Ecology, Wales

Grass Roots Bio-Diversity.

Here’s a political picture: four man-made layers  — you just know it’s wrong.

From the top -- over-grazed, windfarm on peat-bog, desolate, monoculture pine forest and modern farming

From the top — over-grazed mountain; wind-farm on peat-bog; desolate, monoculture pine forest; mechanised farming

In contrast, the farmland we tend here in Wales is designated by the Government as 100% habitat (which is probably true of most places if you know what you are looking at) — but it’s official,  half our land is ‘oak and wild hyacinth’ — bluebell woods to you — ancient woodland that was felled after the war for pit-props for the economic recovery and grazed until 2006 when the Forestry Commission, with unusual wisdom, offered us a modest grant to replant and, more importantly, to exclude grazing for 15 years.

So for the last 8 years this land, nestling under the old hill fort has been spared the ravages of the hardy native sheep that we love but whose mission is deforestation. ????????????????????????????? I never understand why folk get so enthusiastic about protecting the bleak moorlands of this area that are scoured bare by unnatural numbers of hungry sheep when, if left to its own devices this land would be broad-leafed woodland bursting with wild flowers, song birds and little furry creatures!

Couldn't resist a little furry creature!

Couldn’t resist a little furry creature!

So here we are — our saplings, oak, hazel,rowan, aspen, alder, wild cherry and holly wrestle with self-sown birch and willow and the creeping shoots of blackthorn and hawthorn which insinuate themselves from the old hedgerows.   They were planted naturalistically (not in rows), not to confuse the tree counters from the ministry, that was inadvertent (a happy accident) but to give them a head start and to make the wild-life feel at home.  In the wet gulleys the alders are already 5 meters high in places.  I don’t like to embarrass them but they are sexually mature with lots of little cones, the rowan have berries and this year for the first time there are wild cherries!  Some of the oaks are taller than me (I sound like a parent) and in the spring and early summer the foliage on the new growth is bright red.

Red leaves on the new growth

Red leaves on the new growth

Our new old wood is very young and we will need to maintain the glades and open areas — it would be nice to re-introduce a charcoal burner or an oak tanner, sadly extinct, to maintain the woodland clearings  where the meadow-sweet can grow as it does now in the floor of our little dingle.

Imagine the vanilla perfume, the hum of bees and the tintinnabulatiion of the stream

Imagine the vanilla perfume, the hum of bees and the tintinnabulatiion of the hidden stream

Fruiting moss -- once harvested for florists - you sink into it like green snow.

Fruiting moss — once harvested for florists – you sink into it like green snow.

The land looks wild but cut back the undergrowth a little and you will find signs of quite sophisticated engineering from long ago, built by hand with shovel and river-stone.

Drainage culvert

Drainage culvert

And beware invaders when you clear ground; where we dug out a hidden culvert in the spring to unblock it and release the pond that had squatted along our track, we now have a bank of rose bay willow herb.

Rose Bay Willow Herb flourishes on any bare ground.

Rose Bay Willow Herb flourishes on any bare ground.

What amazes us is the variety of plants and animals that show themselves as the year progresses; every week the micro-landscape changes as the colours and shapes reflect the constantly changing balance within the ecosystem.  As taller plants like the ferns, the miriad tall grasses, the foxgloves, meadowsweet and the parsleys grow up and take the light,  the undergrowth of smaller plants, the mosses, shamrocks, wood anemones and bluebells, having flowered while they can  are obscurred and you have to wade, shoulder deep in a tangled profusion of humming, scented, sometime prickling, jungle.  The lushness and fertility of it all just knocks your socks off!

 

The other half of our land is ‘severely disadvantaged’ and ‘unimproved’ pasture (what a cheek!)  that we work hard to maintain without recourse to chemicals or artificial fertilizers — we hack down the bracken and dig out the gorse and cut the thistles just before they seed and we harrow the mole hills and we mend the fences and the sheep do the rest!

Sheep in the meadow -- once the orchisa have seeded.

Sheep in the meadow — once the orchids have seeded.

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Humour, lifestyle

Double, double toil and trouble.

