tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53036421317613465772024-03-05T15:13:44.877+00:00Garden65Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-87717670022613505202016-06-23T17:08:00.001+01:002016-06-25T13:45:02.006+01:00Unseen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had an erotic dream about Chris Packham the other night. You know it's Springwatch time when you dream of Chris Packham. Not that in my waking hours I particularly yearn for the man. To be honest I'm probably past such things. <br />
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I am currently reading his autobiography, so I think what happened was my dreaming mind simply worked its chthonic evil on the nearest male who came to mind. Thank goodness I'm not reading anything by Jeremy Clarkson.<br />
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Also Packham's book is an extremely immersive read. His descriptions of his relationship with nature when he was a child are very detailed, and yes, even sensuous. I'm sure you've already heard about the tadpole eating. What is striking a cord with me is that his story plays out in the 1970s in a city suburb. My childhood was more protected than his so I didn't go looking for foxes in the middle of the night by myself, or anything adventurous like that, but I remember my encounters with nature being confined to parks and pet shops, and day trips to the nearest forest only when my parents were feeling happy enough to make the effort.<br />
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The theme of finding nature in an urban environment is one I'm trying to explore in this blog. So, inspired by my object of affection I've written a description of one of my walks in my local area. What I'm trying to do is to show how a person (like me) engages with, in this case, plants, set within the context of city life. It is about the inner dialogue that accompanies such encounters.<br />
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I've also recently finished a book called 'If Women Rose Rooted'. A good title that in my opinion didn't deliver. It is about eco-feminism, a subject I'll lap up, but the author irritated me. She wrote a lot of words about her cottage in rural Ireland, then her croft on some remote island in Scotland, threw in bland retellings of Celtic myths, and finally declared if all women lived like this and knew these stories the world would be saved. Erm. I absolutely agree, as I've said before, its the artists who will stop environmental destruction, but stories about princesses on white horses retold by women with money enough to live where the majority of people can't isn't the answer. <br />
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So this following bit of writing also looks at the possibility of finding magic and imagination in the natural world of a suburb.<br />
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I went to a café, with ideas of writing. The coffee there is weak, and the teacakes cloying, but I like the look of the place. It is dark, peopled with old brown furniture, is bare floored, and one wall is Costa red, a comforting colour. Buying a tepid cup of coffee-flavoured milk is the rent I’m willing to pay to sit for a while in a space that matches my inner imaginative world. The fit, however is as thin as the froth on the cappuccino. I should be wearing something vintage bought on EBay, or at least a cardigan I had knit myself. Instead my costume includes walking boots and sweat-wicking nylon tops. The plan was to go for a walk after this creative interlude. <br />
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An inspirational location is not enough though. The words didn’t flow. Dissatisfaction hammered away at the fragile belief in my writing abilities, so I abandoned the attempt, angry.<br />
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It was raining, so I walked under an umbrella. The aim was to walk for a couple of hours; just to walk really. There was a route and a destination – a particular Elder tree by the Mersey – but with a day to fill and an ageing body to maintain it wasn’t an expedition more than an attempt to impart meaning and purpose to an otherwise empty day. <br />
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The river was flowing fast, left to right, brown, looking like a better coffee than the one I’d just had. Hogweed and cow parsley were flowering tall on its banks. Sparkling raindrops caught in their umbels like diamonds. They were beautiful. This is my element. I may have aspirations of cultural fluency, but the reality is probably less glamorous (or lucrative). I’m at home amongst plants, under the sky, with mud under my fingernails. It’s a shame: I live in a city. <br />
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The work began. Like a hunter I paced along the river bank focussing hard on the mass of plants on either side of the footpath. What hadn’t I seen before? What can I take from them? The instinct of the natural-dyer kicked in. Those hogweed seeds looked like they could produce a colour. I don’t know why I thought that. None of the natural-dye handbooks say they would. This is what happens when I’m with the plants. I don’t want to say they talk to me. Of course not. Perhaps there are well-worn pathways between particular neurons in my brain that like to connect stuff I’ve read and forgotten with the plant I see. Yes, that’s it. There is a simple neurological explanation to my fixation. Not a spiritual one at all. <br />
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While I was twisting off the wide hogweed seed heads and stuffing them in a 5p plastic bag a young man came along with his dog. All sense of joyful freedom vanished. How embarrassing. A middle-aged woman doing something weird. I live in a city. I know this is abnormal behaviour. It is not noble. I feel grubby. In my head I rehearse the story I’m going to give him when he asks what I’m doing. I’ve learnt saying I’m a school teacher collecting material for a school project is the most acceptable answer. I prepare the reassuring smile. He has seen me. He talks to his dog, covering up the awkward encounter. And decides to walk in the opposite direction. What a relief.<br />
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I carried on plundering the river banks. There is a large area of bistort, spikes of pale pink flowers, long heart-shaped leaves. They too go into the plastic bag. I later find out they produce absolutely no colour, and are so astringent the cloth is bleached almost white. Curious. The books say there is dye in plantain, so I harvest some leaves, including a couple of unusually big plantago major leaves. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bistort</td></tr>
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Don’t get the idea I know what all the plants are that I come across. The combination of a terrible memory and a casual approach to learning means I haven’t a clue what most of them are. I annoy myself. While I walk there is a constant chatter of ‘what’s that?’. A rummage round my fuzzy brain usually comes up with ‘dunno’ as an answer. This year I’m going to remedy that. It’s the Year of Botany. <br />
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My inner plant hunter spotted a delicate yellow flower. It’s a vetch, member of the pea family, but which one? Crouching down I took some pictures of it with my phone. They won’t be in focus and I don’t know what morphological features are used to identify plants, so it’s a matter of getting the little machine as close to the flowers and leaves as it will go and pressing the onscreen circle with the hope something useful gets captured. I’m ill prepared as usual. A proper botanist would use a proper camera and make field notes and take samples for her herbarium. It seems I’m not fully committed to this learning. I don’t know why. I think it’s because I’m aware I should be in an office working, earning enough to pay taxes, to pay for my membership of society. If I do things half-heartedly it signals my guilt at having all this free time. I’m an adult who doesn’t work. I don’t have a right to spend all the hours of a weekday doing what I want to do, if it doesn’t bring in money.<br />
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Walking closely along the bank of plants my trousers got wetter and wetter from the rain laden sprays of leaves hanging over the path. The plastic bag was now full of limp specimens. Tiny insects escaped out from the bag and crawled over my hand. My white hair was wet because I kept putting the umbrella down to take more photos. I thought my socks were wet too. Kneeling in front of a small crucifer I sensed people nearby. I got cross again and embarrassed at being seen. When I got up I realised they were a Chinese couple having a hard time restraining a huge dog. I don’t know if it was me they were frightened of or their dog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small crucifer</td></tr>
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Eventually I got nearer the Elder tree. I knew she was just round the next bend in the river. I first met her when I was walking from the opposite direction on another similar day. She is half broken. Her main trunk is high on a bank but it has split and a large branch now leans over the footpath. When I saw her the familiar plant instinct kicked in. I remembered there is a lot of superstition around the elder tree. Judas was apparently hanged from an elder. But, on a lighter theme, in Harry Potter a powerful wand was made from elder wood. I snapped off some dead twigs and took them back home. Just felt it was the right thing to do. Later Googling revealed an ancient Germanic goddess called Holda was said to live in the tree. During Yule she leads the Wild Hunt on a wagon drawn by animals of the forest (squirrels?!). She is the Elder Mother, the goddess of housewives. That’s why I was going back to visit her. To say hello to some sympathetic magic.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holda</td></tr>
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A handful of old trees are sharing the bank she grows from. As per, I don’t know what they are, maybe beech because their trunks are smooth. They are so tall and wide I wonder how long they have been there. Were they part of a field boundary? No one sees them now. No authorities that might protect them. I spotted a faint animal-wide path up the bank to the foot of one of them. I checked no one was about to see me then scrambled up. I still gripped the plastic bag, and I was worried about falling back, so it was an ungainly climb. Standing, squished next to the tree I looked up the length of the trunk. There is a whole world in tree canopies that is totally unknown by humans. Tentatively I put a hand on the trunk to feel the life of the tree. Once again looking around to make sure I was unseen I self-consciously gave the tree a hug. There was no great revelation. I can’t say I communed with any divine spirit, or whatever is supposed to happen when you hug a tree. I did, though, have the sense that this monolithic grey mass was a living being. It wasn’t the same as hugging an inanimate stone. There must be some meaning in that. <br />
