Ben Hoare, Deirdre Hume, Rob Hume, Robert Hume, Lizzie Infield, Richard James, Kathleen Jameson, Kevin Jameson, Shelley Jofre, Lynne Myfanwy Jones, Rosamund Kidman Cox, Andrew Kitchiner, Marcus Kohler, Giles Knight, Clive Knott, Lars Lachmann, Rob Lambert, John Lammie, Clark Lawrence, Richard Lawrence, Linda Lear, Christopher Lever, Ceri Levy, Toni Llobet, Vladimir Malashevich, Mick Marquiss, Stephen Mason, Nigel Massen, Teresa McCormack, Bob McGowan, Duncan McNiven, Gary Melville, Jeanie Messenger, Suzy Mills, Alec Milne, Patrick Minne, Heather Mitchell, Allison Moorhead, Isabel Moorhead, Stephen Moss, Ian Newton, Tom Newman, Derek Niemann, Barry Nightingale, Ben Norman, Stacia Novy, Martin Oake, Old Frank, Val Osborne, John O’Sullivan, Kieron Palmer, David Payne, Adar Pelah, David Pennington, Juliet Pennington, Giovanna Pisano, Rebecca Porter, Richard Porter, Amanda Proud, Eric Pyle, Sarah Richards, Roger Riddington, Ian Robertson, Norrie Russell, Cinthya Rynaby, Chris Rollie, Steve Rowland, Norbert Schaffer, Nirmal Jivan Shah, Edith Shaw, Innes Sim, Martin Sreeves, Robin Standring, Rowena Staff, Sophie Stafford, Lucy Stenbeck, Sue Steptoe, Jim Stevenson, Caroline Stroud, Dan Sturdy, Sylvia Sullivan, Jose Tavares, Nat Taylor, Russell Thomson, Martin Todd, Ralph Underhill, Alan Vaughan, Jo-Anne Vaughan, Terence Vel, Pat Vesey, Ray Badger Walker, Patrick Walsh, Joshua Wambugu, Mark Ward, Alice Ward-Francis, Bobby White, Ellen Williams, Graham Wilton-Jones, Marie Winn, Richard Winspear, Sam Wollaston, Derek Yalden, Matthew A. Young.

Thanks also to BBC Wildlife magazine, Birds magazine (now Nature’s Home), Birdwatch, Birdwatching, the Guardian, New Statesman, the Ecologist, British Birds.

To the Whitbread family and Southill estate staff for kind permission to repeat the historic 50-year nesting survey.

And thanks especially to Sara, for all your love and support, again.

Foreword

What I like about Conor and his books is his obvious liking for people, and his determination to enjoy their company and their knowledge, be they the people next door, local farmers, writers, artists, or high-ranking scientists. You only have to look at the names – and the number of them – in his acknowledgements.

Being with Conor – out and about or in the office – keeps you on your mettle. He asks a lot of questions, seeks whatever he can winkle out that might be of use or interest to him. But he always gives you more in return. An hour outside, or a few minutes chatting over coffee, is usually enough to get you thinking for days.

Conor also pays homage to many past authors, the sort of writers and naturalists that others too easily forget: there have been many great communicators before, and I’m delighted that Conor is inspired by them, and quick to say so.

His observations often concern wild creatures that are fast disappearing, but he rarely admits to being depressed: he remains determinedly upbeat and optimistic, in the main. And he writes a good deal about conservation successes, too, and the people who can take credit for them. But most of all he writes about his own place in the scheme of things – the way he creates a new hedge, or a pond, how he engages with local people, how he finds things out, learns to identify what he sees and then goes on to find out that bit more – that important bit more, beyond mere naming of the animals, farther than most of us generally go. And, as you will see when you read this book, he just writes supremely well, so often crafting a phrase, a sentence, or a passage, that makes the reader think ‘I wish I could write like that’. I wish I could.

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

Introduction

As I’m sitting down to write this, the sky is cloudless on the May Day bank holiday weekend. I’m aching satisfactorily from a day in the garden yesterday, dawn till dusk attending to odd jobs and ongoing maintenance. I can see badger scat on the grass below, beyond the bird bath and the clump of cowslips. The ash trees are sending out their buds in the front hedge. Wisteria flowers graze the windowsill in front of me, their petals pecked in places by birds. The pair of house sparrows probably responsible are mating in the hedgerow, close to the rusty tin pot in which they are both building a nest; although the receptacle was intended for robins.

Author Jay Griffiths is on the radio, talking about the issues around modern-day Western children’s disconnection from nature and wildness. Looking across the road beyond the hedge to the play area opposite, I become aware that the bird chasing flies among the molehills and dandelions is a yellow wagtail. I reach for the binoculars and watch it more closely, to admire its slender, lemon-coloured head and tapering body and its flicking tail. Another returning migrant has made it back. I heard the first of them calling overhead a couple of days ago, and am pleased to get a closer look at this one, which has stopped off for a replenishing snack.

Yesterday, on a short bike ride, I flushed a turtle dove near the disused airfield, back to one of its few remaining haunts in the county. I was thrilled, relieved and surprised to see it. I also got a rare view of not just one but two nightingales that I surprised near the spinney, which has been a traditional site for them, just along the road. I can hear them from bed, though for some reason I couldn’t hear any song from them last night in the hours before dawn and before the blackbirds and the robins started up.

Beyond the play area is a huge field growing grass, with a pheasant’s head and neck just visible within it. To the right of that is a crop of oilseed rape, already a blanket of custard yellow, mirroring the wagtail and the dandelions, on an industrial scale. The bird scarer bangs out its regular salvo warning to the woodpigeons, and none take off in response. Rooks commute to and from their colony in roadside oaks and poplars to the west, languid against the blue. The occasional swallow races through. The house martins are as yet unaccounted for, missing in action. I’m very conscious of their absence from the avian traffic. A buzzard surges upward, circling higher, wings raised above the horizontal as though in exaltation. I wouldn’t have seen that when I first moved here.

This book is about getting back to – and in among – nature, while remaining within sight of suburbia. In my case, this means the twinkling lights of the Fallowfield new-build estate on the southern horizon, which let me know that the small A1-spliced town of Sandy is advancing steadily north across green space towards my tiny village. A bit like the posse that tracked Butch and Sundance, day and night. Only slower. I hope. ‘Who are those guys…?’

I found the poems in the fields,

and only wrote them down.

John Clare

Southern Solstice

Chapter One

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 weather-proof 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