Auspicious day? Yesterday I cleaned the house which must have unsettled everyone. Today I could feel it through my feet – bare feet, next to godly feet – feel the silky smoothness of the wooden floors, the springiness of the fluffed up carpet pile and…

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Bless the cats – a field mouse, just what I wanted for my birthday, but not as much as I wanted my breakfast. A bowl of muesli, topped with fruit-salad and —  go on, spoil yourself – some double cream. I’ll eat it in the sunshine.  So I popped it on the table outside the kitchen door but remembered the mouse (other members of the household are more squeamish than I), I picked it up by its tail, went out of the door and hurled the little body towards the overgrown bank (for the thrice mewing buzzard to eat)– not a very good delivery (sad in a cricketing family) – Splash. Luxury dead-mouse muesli!
You see I’d been reading Macbeth — so it was ordained and it set me thinking what else I should add to my birthday breakfast.
We live in Wales – so Dragon scales and it’s a classic recipe so
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog (all freely available),
I can get hemlock and yew,
but liver of blaspheming Jew?
‘That’s racist!’ interjects the spouse,
‘Just make do with mouse’.
Entrails of a cursing Celt
Would probably suffice –I felt

For offensive antiquary

Insert anathema contemporary

Nose of Turk will no longer work
A politician’s naval I’ll convert.
For Tartar’s lip — a grated betting slip,
Ear hair from a defrocked priest
would be in the spirit of the piece.
Gall of goat and sweat of stoat —
Microwaved in belly of python
And foamed up in a soda syphon…
…That should do it!

May Lambs and cats 014 Black cat

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Ecology

Time traveller’s guide to Mid-Wales

The sun is shining, a domestic cat is yowling to announce its slaughter of a grey squirrel which it is dragging through the tall undergrowth of grasses, foxgloves but, this year, no policemen’s helmets (that is carnival policemen — pink helmets of Himalayan balsam): its June 2014 — elementary.

All these factors give away the time — grey squirrels in Wales puts us somewhere in the last 120 years, foxgloves bloom in June when it usually rains, but not this year!   Balsam only arrived recently — another invader, I prefer the notion of a pioneer species — but it doesn’t like floods in autumn and spring and, by God, we did have those.  That’s narrowed it down, June 2014 and the bins are out in the lane — it’s a Tuesday — it’s today!  I knew that all along!

Foxgloves

Foxgloves

What I want to say is that, here, June is pink and purple with foxgloves and thistles and clover and orchids.  May was blue and white (bluebells and wood anemones, dancing in the breeze) heady with the perfume of the May flowers and April was yellow.  In July the valley floor will be cream and scented with meadow-sweet.  June is pink.

Orchid meadow

Orchid meadow

Fritillary butterflies flit between the thistles, the air bumbles with bees and hums with wing-beats — I never was aware of the sound of bird’s wing until we came here.  The pied wagtails have fledged and are sitting on the truck to avoid the cats — there are some feathers on the ground.  The sparrows in the eves and the house-martins under the gable are still chattering in their nests.  They say ‘any time now’.  There is plenty to eat — a good year for midges and the damsel flies fluoresce in flashes around the pond.

In bed at night with the windows flung wide, there is squeaking in the yard as the bats whizz around on silent wings — Good night.

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Relationships

All you need to know about female sexuality — for free.

‘How to get your man, and hang on to him,’  Or something like that – that’s what the smooth young man on the internet was promising to reveal if you registered on his site – ‘what you do that turns men off!’
Pin back your ears, Men. Here it comes! From the other side of the sexual divide – all you need to know about female sexuality – and it’s free.