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A woman runner appeared below us. I hid behind the tree to protect her. I didn’t want her to have a fright on seeing a white-haired woman looking down at her with her arms round a tree and an apologetic grin on her face. On then wondering how I was going to get down I noticed behind me, on the other side of the bank, was an overgrown field. Getting to it would involve the same wobbly effort at climbing but there was a place I hadn’t been to before so I had to do it.<br />
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The field was like entering a long lost world, a scene from a spooky film. There were two rusting football goals, and the grasses were about five foot tall. I had to work my way through them without seeing where I was heading. When I did emerge I saw a large mass of silverweed growing near the farthest goalpost. I have never seen as much. Normally there are one or two small individuals eking out a living on a footpath, but this was a whole field of luxuriant silvery leaves. They would have been a perfect flooring for a scene in a fairy tale. The avaricious plant hunter in me noted this then got down to stuffing the bag with silverweed and taking wonky photos. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carpet of Silverweed</td></tr>
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Yet alongside the feelings of amazement and excitement where thoughts of caution. The area was surrounded by dark woodland. One side was the high bank I had come from. Another was a graffiti covered shed. This wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. This was an urban brownfield site. People must be nearby. While I picked the silverweed I was rehearsing in my head how I’d defend myself if anyone appeared and said I shouldn’t be taking them. A bit further in I discovered two deserted tennis courts. Weeds were growing from cracks in the asphalt. I went in through the creaking metal gates to look for weld which likes to grow in rocky places. I was nervous because I realised I was in a dangerous position. It wasn’t beyond the realms of likelihood that I could be attacked. I was a lone woman. No one would see my dead body, or think to look for me here if I was missing. I didn’t know where I was. A constant thought for women walking alone, anywhere, is ‘can I see a man?’, ‘does he look dangerous?’.<br />
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Judging I’d pushed my luck, and feeling spooked, I thought it best to leave. I didn’t want to attempt the bank again, so took a thin muddy path through the woodland on the edge of the tennis courts. It emerged out into civilisation: the end of a cul-de-sac of prosperous houses. How strange that such order should be backed by wildness. The plant hunter had to stand down now, to be replaced by more appropriately urban orientation skills. Using clues like the width of the road and the absence of wheelie bins I navigated out of the housing estate until a familiar road appeared. Then I began the trudge home.<br />
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I was conscious of my wet trousers, clumping walking boots, flattened hair, and bag full of leaves and scarpering insects. The look wasn’t street smart. It was only a minor concern though. I was thinking so much about the unexpected discovery of the magical hidden place, and what I’d do with the plants I’d found, that I walked in a daze, not really looking both ways when crossing the road. <br />
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I hope the Elder Mother didn’t mind I didn’t get to say hello, but then maybe she sent me, just before I got to her, into the silver field. The whole encounter was a potent mix of history and nature. I am driven to react to them, to fall down a long path of questions. I don’t know why I do it. How has my life turned out this way? I don’t understand. <br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-76761589898644685462016-06-10T14:54:00.000+01:002016-06-10T15:00:20.205+01:00Insect Sex<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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(I wonder what kind of spam that title will attract)<br />
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I have two tales of insect sex, or shall we more poetically call it insect romance, one rather comical, one surprisingly lyrical.<br />
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The above couple are <strong>Green Dock Beetles. </strong>The humble dock plant is their preferred arena for matters of an adult nature, and the resultant offspring, as larvae, spend their childhoods munching holes in the leaves. However, those with more exotic tastes are turned on by rhubarb, so if your rhubarb leaves change from thumping great umbrellas to fine lacy hankies you know who to blame, and who's been doing what.<br />
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During the breeding season the female's abdomen expands with eggs, and she becomes a more voluptuous form of her normal self. (Notice the Latin binomial name, Gastrophysa viridula, says something about 'green belly') Luckily for her the male likes something to grab hold off and is quite happy to expend his efforts on the larger lady.<br />
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The eggs are laid on the underside of the leaf. In less than a week they hatch into larvae. There are three instar phases (with presumably this flashy badger version below being the last) then they drop to the ground and pupate. For about a week they turn to mush, reform and finally emerge to start the whole cycle over again. <br />
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Green Dock Beetle sex may have the aura of a seaside postcard, but that of the <strong>Tephritis neesii</strong> fly(poor things don't seem to have a common name) is more highbrow, more balletic. </div>
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The other day I spotted these two tiny flies dancing delicately on the leaf of an ox-eye daisy in Garden65. </div>
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The dance involved waving each wing separately in a sweeping arc over the back. It somehow reminded me of the dying swan in the Swan Lake ballet. An eloquent expression of exquisite emotion.</div>
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Isn't it amazing? It went on for over half an hour. Makes you wonder why a small and insignificant creature would go to such lengths to attract a mate. Don't insects just jump on (or present rump to) the nearest insect of the opposite sex? Seems not. <br />
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The more you think about it the more you go down the rabbit hole of questioning our significance in the natural world. We think we are the only sentient beings, but anyone who has a pet knows that is probably not true. Watching these tiny creatures communicating with each other with such focus and dedication brought up thoughts about the dimensions and depth of the universe. Indeed the musings got quite mathematical. We assume our the scale of our world is the true measure of things, but what if the insect world is the baseline, and the reality we inhabit is just one larger distortion?<br />
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<em>Quod est inferius est sicut quod est superius</em><br />
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One last thought: the little fly dance also reminded me of a fan dance. So perhaps their courtship rituals are just as earthy as the Green Dock Beetle's.<br />
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*****<br />
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The following section is not as racy as the previous. It's a bit geeky to be honest. So if you only here for the sex you don't have to read any further. I'd quite understand.<br />
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The nameless dancing flies are just as picky as the big bellied green beetles when it comes to choosing plants to lay their eggs on. These guys prefer ox-eye daisies, or at a push other daisy-like plants in the Asteraceae family. In this case it's not the leaves that interest them, but the unopened flower buds.<br />
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At this point we go down into the world of the miniscule. When hatched the larvae mine into the bottom part of the flower where the petals and stamens and bits and pieces are developing, preventing the proper form of the flower from growing. The adults also eat the seeds before they get blown away.<br />
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Lets have a think about that. What are the particular nutrients they need for growth that exist only there in that small space that cannot be found on any other part of this plant, or flower of any other species? Or is the issue more about an evolutionary niche that the nameless flies have managed to find where there is no competition from other insects? Dunno.<br />
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So I went back to the patch where I'd originally seen the dancing flies. <br />
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Has this flowerhead with little stumpy ray florets been visited by our friends?<br />
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This is it cut open:<br />
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Maybe those black bits are signs of munching.<br />
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But wait .... what's that little insect lying prostrate on the paper, victim of my hacking?<br />
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We'll take a closer look <br />
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Doesn't look like a larvae. Maybe he's an even tinier fly.<br />
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And so we come full circle - everyone is at it. Wherever you look creatures are mating, hatching, having awkward adolescences, eating, and dancing some more.Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-18584851917279185212016-05-02T17:38:00.002+01:002016-05-02T17:39:46.729+01:00What It's Really All About<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last Sunday I set the alarm for 4.15 am. When it went off I can't say I jumped out of bed with any great enthusiasm. In fact I turned over and firmly drew the duvet over my ears, but then I realised it was now or never, this moment only comes once a year, so I had to get up.<br />
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The First of May was International Dawn Chorus Day, when you go out at dawn and listen to the wonder of all the little birds singing their hearts out. I've taken part twice before in 2012 <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/international-dawn-chorus-day.html" target="_blank">here</a> and 2013 <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/then-it-dawned-on-me.html" target="_blank">here</a>. The first time I ventured only as far as Garden65, the second, across the road to Fog Lane Park. This time, given the new relationship with Fletcher Moss Park, I chose to mark the event by walking dazedly around a less ordered landscape.<br />
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Dawn itself was at 5.34 am, but birds don't have access to online apps to tell them that, so they start singing before the sun appears over the horizon, just as it is getting light. When I arrived the ornate gate to the park entrance was locked. There was a moment's hesitation (with sweet thoughts of going back to bed) then I did what all the other night time users of municipal parks do, I shouldered through the adjoining hedge, and emerged into the open, black, and empty space. <br />
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The Chorus was in full swing. The last two times I did this I missed the full force of the singing because I hadn't got up early enough, but this time I'd caught it right. The trouble is I can't distinguish one chirp from another. Blackbirds are unmistakable, but if everyone sings together I've got no chance of saying what species is where. In a way though this isn't a disadvantage. It may even be a positive. Humans can't help wanting to name or label things, and in this way pin them down. But, surely, the purpose of this annual event is to <strong>experience </strong>a magical natural phenomenon, not to use it to complete some list or other. Standing around in the dark listening to unseen creatures sing is the point. Sure, I'm telling you about it, trying to nail down what happened, but we know these words in no way capture the true beauty of the moment. And in this way my ignorance becomes an asset.<br />
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Another area in which ignorance is bliss is that of the birds themselves. Chumps like me the world over may be moved to contemplate spiritual matters when we hear the dawn chorus, but in reality such deep concerns are far from the tiny minds of the birds doing the shouting. This is not singing to celebrate the birth of a new day and the joy of being alive, this is territorial display. What they are really saying is "This is mine! Come any closer and I'll peck your eyes out, and kick your chicks out of your pathetically made nest!" In effect what we are hearing is a chorus of<br />
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<strong>"F**k off! F**k off! F**k off!"</strong></div>
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The tapping at the end of this film is me frantically jabbing at the phone to turn the camera off.</div>
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<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-72030205447773057612016-04-29T16:21:00.000+01:002016-04-29T18:56:27.466+01:00New Instagram Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Apologies for the radio silence. The reasons are legion, most too mundane to mention. One of my more noble excuses for the lack of blogging is that I've been expending my creative juices on a new social media project: an Instagram account for the Friends group of a local park, Fletcher Moss.<br />
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Admittedly having an Instagram feed was not at the top of the To Do list of the Friends of Fletcher Moss group. Raising funds and attracting more volunteers are probably more important aims. I'm not too sure what initially gave me the courage to suggest they have one, and I think the reason they said yes was because they could safely let me shuffle away to do it without needing any further instruction. Now I've got to feed the thing on a daily basis I'm wondering what kind of monster I've created.<br />
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The purpose is to attract people who Instagram their photos of the park, and in this way encourage a sense of community and ownership. The Machiavellian marketing aim is to then encourage that wodge of people, sorry, community, to either help maintain the grounds, or at least sign petitions and write to MPs when it looks like it needs protecting from the ravages of Austerity. I don't know if that will happen, but it might. <br />
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At the moment most of the images on the feed are mine. If you come across a woman with a camera and a haunted look on her face that's me desperately looking for something to photograph that might be more interesting than the mud and bare trees that are currently on offer. Ideally, if all goes well, most of the images could come from other Instagrammers. The process involves a strange new etiquette. If someone tags their photo with a hashtag #fletchermossfriends this can be taken as a signal that it is ok by them if I 'regram' their image on my page. So far only two people have done that, but I'm staying optimistic that with the improved weather of summer more people will be out there taking photos and be wanting to be part of the fletchermoss gang.<br />
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Hashtagging is an art in itself. To attract the attention of people who don't know of our page each image is hashtagged with locally relevant labels like #fletchermosspark, #didsbury or #rivermersey. Instagram users who then might be idly flicking through such labels will then see an image from our page, and then will go "I go there! I'll follow this account because I want to know what's going on there" And thus a Follower is snagged.<br />
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More abstract hashtags are also used to fish for non-local people who are interested in the subject of the image. For example #Springwatch is a popular one. And I've found #foraging is very fashionable now. <br />
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Most users, sadly, don't want to Follow the account, but some feel the need to acknowledge their positive feelings. Here we come to the other complexity of social media: the Like button. Facebook and Twitter also use this. I'm taking the Likers to be a sign of goodwill, if not complete commitment. Fair enough. In any case it is useful to find out what kind of image is most popular, then I can take some more and grow the audience that way. <br />
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The most popular post so far, as measured in Likes is this:<br />
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Followed by:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCM6o3w72CymeQRDFbnsusmC3qpek1LBDITHPp7XVsIfOUlZK8rzs4AhwRrYM2w4JG-EQfI2PQbt_IoccgYc2D72Fn5v0wGPBe_Mbqn5Kdpfuv4I-U5LHYYdB03RsLVYx8vkVqMMkuOme/s1600/popular+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCM6o3w72CymeQRDFbnsusmC3qpek1LBDITHPp7XVsIfOUlZK8rzs4AhwRrYM2w4JG-EQfI2PQbt_IoccgYc2D72Fn5v0wGPBe_Mbqn5Kdpfuv4I-U5LHYYdB03RsLVYx8vkVqMMkuOme/s400/popular+2.JPG" width="396" /></a></div>
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Interesting ... close up of flowers. <br />
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The least popular has been:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaTPi-uMPqhFtfcyXy131i1BApt5Q2z_XwODqcfmiDNtsk49rk4gmy3f7vmbeOne2Hxvp1vYLTxvn8ABs6WPZJGPRqgkwbYLIONSaHKig8yg3qAmGEwqCPZdjuhJMJjPqcANXCVtGqLjK/s1600/paw.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="373" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSaTPi-uMPqhFtfcyXy131i1BApt5Q2z_XwODqcfmiDNtsk49rk4gmy3f7vmbeOne2Hxvp1vYLTxvn8ABs6WPZJGPRqgkwbYLIONSaHKig8yg3qAmGEwqCPZdjuhJMJjPqcANXCVtGqLjK/s400/paw.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Which is a shame because I thought the accompanying comment "Sign of a successful rewilding programme?" was one of my better jokes. <br />
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A page full of flowers would not however be the optimum way to go. It would help to show Fletcher Moss is an important park for wildlife, and thus worth spending municipal money on, but we want to attract people with energy and vision and oomph. Understandably there are many people, particularly of the younger variety, who are not at all turned on by flowers. Marketing research has found people like to look at photographs of other people. This is why it would be better if the page was composed of lots of selfies. These may be annoying and not aesthetically pleasing at all but the overall message would be 'this is a fun place, full of people just like you'. So far I've managed to get only a few people-focussed photos. I feel a more assertive Instagrammer might have got more. I'm hoping summer brings a rush of enthusiastic selfie takers wanting to show their love of Fletcher Moss.<br />
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I'm going to give it 6 months as a project, and then assess its impact on the wider Fletcher Moss visiting public. Even if it has made absolutely no difference, the account will be a nice record of the park through the seasons. <br />
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And I will have honed my skills in taking a photograph while standing in a field of mud.<br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-23228991036166277172016-02-28T15:43:00.000+00:002016-02-28T15:58:13.445+00:00The Anatomy of Caterpillars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBuknqk7jAGIIkAfyr0UPKPAZjJjd6XulG-2iLTShVYd5d8oBdZ1hyphenhyphenv85_kr4rf2SRjyb96QlvzV1xh3HGQdU3drobB3tNparHN1lJbUZIUIiwsKBhw_dK9usvKm6GcvmGN-5zTTGgfp_/s1600/caterpillar+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Moth Caterpillar. Possibly Angle Shade" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBuknqk7jAGIIkAfyr0UPKPAZjJjd6XulG-2iLTShVYd5d8oBdZ1hyphenhyphenv85_kr4rf2SRjyb96QlvzV1xh3HGQdU3drobB3tNparHN1lJbUZIUIiwsKBhw_dK9usvKm6GcvmGN-5zTTGgfp_/s640/caterpillar+2.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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<h2>
If Insects Were People</h2>
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As promised this week's post has a more scientific vibe than of late.<br />