878652598_1e76f15f2d_bDon’t worry about the science, it’s simple – women have two hormones – one called compliance hormone (which make her say ‘bless him – oh I do love him,’ when you say something dumb) and non-compliance hormone (which makes her say ‘That’s dumb!’ when you say something dumb). During her reproductive years the levels of these two hormones go up and down but compliance hormone is dominant for far more days than its brother – this is what makes marriage possible. The variations in these hormones are endlessly confusing to the male of the species. Some say it keeps him on his toes and maintains his interest. It is much simpler than that.
When there is a biological chance of pregnancy compliance hormone says ‘bless him – I do love him.’ When there isn’t, when conception has failed, non-compliance hormone says ‘God, you are irritating, why don’t you sling your hook and let someone else have a go.’ This is called pre-menstrual tension by men. Nature calls it sexuality and it makes life very difficult for some women and most men. It causes infidelity and makes life difficult for counsellors who try to help women decide what they want to do when what they want to do changes with the tides every two weeks each lunar month  (Note — doctors also think it’s more fun not to warn people that various drugs, contraceptives and aids to fertility mess with this system causing perplexing emotional turmoil.)
Not surprisingly women complain about these dramatic changes in their emotional settings… That is, they complain until the menopause when they become blissfully stable and go back to how they were when they were eleven – pretty un-compliant and free from the influence of compliance hormone. Then they complain about the lack of hormones and take HRT (hormone replacement therapy) – this is to avoid re-negotiating their marriage or getting divorced. The former would probably be best for everyone as divorce is distressing and men generally become more compliant and dependent upon their wives as they age due to slight waning in their I’m in charge hormone, sadly this is not the case in my own marriage but that’s another story.
All this evolved when sex was about dominance, about belonging to the strongest, richest, most aggressive man who could protect and inseminate a woman most efficiently – long before love was invented.

This is why it is so difficult for women to leave what we call abusive men – cave men. (note – I’m sure there is another, as yet unidentified, hormone — let’s call it extra-compliance factor, released in women after sex – a project for a PhD perhaps)
Lastly women are attracted to men that make them laugh – thank God for that at least, I hear you say. Laughter is all about dominance – did you not know that?  Big people tickle little people to let them know who’s in charge, little people giggle to show they understand.
Is it any wonder that sustaining a sexual relationship for any length of time is difficult.

Thanks to David Merrigan for his image of the Gerkin, London (cc-Attribution-Non Commercial) via flickr
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Bereavement, Metaphysical

Life is short —

Andy had enjoyed life and particularly paragliding so what better way to celebrate his life than for him to posthumously drag his unfit friends, one last time, up the steepest hill, have a few drinks then  jump off the top in tandem with an old friend.

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Advanced party

Canine support

Canine support

Time for refreshment.

Ready for one last turn around the valley

And so Andy’s ashes soared over the valley he loved and then were scattered on the mushroom field where he had  taken his friends for one last picnic and some quiet reflection.

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Andrew Stewart Pryce

21-5-50 — 4.12.13

What's it all about?

 

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Birds, Medical

Survival? Against All the Odds.

I didn’t see the accident — just the blood on the road as I swerved to miss her as she  staggered blindly in my way.  I stopped and the cars behind were already pulling out to overtake me,  I  switched on the hazard warning-lights, jumped out and ran back.

No one else stopped —  they hadn’t seen her — now she lay helpless in the gutter — I had to be quick or there would be another accident.

I could smell her blood, it was on my hands as I tried to hold her — steady her.  She struggled and kicked — there were two huge gashes on her head, I could see the bone, liquid was bubbling from one of her eyes and blood was coming from her nostrils, strangely the cars whizzed past, their drivers oblivious to the drama.

I had nothing with which to do anything.  I ran back to the car and found some carrier bags and the dog’s lead (no first aid kit of course) — anyway there was no time for that.  I tore the bags flat and wrapped her in them, swaddling the little duck like a baby and trussed her up with the dogs lead so that she would not injure herself any more — she calmed.  I lay her in the dark boot of the car wedging her in so she wouldn’t roll about then closed the lid.

Now I could have driven to town, to the vet — yes, she was  (and still is) a duck — a little mallard, hit by a car — well she probably flew into the moving vehicle — she was, is after all, female — but I did not.  I’ve seen the expression on their faces when you present them with a wild thing and I’ve paid the price!

No, I took her home.  My husband groaned and, once again, our wet-room came into it’s own.