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I came nose to nose with this caterpillar the other day. I know we have to love all god's creatures, but I found this guy rather unnerving. He's too green, too juicy, too ... erm ... priapic, shall we say. Quite a challenge for an old maid like me. <br />
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However, we shall be sensible, shake such thoughts from our minds, and carry on with our entomology lesson.<br />
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Focussing on the head first we can observe two lines of dots. These are primitive eyes, called <strong>ocelli. </strong>They can only detect changes in light. And aren't leering at me at all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwA24jnSz3z96V6hRX1SVeHEevIi0jO3IisOINxw_ullyof1eXbz4qhvQjFzudSKxjqdxv3DYGJpRz_5F3BLOecfVd3W-QusZV0JmyK60U7qW1SkE0Tf5eUx2ofT3JNeqx5lQIeHYlAB1C/s1600/caterpillar+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Caterpillar anatomy: ocelli and antenna" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwA24jnSz3z96V6hRX1SVeHEevIi0jO3IisOINxw_ullyof1eXbz4qhvQjFzudSKxjqdxv3DYGJpRz_5F3BLOecfVd3W-QusZV0JmyK60U7qW1SkE0Tf5eUx2ofT3JNeqx5lQIeHYlAB1C/s640/caterpillar+1.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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If we zoom in we can also see stumpy <strong>antennae</strong>, and vicious little <strong>mandibles</strong>.<br />
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Of course, we know all anatomical parts get turned to soup and are reformed in the pupal stage. The eyes somehow become complex compound eyes, and the antennae elongate out into elegant feathery eyebrows. <br />
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The delicate angular legs of the final moth or butterfly develop from the caterpillar's first three pairs of legs. <br />
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You can see them here on our voluptuous friend. This area will turn into the thorax. The stumpy hind legs, called <strong>prolegs</strong>, get absorbed into the abdomen.<br />
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I think this caterpillar will turn into an <strong>Angle Shade moth</strong> (or something similar), a more attractive, yet still unsettling creature.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmxC9nFUUHJNBLxVGU-7-0cAJ_MTxCLzc5IKuCAXH9TnS00jBm3o3AELibKuS7xOilA_s1BcQRXSlHDpfcD_2t09vleX7C2JSvfjRUVMRVw5BOQ2mbWP4UJ_0hs7TR9sxbxWxbY3BcaJV/s1600/angle+shade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmxC9nFUUHJNBLxVGU-7-0cAJ_MTxCLzc5IKuCAXH9TnS00jBm3o3AELibKuS7xOilA_s1BcQRXSlHDpfcD_2t09vleX7C2JSvfjRUVMRVw5BOQ2mbWP4UJ_0hs7TR9sxbxWxbY3BcaJV/s400/angle+shade.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source RHS<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38T22bJcYNG6yPX_YesRBiQ54afNXWMj1bES7Tt1MHM7I21MT2lzi5twYw3PmJM1664njbckvf7mlbyUpxiEBKfXOuZdyiQ763YydUn6qNP_ndi3vlzmpFEXbo1gWk7VJ2X70IB0FN07T/s1600/angle+shade+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38T22bJcYNG6yPX_YesRBiQ54afNXWMj1bES7Tt1MHM7I21MT2lzi5twYw3PmJM1664njbckvf7mlbyUpxiEBKfXOuZdyiQ763YydUn6qNP_ndi3vlzmpFEXbo1gWk7VJ2X70IB0FN07T/s640/angle+shade+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.warrenphotographic.co.uk/08963-angle-shades-moth" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
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Poor chap, I shouldn't be so disrespectful.<br />
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As adults we are discouraged from attaching human characteristics to animals. It's not only sentimental and unscientific, but ethically dubious, in that it assumes the human way is the superior way of being. Conservationists and environmental campaigners make an effort to talk about nature with cool dispassionate facts. <br />
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However, in a great little film called <strong>Greenbees</strong> Greenpeace has embraced anthromorphism, with animated bees acting like eco-warriors, valiantly fighting to save us humans from poisoning ourselves with pesticides. <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zaE7XIlZ2Ao" width="560"></iframe></center>
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I think it's good fun, and a nice example of what I was talking about with the recent post <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2016/02/two-films-one-problem.html" target="_blank">Two Films: One Problem</a>. It even has echoes of Julia Roberts' 'I don't need you. You need me' message. <br />
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There is a growing understanding amongst environmental groups that constant doom-laden news has a demotivating effect. A sense of helplessness can set in. Forces of destruction seem too big for one person to change. To counter this tendency organisations are now using emotion and humour to create a feeling of hope and enthusiasm. <br />
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The Greenbees film is part of The Bees In Decline campaign on the <a href="http://sos-bees.org/" target="_blank">SOS-Bees</a> site. It is comprehensive, worrying, and very very professional.<br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-77320979094007390492016-02-21T16:54:00.000+00:002016-02-21T16:54:50.280+00:00Natural Dyeing With Concrete<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hVc1KZXwhxFavz3bTIlhtgLrMhPH3g-f-nNI0VSMQXc8k_FsJzUY58b5gYyEXLWBXq3sSF7OMHsbLXTue7MRvwXGj-NGAlRMyV_BM0a5kO_w8WCBxg4O6B1AO6eQOyhtmHnlMX3zej6L/s1600/cement+project+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Manmade objects used in Natural Dye Project" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hVc1KZXwhxFavz3bTIlhtgLrMhPH3g-f-nNI0VSMQXc8k_FsJzUY58b5gYyEXLWBXq3sSF7OMHsbLXTue7MRvwXGj-NGAlRMyV_BM0a5kO_w8WCBxg4O6B1AO6eQOyhtmHnlMX3zej6L/s640/cement+project+6.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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A Natural Dye Project Using Materials From Derelict Land</h2>
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The online Environmental Humanities MOOC I have been doing has sadly finished. I still can't define exactly what Environmental Humanities is. It might have something to do with thinking about what could be done to improve the environment. It definitely didn't tackle the practical side to the problem. Maybe the one thing I did gain was an appreciation of how entangled Nature and Humanity are. There is no longer any 'out there', and probably never was.<br />
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Part of the course was to do an art project about an environmental concern we have. Actually we were supposed to make a <strong>Creative Intervention</strong>. That sounded too assertively ambitious for me, so I decided to stick to what I know: some natural dyeing.<br />
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There was also the problem of which concern to pick. I'm concerned about all of it. In the end I stayed loyal to the theme of this blog and did something arty about nature in the city.<br />
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Ever since I found Weld and Bee Orchids growing in a local disused petrol station I've become obsessed with the square patch of concrete and weeds, and regularly make a spectacle of myself by stomping through it taking photos and pulling up plants to take back home to identify. Manchester readers will know this plot. It's on the corner of Fog Lane and Kingsway.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5duJj3f8FUFP00zjOf9b591XlgRWI8Lzq12B6VCSDBCsZB2reWjj0A56IbfJgVQ-VWrdpPRWfzo6HRtOb6GIGZYalomhbc6rcQnvwJ06PRHgFYVoP6JgURiCYx0NIpaWH8TYZZKKtkaT/s1600/petrol+station.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="old petrol station corner of fog lane and kingsway" border="0" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR5duJj3f8FUFP00zjOf9b591XlgRWI8Lzq12B6VCSDBCsZB2reWjj0A56IbfJgVQ-VWrdpPRWfzo6HRtOb6GIGZYalomhbc6rcQnvwJ06PRHgFYVoP6JgURiCYx0NIpaWH8TYZZKKtkaT/s640/petrol+station.JPG" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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On one level it's horrible. Cars zoom past on the A road, there is broken glass, and suspicious looking people loitering. Travellers once set up camp there. On another, it is an island of wild unchecked growth. It is fascinating to see what grows there. None of which has been deliberately planted or managed. <br />
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I have done some dyeing with plants from there before. The Weld was particularly spectacular. This time I wanted to use not only the plants, but also the manmade materials that make the site what it is. In this way, whatever colour was produced would be the result of the organic and inorganic chemistry which is unique to that place. Since dye is really a transfer of molecules from plant to cloth the final colour would be the literal representation of the plot. <br />
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Of course winter is not the time to go plant hunting. Most of the plants were waving about as old sticks, or lying low in sullen clumps. I randomly grabbed as much as I could without worrying about what species they were, stuffed them into a plastic bag, and hoped no one would ask what I was doing. I deserve a medal for getting any colour at all to be honest. <br />
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And what of the manmade dyestuff? This was broken bits of concrete, iron and roof tiles. I knew iron is a potent colour maker. It reliably produces black and grey, as well as rust orange. The concrete and roof tile were not used for their dyeing properties, but the effect their chemistry would have on the uptake of colour. <br />
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Concrete is made from Portland cement which is an amalgam of limestone, clay and gypsum, a calcium compound. Natural dyeing is a tricky business. It is not as a reliable process as dyeing with industrially made dyes. There is a lot of coaxing and witchcraft. One of the things you can do is change the pH of the dyebath to a more alkaline environment. This assists the chemical process that attaches colour particles to the cloth. I normally throw in some washing soda, but it occurred to me that the limestone and calcium in concrete would do the same job. To test the idea I crushed some up, put it in hot water and dipped in a strip of litmus paper.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIGNms5xoFEq6FtpY1HfIKXeRcTjYUmg2pfY7BbfrdkKXpSTESgnKLBErPQ6xGg0rAhO5iDbpiyFykJDXHF62KfiOmMs0zRnSL9Xz83Tc__PVSXxuNFdfOR8D030RnP1RYGNBwzNt5elj/s1600/cement+project5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIGNms5xoFEq6FtpY1HfIKXeRcTjYUmg2pfY7BbfrdkKXpSTESgnKLBErPQ6xGg0rAhO5iDbpiyFykJDXHF62KfiOmMs0zRnSL9Xz83Tc__PVSXxuNFdfOR8D030RnP1RYGNBwzNt5elj/s400/cement+project5.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAAuOxokPWVqteP7tZCNmVzAYyBMR5VDBZ_j2wja9MVo97aoawPOhyphenhyphenc6lYkKGu5kbgtKvyqbcPOBWL3vN_4LZX-DYI_DWYj7_PWOodLyGGWMEgfmYmZHqX6UvsGzRWWUM8SUOjOn1R6sc/s1600/cement+project+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Litmus test to show concrete is alkaline" border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAAuOxokPWVqteP7tZCNmVzAYyBMR5VDBZ_j2wja9MVo97aoawPOhyphenhyphenc6lYkKGu5kbgtKvyqbcPOBWL3vN_4LZX-DYI_DWYj7_PWOodLyGGWMEgfmYmZHqX6UvsGzRWWUM8SUOjOn1R6sc/s400/cement+project+4.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dark green shows crushed concrete is alkaline. Tap water is less so.</td></tr>
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Surprisingly I was right. The chalk, and the clay from the roof tiles would also add to the whole cauldron of chemistry.<br />
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So I shoved everything I found into some jars with squares of cotton cloth, then heated up the strange soup.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGplAMHiaMayeGD3YZqSbkLWJW_Gub2BSZYswV7Mv0wWg1UHiQaZWyUEcBO68lHY9Lvkgbc_onxgtoJCV4_wrdmF_tOpy8EuaTbEcueh9u-8LIkFzNpCeQ-ABDpB1v4nt_msc4XG3MffQl/s1600/cement+project+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="natural dyeing with plants, iron and concrete" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGplAMHiaMayeGD3YZqSbkLWJW_Gub2BSZYswV7Mv0wWg1UHiQaZWyUEcBO68lHY9Lvkgbc_onxgtoJCV4_wrdmF_tOpy8EuaTbEcueh9u-8LIkFzNpCeQ-ABDpB1v4nt_msc4XG3MffQl/s640/cement+project+1.jpg" title="" width="358" /></a></div>
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Then it was a matter of doing some stitching and a small wall hanging was made that hopefully demonstrates in a convoluted arty way that it is not easy to define unnatural and natural. It relates to ideas mentioned in the post <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/nature-culture-binary.html" target="_blank">Nature-Culture Binary</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i3dHcVObVd0xEEYDSI7Hf1kq4Hj42JDsfRdvt0F1HY_ltAfAV3lZzk4CdVnE6va_8lGw2x34JLWCPJKQMrDFEzR_44LHqa-_XRJhwzTLHeg_wIwuZwtrR1WD2nDblbmjxxvf7qYf-pMB/s1600/cement+project+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Natural dye quilt" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7i3dHcVObVd0xEEYDSI7Hf1kq4Hj42JDsfRdvt0F1HY_ltAfAV3lZzk4CdVnE6va_8lGw2x34JLWCPJKQMrDFEzR_44LHqa-_XRJhwzTLHeg_wIwuZwtrR1WD2nDblbmjxxvf7qYf-pMB/s640/cement+project+8.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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If I had to write a serious report on the project for the online course I would add a section on taking the idea further. If this was done professionally you could run workshops where urban nature was discussed while people foraged for materials. The very best expression would be to make cloth, yarn or cordage from the plants actually growing on the site. In 2011 in Manchester flax was grown on a brownfield site. I've got some of the yarn that was spun from the harvest. Wouldn't it be great to weave it into cloth then dye that? Perhaps cord could be made from nettles. <br />
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There is a lot of scope to develop this idea. Even political issues around common land and public space could be worked into it. However, that is enough of the Humanities for now. We're back to Science next week.<br />
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This is the same corner of Fog Lane and Kingsway in the 1940s. Look how clean and calm it was.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-cYBQG05301uLXq4110fw5wl5OUhApTuhJr2EMauvYv-digBd1017Mj5P1LQeha7hdI_XyGCfvqNGgg6GOXUYulMSyd563kBBtVV7adJ1P2oMVR0vJavBpbry2UK5FAu7EeLX4Vctzui/s1600/cement+project+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Corner of Fog Lane and Kingsway, Didsbury, 1940s" border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-cYBQG05301uLXq4110fw5wl5OUhApTuhJr2EMauvYv-digBd1017Mj5P1LQeha7hdI_XyGCfvqNGgg6GOXUYulMSyd563kBBtVV7adJ1P2oMVR0vJavBpbry2UK5FAu7EeLX4Vctzui/s640/cement+project+7.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
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Sorry about the dull title and sub-heading - I'm trying to improve Garden65's SEO.<br />
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<a href="http://www.merci.org.uk/drupal/sow-sew" target="_blank">Growing flax in Manchester</a><br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-78502861541941675152016-02-14T11:23:00.000+00:002016-02-14T11:23:03.027+00:00Bird Brick Houses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Pxlkv3Wsp2SC4R2K43NVxg9rzIszcXDUXJBBbMQS1Ie4SZKEQMNRoFO6D5VX5giio2A0TIq5w_HNJpqI_h1kw-xvlDEcJNnnpEbEQ-T80caHhg5g-BSJOMMm5PyAXOA6HggnW8m3Us7M/s1600/feeding-cropped-600x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Pxlkv3Wsp2SC4R2K43NVxg9rzIszcXDUXJBBbMQS1Ie4SZKEQMNRoFO6D5VX5giio2A0TIq5w_HNJpqI_h1kw-xvlDEcJNnnpEbEQ-T80caHhg5g-BSJOMMm5PyAXOA6HggnW8m3Us7M/s640/feeding-cropped-600x400.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A bit of light relief this week. And a good news story. A rarity for both this blog and any report about the state of nature. This one is lovely. You will sing hallelujah and punch the air with delight when you hear it.<br />
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A small building firm has designed a simple and stylish way to provide bird boxes built directly into a building, not just nailed precariously onto the outside. <br />
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The actual box where the birds will nest is made from recycled plastic. The cover is four bricks, one with an entry hole in it, sliced thinly to about 2cm thick which are already in the classic brickwork formation. The whole construction can then be slotted into a wall and unobtrusively mortared up together with the normal surrounding bricks. There is even a nifty way of removing the front to clean the inside, or put a camera in. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6g-x_6DFZNEvlEcv87VsaAwfFPZYA9JoIthv2P0dEsfEhIIBGAfQLXR6F2M8ZAfftylskReE0DH0g_wvAzwEXjrCNlp59huVOpiLdOVgTyM8noofgtCZlH9XnSeuyFhmsJTp_Wt9z7uB/s1600/Fleming_box_11-e1445873761611-740x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6g-x_6DFZNEvlEcv87VsaAwfFPZYA9JoIthv2P0dEsfEhIIBGAfQLXR6F2M8ZAfftylskReE0DH0g_wvAzwEXjrCNlp59huVOpiLdOVgTyM8noofgtCZlH9XnSeuyFhmsJTp_Wt9z7uB/s400/Fleming_box_11-e1445873761611-740x500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
The holes come in different sizes for small birds or larger for starlings or swifts. There is even variations for bats and insects. Not only that, the bricks can be matched to the type used in the building, or a mesh fronted one can be rendered flat.<br />
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It seems to me, as someone who doesn't build houses, that this is a fantastic invention. What is there to fault about it? An architect can use them without messing up his design, the builder isn't put out with difficult insertion, and everyone gets to feel good about providing much needed habitat for birds and bats.<br />
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There is one question mark over the use of plastic for the box. A young designer has come up with another solution whereby the cavity for the bird is within the whole brick. The idea is the material has thermal qualities that will keep the eggs (and nesting mum) warm at night and cool during the day.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRHeU2zYh24IiDfiJX54pmJ3ljlEkRXip6Pb50P0lNhKNGmjTj6Q7ppoguAw4VgWbXAr-X6YZpRkM0BGZ8swH76EqKqjzBHLhC0asRCvCAfFXy5rwsH4J0iey1Urdg7dLZQzRJbKM4M1f/s1600/dezeen_bird-brick-aaron-dunkerton_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbRHeU2zYh24IiDfiJX54pmJ3ljlEkRXip6Pb50P0lNhKNGmjTj6Q7ppoguAw4VgWbXAr-X6YZpRkM0BGZ8swH76EqKqjzBHLhC0asRCvCAfFXy5rwsH4J0iey1Urdg7dLZQzRJbKM4M1f/s400/dezeen_bird-brick-aaron-dunkerton_3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
There is a call for legislation to be made that all new builds must have two or three (of either design) bird boxes built into them.<br />
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As we know populations of common birds have been declining. The House Sparrow population by 71% since 1977, and starlings by 66%. (Sorry to bring the tone down) There are many reasons for this. Habitat loss is one cause. When you normally think of 'habitat' you imagine the countryside, but it is not necessarily large scale industrial farming, or even new building developments covering over the countryside that are at the root of the problem. It is habitat in the form of lack of suitable nesting sites.<br />
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Both sparrows and starlings nest in the houses surrounding Garden65. A little colony of sparrows use holes in the brickwork of the end wall of a semi-detached house. Starlings nest under the eaves of my neighbour's house. I do fear for them. Their existence is precarious. The semi-detached house is owned by an old couple. When that house gets sold on I imagine it is quite likely that the new neighbours will improve the condition of their new house by sorting out the roofing spaces and filling up holes in the brickwork. As for the starlings, we have put in new plastic soffits and fascia boards in our roof. I would have liked to use wood and include holes for birds, but this comes at a price we couldn't afford. I feel dreadful about the bumble bee nest we lost. My neighbours moved in last year. They've built the extension, and are about to have the garden redesigned. The roof can't be far behind.<br />
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The British Trust for Ornithology did some research on declining House Sparrow numbers in urban areas. They found sparrows need holes in buildings.<br />
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A pattern that appears in some city populations is that House Sparrows are <strong>most abundant and population declines are lower in socially deprived areas</strong>. This could be due to several factors, including more waste ground and gardens that have less management (e.g. pesticide inputs), leading to greater food availability, and<strong> fewer home improvements leading to a greater availability of nest sites.</strong></blockquote>