?????????????????????????????Trying to walk, she repeatedly toppled over to the right but in the half light of the darkened shower room she settled and sat quietly all that day and all the next.  Nothing ate her.  She moved around a little but would not eat the slugs which I had collected for her and which climbed their slimy way circuitously to the ceiling , nor did she try the bread in water which she spilled, nor the caterpillars that pupated on the tap.

On the third day, she was thin, dehydrated and matted but walked more steadily and looked up at me as if she saw me.   We had to go away to a funeral the next day so first thing in the morning I carried her to our pond and put her down gently by its side.  All the way there she was looking from side to side  as if getting her bearings..  Next thing she topples forward and plop!  She’s in the water, she lowers her head so that the pond water flows into her beak and she takes a long cool drink and paddles off purposefully around the margin  of the pond.

Away to safety.

Away to safety.

On the far side she climbs out onto the bank under the muddy cliff where the water from the spring  runs down in a curtain.  She settles there washed by the tiny waterfall.

Next evening when we return she is still there.  She watches me throw bread on the water then stands up straight and flaps her wings two or three times to test them, shakes herself and settles down again.

Camouflaged.

Camouflaged.

 

Next morning the bread is gone and so is she, flown away or carried off by a fox.  But wait…

What's that?

What’s that?

There she is, sitting near the path, ready for breakfast.

Breakfast!

Breakfast!

We have a friend who is a farmer, when asked if he has to get up a lot in the night for his animals he says, ‘No, God does the night shift.’

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Wales

First Footprint in the Sand

It is exciting to discover the unexpected — that’s the marvel of Wales.  You can walk over a hill and stumble into the unexpected –not an upland bog but a Roman hill-fort,  a medieval rabbit warren, a bronze age settlement or simply an unbelievable view.  Often there is nothing on the map — many minor ancient monuments remain unknown or long forgotten.

Yesterday my daughter and I went to explore the Dysynni Valley where we knew there was a magic castle, now ruined, in what my daughter described when we got there as probably the most beautiful place she has ever been.  There is a sign from the road and a single information board at its entry which is a wooden kissing gate with no fasten, no attendant, no charge and no sign of any other visitors although we did come across two elderly couples coming down the path as we walked up.

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Castell-y-Bere was built by Prince Llewelyn ab Iorwerth (the great) in the 1220’s, it was captured by the English under King Edward I, from Llewelyn’s grandson (Llewelyn ap Gruffudd — pronounced Griffith– and not so great) in 1282 and later abandoned by the English after a considerable battering and a fire in about 1294 at the hands of Madoc ap Llewelyn.  It was never very practical as it could not be supplied by sea.

The views are stunning.  There is a wide flat valley where one can imagine the sea coming into the estuary and washing the lower ramparts  and breaking against the nearby tall sea cliffs — but this was not the case —  the sea had long gone even then but the birds that nested on this rocky coast have always remained.

Bird Rock

Bird Rock

Yesterday, as we looked up at Craig yr Aderyn, Bird Rock, towering nearby, there was only one thing we bold explorers could do in the spring sunshine perfumed by may blossom  — we had to climb from the castle mound to the top of the ancient sea-cliff to look down.

We passed not a single human, there were no signs and no restrictions, only one love-lorn chaffinch singing most beautifully to its mate in the tree above and so absorbed that he was oblivious to us and our dog.

?????????????????????????????Further up the path the hardy sheep were not so amenable, they stamped their feet aggressively at Pedro on his best behavior and on a lead and when one of these ginger-footed psycho-sheep found itself separated from the rest it squawked like  the eponymous creature of the rock…  Then lost its nerve and ran behind an outcrop to hide.

Psycho-sheep

Psycho-sheep

????????????????????????????? After an 850 foot climb we were on top of the world, looking down.  We saw the sun sinking  towards the sea in Cardigan Bay — a bird’s eye view of the valley.

Cormorants stand on the highest outcrops of the cliff face stretching out their wings to dry in the evening sun, this is their only inland nesting site in Wales.  We can look down on circling gulls and strain our eyes to pick out the red beaks of the choughs (pronounced chuffs — shiny black crows with finger-tipped wings, red down-turned beaks and red legs). This is one of their rare nesting sites, a place where the sheep graze down the sward and no-one kills the insects — just how they like it.  Here they wing their way around the crags throughout the year having aerial skirmishes with gulls and swooping down to bounce off the side of the steep hill.

As we came down, picking our way over a bank of stones which meanders around the side of the summit farthest from the valley we remarked that it looked like a fallen dry stone wall, but then there were two larger mounds of haphazard stone — perhaps not entirely haphazard —  we can see courses, still just discernable in the heap — a tumble down watch tower perhaps — there you go again — ?????????????????????????????first footprint in the sand…  Turns out there were two — towers, not footprints!.

 

 

 

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Wales

Hiraeth

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 Hiraeth — one of the most important words in the Welsh language yet without an exact equivalent in English — that says it all really.

An Englishman would say homesickness — a negative feeling that unsettles you and stops you doing your job properly.  In the Celtic vernacular hiraeth is a sense of incompleteness tinged with longing — it embodies the spirit, the beauty of the landscape and the belonging.

It is that feeling we have at dusk, in the bluebell wood — it is love — it is God —  it is home.

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Ecology

A Miracle? That’s what we need.

It is an apparition — a visitation — something from beyond our world — or perhaps from a time long gone —  extinct in Wales for decades, centuries — usually only seen with the dragons and griffons on coats of arms drawn long ago.  It is the Welsh fish-hawk, gweilch y pysgod,  hovering once more over the shallow waters and mud flats of the Dovey (Dyfi) estuary: an osprey.SONY DSCThe strenuous attempts of local, national and international ornithologists have been successful in luring back a single pair of nesting ‘fish eagles’ to a  muddy, midgey corner of Wales.  The female now sits on an untidy nest on a man-made platform at the top of a very tall pole.  They have returned from West Africa, where they migrate, to breed and lay their eggs.  She incubates them while fed by her mate who fishes in the waters around.  She looks out, moving her head jerkily to scan for intruders and all the while the CCTV mounted on the nearby pole scans her — recording her every movement and the visits of the male and those of the little train that clatters past every hour, around the water’s edge on its way to and from the university town of Aberystwyth.  Students on the train, often of natural sciences, know she is there and point her out to fellow travelers.

The nest is a place of pilgrimage — a birdy shrine.  Birdy folk come, they walk the half mile along the new board-walk to the soft-wood cathedral in the marsh — the new observation tower.

From the weather proof lounge at the top they can divest themselves of their long distance lenses and state-of-the-art cameras and unwrap their sandwiches.  There is a telescope fixed on the precise spot and, once you know it is there, you can indeed just see the nest platform with the naked eye and once you get the image home and magnify it — bingo:

The live-feed from the CCTV is excellent (you can view it online) — displayed on wide screens in the cathedral and at journey’s end — the gift shop.  It is also transmitted to the hide near the car park  for those who cannot make the pilgrimage along the board-walk through the peaceful marsh where only the dim twitter of warblers and reed bunting reminds us that this is a habitat — a sanctuary for birds — you can’t blame the usual inhabitants for keeping their heads down today — there is an osprey about!.

Thanks to Montgomeryshire Wildlife Trust for their permission to show photographs Creative Commons License   taken from their live feed.  View the birds yourself at http://www.montwt.co.uk

Dovey Estuary

Dovey Estuary

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Hill Farming, Lyrical, Sheep

A strange, still wind

Crow craw and jack-daw puncture the sound-scape of hills and meadows – aerial battle resounds – broadsides ricochet in the pale sky above the passerine chit-chat and base-line baas of our valley.

A new chord rises – the dog points, ears pricked, and sniffs.

A strange, still wind?

Rumble of some terrible upheaval?

Discord?

Birds pause. Listen!

It rises from the supernatural, our eternal underworld – louder – voices more distinct — celestial choir – angel voices.

Twenty-five thousand souls look up from grazing and acknowledge their lord, each with a different note from the human range – angel range.

Audible crescendo from three miles away — each note swelling with excitement, a wave of emotion to touch the very core…   Now the melody is with the base – diesel baritone — and percussion over the cattle grid.

Lambs2014 009gambolling

 

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