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House Sparrows were more likely to occur at sites where there were gaps in the roof tiles. Modern tile designs do not have these gaps and House Sparrow nest sites may be lost where re-roofing takes place. Just <strong>over 25% of respondents reported that they had had such gaps blocked, many within the last ten years</strong>, and 7% within the last year. The addition of loft insulation (90% of lofts were known to be insulated) may also influence House Sparrows.</blockquote>
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So this then is the perfect excuse for you not to upgrade your house. <strong>Sparrows need dereliction</strong>. <br />
Or if you really must, get a bird brick house or two. <br />
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<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/141427530" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe><br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/141427530">Bird Brick Houses</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user35922269">Lizzie Tilley</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</center>
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<a href="http://www.birdbrickhouses.co.uk/" target="_blank">Bird Brick Houses</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.aarondunkerton.com/bird-nesting-brick/" target="_blank">Bird Nesting Brick</a>Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-68984168048035890662016-02-07T21:47:00.000+00:002016-02-27T18:15:32.162+00:00Two Films : One Problem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8x3aHUcJux6EW7siND7p1d7VgFukZ8JL6wHma2Imonl2amnQdhFoaYrdOJogKq_amEMevZHloZlwj233FU0mSVNlEE634WbDzZTfsKpRqhhGw-5bhLy3q1-Sjbgu7Dzc89BylWzmSITu/s1600/green+heart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8x3aHUcJux6EW7siND7p1d7VgFukZ8JL6wHma2Imonl2amnQdhFoaYrdOJogKq_amEMevZHloZlwj233FU0mSVNlEE634WbDzZTfsKpRqhhGw-5bhLy3q1-Sjbgu7Dzc89BylWzmSITu/s640/green+heart.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Before we plunge into this week’s cri de coeur I would like to apologise for the recent emphasis on philosophical matters. I too miss happy little posts on courageous bees or curious cats or unexpected butterflies, but we must bide out time until spring and her more charming subjects appear. Consider these winter posts as fireside stories told to pass the time while winter rains itself outside.<br />
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This week we are going to pick over a couple of films recently released by climate change charities.<br />
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One is the ‘I wish for you’ film made by a British charity The Climate Coalition, and the other is really a series of films called Nature is Speaking, but I particularly like the Mother Nature film. These are from an American charity Conservation International, which is huge, with Harrison Ford and the President of Botswana on its board. I’m puzzled why I haven’t heard of them before. The Climate Coalition is also a large organisation, but is more a grouping of many charities rather than a single entity. Its steering group includes Oxfam, Greenpeace and Christian Aid.<br />
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The ‘I wish for you’ film involves Jeremy Irons being the grandfather of a little girl who is played as an adult by Maxine Peak.<br />
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It begins with Maxine finding a letter written to her by the now deceased Jeremy. The letter, in reality written by Michael Morpurgo, remembers happy times in his garden, then goes on to say what he wishes for her, and all the children of the world, and the polar bears, and the whales, and then we all start blubbing. I warn you now, if you a woman of a certain age with joyous memories of children playing in the sunshine this film is hard to watch. The letter says <em>“We have to learn to love our earth again, love her as much as I love you and you love me.”</em> *Sniff*<br />
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At this point, as I reached for a tissue, my inner cold-hearted witch stepped in. “Just stop it. Pull yourself together woman. You’re being manipulated”<br />
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She was right. The whole purpose of the film is to create emotion. <br />
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I blew my nose, and looked at the film again. This time using my newly acquired Environmental Humanities viewpoint. <strong>What is the film really doing?</strong><br />
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The accompanying campaign is called For The Love Of. We are encouraged to make a green heart, using any method we want, and wear it this Valentine’s Day to #showthelove.<br />
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Note the emphasis on love. The Climate Coalition is using love as a tool, not statistics and numbers. It is an appeal to emotion not reason. Charities, of course, have always done this, think over-laden donkeys and scabby dogs behind bars, and environmental groups have done their share of it, but this film and its heart motif has no other call to action other than to demonstrate your emotion.<br />
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The campaign’s website says <em>“unless politicians know this is something we all care about, they won’t have the mandate to act”</em>. I think that is an odd thing to say. Politicians won’t act on the science of climate change because their citizens don’t seem to care about it? Being cynical, that probably is true, but what is a possible consequence of saying climate change won’t be stopped unless you really really want it to? It puts the blame of all the predicted chaos onto the shoulders of the powerless.<br />
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“Your house is flooded because you didn’t care enough.”</div>
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“You can’t afford chocolate anymore because you didn’t show your love?”</div>
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That is a scary responsibility.<br />
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It turns the issue of climate change into one of human concern not one of simple fact.<br />
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We have to remember activists of any political persuasion are clever people. A lot of money and consultation time has gone into the design of this ‘For The Love Of’ campaign. Those people are cleverer than me. I don’t know exactly what they are doing, but I think it is interesting, and important to be aware, that large NGO groups are placing the 'problem of Nature' into the human realm of emotion.<br />
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On the face of it our second film does the opposite. The tagline is <em>“Nature doesn’t need people. People need nature.”</em><br />
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In this film Julia Roberts is the voice of Mother Nature. At first I scoffed. Self-indulgent Hollywood nonsense I thought, but after I watched it I changed my mind. I think it’s magnificent. My inner witch loves it. If you’re a woman of a certain age who feels over-looked then you may enjoy it too. <br />
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The message is Nature will carry on without us. <em>“Your future depends on me.”</em><br />
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<em>“I have fed species greater than you and I have starved species greater than you.”</em><br />
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<em>“Your actions will determine your fate. Not mine.”</em><br />
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<em>“I am prepared to evolve. Are you?”</em></blockquote>
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<strong>So what is this film doing?</strong><br />
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On one level it is saying we are not responsible for Nature, it is separate from us, but if we want to survive we had better stop climate change.<br />
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I know my new Environmental Humanities friends wouldn’t like the suggestion we are not part of Nature, but I think the message is subtler than this. If Julia is right and we do need a healthy Mother Nature then we cannot be separate from her. The human race cannot evolve in some sterile mechanistic world. We need to recognise we’re part of her, and therefore have to change our ways for our own good as well as hers.<br />
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Also note the personification of Nature.<br />
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Love and emotion are not overtly appealed to in this film. It appears cold and matter of fact, but those clever marketing people know the final outcome is an emotion. And they hope it is fear.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVc9MTo2NnDib6pqZ_82N7j83-meNm-GFvjXwJOic6OngOkKBp7JrFdLeIfOvJhyphenhyphenC2Yu2P6SJPiUnZP5UE7R14ozfmZmBjWClXtuY4n74ZXP96t2pD5paq97abMsfUEuC7JrtxSH5rvC7/s1600/green+heart+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPVc9MTo2NnDib6pqZ_82N7j83-meNm-GFvjXwJOic6OngOkKBp7JrFdLeIfOvJhyphenhyphenC2Yu2P6SJPiUnZP5UE7R14ozfmZmBjWClXtuY4n74ZXP96t2pD5paq97abMsfUEuC7JrtxSH5rvC7/s640/green+heart+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
So here we have two climate change campaigns that use the glamour of well-known actors. Both are trying to place us in some emotional relationship to Nature. However, one suggests we take a paternalistic, nurturing standpoint, the other that of a frightened child worried mummy might abandon us.<br />
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I wonder if there is any significance in the first being British and the second American. Could we on our tightly managed island conceive of Nature as being powerful enough to destroy us?<br />
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Mildly humorous after thought:<br />
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Seeing Jeremy pretending to be a gardener reminded me of Monty Don. If I had to make a similar film I’d have an arty shot of Monty breaking his heart in a dark corner of his potting shed. I’m sure that would persuade people to champion renewable energy or do whatever we are supposed to do stop climate change.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHtvQwso45y8g9xgNmBLGsCSkqfa2wRVp_FGnk0ILsIBHLM3IsXVX5KcDPQ0Mdnd5ZeK9GWK3N5WCmMDFnwC-EuMgC6wv2zrPs-oY_NUblTcxef_zjWE4tnoYg6B_a-oYIoAHJDvFcw4k/s1600/monty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHtvQwso45y8g9xgNmBLGsCSkqfa2wRVp_FGnk0ILsIBHLM3IsXVX5KcDPQ0Mdnd5ZeK9GWK3N5WCmMDFnwC-EuMgC6wv2zrPs-oY_NUblTcxef_zjWE4tnoYg6B_a-oYIoAHJDvFcw4k/s400/monty.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Perhaps I’d also have a shot of Dan Pearson sweating as he has a green heart tattooed on his arm. Dan’s showing the love. I bet that man has got secret tattoos.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOOgNS88ci9G-2viOpLgCiK0_P-Kz-QoRcgMX5W79uIHb8MtqtXELAhljymnqEPFG42MAKx3nBNw79tiZBr3NZLKsSyN0BlxgXKDNK7RceXtDnBAJe4d4JtD5Ny0fRMah97EraaPpEReR/s1600/dan.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggOOgNS88ci9G-2viOpLgCiK0_P-Kz-QoRcgMX5W79uIHb8MtqtXELAhljymnqEPFG42MAKx3nBNw79tiZBr3NZLKsSyN0BlxgXKDNK7RceXtDnBAJe4d4JtD5Ny0fRMah97EraaPpEReR/s400/dan.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<a href="http://www.conservation.org/Pages/default.aspx" target="_blank">Conservation International</a><br />
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All of the <a href="http://www.conservation.org/nature-is-speaking/Pages/default.aspx" target="_blank">Nature is Speaking</a> films<br />
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<a href="http://www.theclimatecoalition.org/" target="_blank">The Climate Coalition</a>Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-43036754659421647642016-01-31T15:30:00.000+00:002016-01-31T15:30:29.922+00:00Nature - Culture Binary<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFKuWGnwcSI4plJ5Y1Cu09zetAtnO5dGmcD8agdwqMYIGgwnJdvh6ClrmLqycTOi5mePsscPTyH6HGMhSCIlw8S7DxX8l67OkfJy4JRZPvW6fSSNkwnAkSvSV-ScQtB7AOw0XEKoKIAGL/s1600/belguim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnFKuWGnwcSI4plJ5Y1Cu09zetAtnO5dGmcD8agdwqMYIGgwnJdvh6ClrmLqycTOi5mePsscPTyH6HGMhSCIlw8S7DxX8l67OkfJy4JRZPvW6fSSNkwnAkSvSV-ScQtB7AOw0XEKoKIAGL/s640/belguim.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Belgium</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm doing an online course on the Environmental Humanities.<br />
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Not that after three weeks of the course I could tell you what the Environmental Humanities are. I was expecting poems and site specific art installations. Instead there are 30 page pdfs by French philosophers, and videos of professors casually sitting in a student union bar discussing the 'liveliness' of water. To be fair there was one earnest young artist making nests for mice out of recycled wool jumpers, but we'll ignore him and his youthful naivety. <br />
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Overall it has been an eye-opening course that I have really enjoyed (my idea of heaven is 30 page pdfs by French philosophers). As I understand it the focus of the Environmental Humanities is to make people aware of the assumptions they hold about nature and where they place themselves within their ideas of nature.<br />
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One of the exercises, designed to demonstrate there is no 'us and it', was to go outside and pick six random objects. Then place them in two different categories of natural and cultural, and if that was too difficult then to put them in a continuum from more natural to more cultural. We were then invited to upload a photograph of them and talk about our findings.<br />
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It was fascinating to see the results from around the world. Here are a few:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiMMAPRNcdvm9vk8D6fCfr2Lq8hvpRb84TtV_olLR5vfxsKZ6McyvQdkZYpjJv8BqHtsP811hhTkPOYGwrU5l21G_KVErlNJ8xMNxvhBO_thKea0UgoiePkiQZgC94tK-6StL4Sky6-Ai/s1600/kangaroo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbiMMAPRNcdvm9vk8D6fCfr2Lq8hvpRb84TtV_olLR5vfxsKZ6McyvQdkZYpjJv8BqHtsP811hhTkPOYGwrU5l21G_KVErlNJ8xMNxvhBO_thKea0UgoiePkiQZgC94tK-6StL4Sky6-Ai/s640/kangaroo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong>Maranup, Western Australia</strong><br />
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Items collected during a walk in the paddocks. From "natural" to "cultural": snake skin, kangaroo poo, a chewed pine cone, blackberry leaf and fruit, twine, my dog's tennis ball.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQt7_-xjBQkB6_CSifN6AwCOCIHL7V7mwaoQ6AJmvHm395raWH7Kh5gNC6pRRzT8GxRAWg4MJ-oc0dndWlR1TeZsmPnBwQjkDeQyXyNS1TH2eu71Cs-8v2UT1mPkAGqJQF4N83D6ejuXe9/s1600/columbia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQt7_-xjBQkB6_CSifN6AwCOCIHL7V7mwaoQ6AJmvHm395raWH7Kh5gNC6pRRzT8GxRAWg4MJ-oc0dndWlR1TeZsmPnBwQjkDeQyXyNS1TH2eu71Cs-8v2UT1mPkAGqJQF4N83D6ejuXe9/s640/columbia.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong>Chía, Colombia</strong><br />
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With help from muy son and daughter.: they chooseObjects coming from environment, excep cigarrete (but even it coming from important native plant, and with a mustang horse paint) "natural", but mostly of them introduced by people<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfKfxhFp7rpJAkJHAtfbkOPSojtiMJ6DHx_lHDtfNG6XeArBbGYeiu0RfWLcyQCimxRED3Jrh8qzgq7ztmZAPQ_FuCFbbJIuzmYhsZneO9SbGtH28VC-IL0dcnkfcPloM7aGfe2AFAMSx/s1600/saigon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinfKfxhFp7rpJAkJHAtfbkOPSojtiMJ6DHx_lHDtfNG6XeArBbGYeiu0RfWLcyQCimxRED3Jrh8qzgq7ztmZAPQ_FuCFbbJIuzmYhsZneO9SbGtH28VC-IL0dcnkfcPloM7aGfe2AFAMSx/s640/saigon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong>A back street in Saigon</strong><br />
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Here are my 6 objects from left to right - more natural to more man made....(please note a 2 and a 4 yr old helped me pick these objects)<br />
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1/ A flower from a weed....this is probably the most natural thing I could find as a weed it is likely that it wasn't planted there.<br />
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2/ Piece of lime - as this was found outside a cafe and was cut it was likely used in a drink and so although is natural has been manipulated by man.<br />
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3/ White pebble- found in a plant pot outside our building - although a natural stone this has been shaped by man to ensure it is the right size and shape for using using a plant pot<br />
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4/ A piece of clay tile - natural clay but shaped by man<br />
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5/ A piece of polystyrene<br />
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6/ Plastic string both of these last items are man made but shaped a dirtied somewhat by the natural world<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bRP_UnIqsn4UPJzDFnAh9ohN7FZpAq69hv46u3fYrRdB2V_TL7dIkICvidnkvgF-mnem4Pao2lN3DCL8dDminytkPfhXvIYkPJBeYgCfdbCRpN-iyz-A6hK0JPvnEI1vAlvT0VyhvK4e/s1600/new+zealand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5bRP_UnIqsn4UPJzDFnAh9ohN7FZpAq69hv46u3fYrRdB2V_TL7dIkICvidnkvgF-mnem4Pao2lN3DCL8dDminytkPfhXvIYkPJBeYgCfdbCRpN-iyz-A6hK0JPvnEI1vAlvT0VyhvK4e/s640/new+zealand.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<strong>Southland New Zealand</strong><br />
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Items left to right ==> natural-cultural.<br />
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1. Lancewood leaf. Lancewoods are native to NZ, so natural. <br />
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2. Hebe cultivar. Hebes are native to NZ, however this one is cultivated for gardens, natural.<br />
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3. Rose petal. Roses are introduced to NZ by humans, but still natural.<br />
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4. Piece of gravel. Natural source but modified by humans to be used for various purposes. Possibly more cultural than natural. Difficult one.<br />
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5. Newspaper produced by humans, cultural.<br />
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6. Piece of plastic tie, produced by humans. Cultural.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-jn0RuWbN3u1haOh8XtgVluIZ0IeoN2EqUonQMRIqVGF3SfCcP2b3ifb61q5X8SmMq8_8xLcMw0ur44KompfqqHcFN1VECCwT-m_5NieG2XH_ZMrUiCm-3uSemPLrzC4-Nz7nqD2qYk4/s1600/uk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM-jn0RuWbN3u1haOh8XtgVluIZ0IeoN2EqUonQMRIqVGF3SfCcP2b3ifb61q5X8SmMq8_8xLcMw0ur44KompfqqHcFN1VECCwT-m_5NieG2XH_ZMrUiCm-3uSemPLrzC4-Nz7nqD2qYk4/s640/uk.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<h4 class="subject">
Boston, UK.</h4>
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Ordered from 'most cultural' to 'most natural' :<br />
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The crisp packet had blown into the hedge bottom and symbolises our society accurately i.e. crisps are manufactured so the original potato is no longer recognisable, put in a glossy, shiny packet and when it's empty, it's discarded.<br />
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The rusty old screw had been turned over in the soil. Designed, manufactured for human determined purpose.<br />
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'Wild' bird food. Questionable as to how many would survive the winter without human intervention.<br />
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Honey bee. Purposefully bred to satisfy human needs.<br />
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Silver birch twig. Native to UK following last ice age, although this particular tree would presumably have been grown in a nursery and planted here.<br />
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Decaying Bramley Apple. Selected and bred but the decaying process is removing the cultural context.<br />
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<strong>Central Texas, USA</strong><br />
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From left to right:<br />
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-White marble native to my region of Texas collected on a hike with friends<br />
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-Ball Moss (Tillandsia recurvata) a native air plant that attaches its self to tree branches<br />
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-oregano<br />
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-pumpkin seed<br />
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- plastic plant marker<br />
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-plastic rain gauge<br />
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So even while posting this I kept changing my mind about the order of things. I feel now that the ball moss should be on the "most natural" end of the spectrum, since it is native and uncultivated. The marble should be next, because I "imported" it from a ranch 100 miles away and I took it only as a memento of a great day hiking with friends.<br />
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The oregano I'm sure was exotic at some point, but I grow it because we love Italian food (globalization of cultures and natural products for sure)<br />
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The pumpkin seed is a remnant of our Halloween pumpkins (that kind of rotted and made a mess) 4 months back. The pumpkins weren't native or locally grown, and celebrating Halloween is highly cultural<br />
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The plastic plant marker is next - how cultural is it that we don't already know the names of plants and need to manufacture a small disposable, but permanent, label to educate ourselves? Lastly, the plastic rain gauge the city hands out for free to remind us that "every drop counts" and we shouldn't be wasting water. Our culture is so removed from nature that we need to be reminded that water is a precious resource necessary for survival!<br />
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Aren't they intriguing? There are more but I think you get the idea: there is very little that is purely natural, and most cultural objects are derived from or associated with nature.<br />
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It was cold and rainy so I just looked out of the window into Garden65. The result didn't include such interesting items as kangaroo poo or mustang horse paint (?!), so I wont list them, but the lesson was learnt. Whatever I did list would have been cultural because they existed within a garden. And gardens are entirely cultural constructs. Or are they?<br />
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<br />
The course is on the <a href="https://www.futurelearn.com/courses" target="_blank">FutureLearn</a> site</div>
Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-7690424411481245782016-01-25T15:27:00.000+00:002016-01-25T15:27:46.516+00:00Which Nature?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiK60vuqm79wgUesqyM7RoSASGs-MshOWuFUwB7XWCiAx46jucbDsiyvC8UWgTnop7IX0_4wpcneNGT5beSl6bSDH-tEnR-hcSRGnosCrFt2xifJ26ab7rvtfwB_PKinDUnIloAdVmhLA/s1600/ferns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiK60vuqm79wgUesqyM7RoSASGs-MshOWuFUwB7XWCiAx46jucbDsiyvC8UWgTnop7IX0_4wpcneNGT5beSl6bSDH-tEnR-hcSRGnosCrFt2xifJ26ab7rvtfwB_PKinDUnIloAdVmhLA/s640/ferns.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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When my mum introduces me to a new friend she has the problem of not having a label to easily explain me by. I am not ‘a ...’ There is no job title to categorise me by, and the socially acceptable role of ‘looking after children’ is now not true. She sometimes overcomes the difficulty by declaring I write a blog. With this come signals of techno-mastery and holding an opinion about something. That’s loosely true. With this deft move she transfers the problem of classification to me. What is my blog about? “Nature in the urban environment” I self-importantly declare.<br />
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Generally this is all the information the friend requires to safely put me in one of the pigeon holes of her world view. No one comes back with the question, “What do you mean by ‘Nature’?” Which is fortunate because I’m not entirely sure myself.<br />
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The practical reason for saying the blog is about nature in the urban environment is that it immediately disabuses the unlucky listener that something called Garden65 is about gardening. It has a wider remit.<br />
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A more detailed explanation is in the <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/p/about.html" target="_blank">About</a> page above.<br />
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I have to confess until recently I hadn’t given much thought to the word Nature. I assume we all agree what nature is. It’s birds and bees, flowers and frogs. It’s rain and seasons, seeds and vegetables. Apart from the biological processes within my own body, nature is what happens outside my house. Nature is not manmade; it is a force that happens without and despite of human interference. Nature is also Beauty. It is sunshine and seas, sunsets and mountains. <br />
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Right? But hold on, the longer the list of meanings grows the slipperier the term becomes. Nature seems to concern living material things – newts and daisies – AND the invisible forces that affect them – light and cell division.<br />
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And from where comes the idea that Nature excludes humans? It seems self-evident that we are subject to the same process as other beings, yet I don’t write about ‘people in the urban environment’, nor do Wildlife Trusts try to preserve ‘people in the rural environment’. <br />
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The word also seems to encompass emotional responses. Nature is a collection of phenomena that elicit feelings, both sublime and tragic.<br />
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<strong>There is subtlety and acknowledged assumptions in Nature.</strong><br />
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To explore the conundrum further I have turned to the work of a Welsh Marxist (is there any other kind?). Web surfing has unearthed <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raymond_Williams" target="_blank">Raymond Williams</a>. Wiki tells me he was an academic who was an ‘influential figure within the New Left’, and who ‘laid the foundations for the field of cultural studies and the cultural materialist approach’. I’m not sure what that means, or if he is considered dangerous or wise, so I’ll just plough on regardless.<br />
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With one of his major works, ‘Keywords’, he looked at the meanings of over 100 words not simply as definition, but within a cultural context. Nature is one of the words he deconstructed. Of course he does this better than I so I suggest you get a coffee and sit down with his <a href="http://en3326pastoral.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/raymond-williams-nature-from-keywords_25.html" target="_blank">original essay</a>. However, I’ll have a go at highlighting the points he makes because he seems to neatly summarise the problem with the word.<br />
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<strong>The understanding of what Nature is has changed over time as human thought has changed.</strong> The word comes from Latin, in particular the phrase <em>natura rerum</em> – the nature of things. It had a neutral meaning. The character or quality of something is its nature. We still have this sense of the word. <br />
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But what is that nature? If the ‘things’ of that phrase is dropped what or where is the nature? The answer in past times was a god. Nature then becomes personified as Mother Nature a powerful force both creative and destructive. This is where my personal unexamined understanding of nature is. I can’t help thinking in terms of a capricious goddess. But then I don’t believe in God, so I have a constant battle with myself between sentiment and reason. I think we all do. <br />
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Williams then moves the development of the word on. The trouble with Mother Nature is that she would be just as powerful as the monotheist male God. To solve this problem the understanding of Nature was demoted to that of carrying out the will of God. Nature was God in action.<br />
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And then along came the Enlightenment – science and deconstruction and questioning. This was still a religious era so the meaning of Nature again changed to accommodate the need for a primary cause together with the realisation that there are many causes. Williams suggests Nature became a constitutional lawyer. There were now natural laws that could be classified and discovered. Nature was now the material world. <br />
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We are thoroughly immersed in the scientific worldview today and so easily agree that nature works within rules and systems. Do we attach any value to these laws? Williams says we do. We assume they are right, maybe even pure. When the Romantic era developed this became hardened into a belief that human society was artificial and corrupt. Redemption was to be found in nature. Here we come across Wordsworth and Theroux and all those guys. We haven’t moved on from this either have we? We all view nature as healing, with a spiritually positive affect. ‘To be natural’ is a good thing to be. <br />
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Here is also the idea that Nature is what man has not made. Williams cleverly points out an obvious problem with this: ‘though if he made it long enough ago – a hedgerow or a desert – [it] will usually be included as natural’.<br />
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Darwinism was the next thought development, and this muddied the waters further. The concepts of natural selection and survival of the fittest turns Nature (as a personified force) into a heartless manipulator and destroyer. I don’t think Darwin saw it this way. He was trying to outline neutral processes, but the way his work has been used by people like those who believe in eugenics, and Richard Dawkins and his selfish gene shows humans will use Nature for their own ends.<br />
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And that is the conclusion Williams leaves us with. Not surprisingly given the importance of what the word covers it is complex, so it would be wise to be aware of what precisely you mean, and what perhaps you really mean.<br />
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I think next time one of my mum’s friends asks what the blog is about I’ll say it’s about gardening. We all know what gardens are, don’t we? Or do we?<br />
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A final thought of my own: there is a new movement in the eco world to reiterate the obvious, in that we, humankind, are part of nature too. This is a well meaning attempt to encourage people not to destroy the environment because we are not separate from it and don't have dominion over it. BUT if we are 'natural' then cities, and plastic, and oil spills, are also natural. I'm not sure emphasising the naturalness of humankind is wise. Just a thought ...Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-78892959127221167802016-01-17T21:06:00.000+00:002016-01-17T21:06:27.143+00:00Too Early For Some<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MA0hMfNM8cFajtCnizPx-5xB4JkK_94OccydwLxjHGGY67o9cLFfjxtFSwkR0KlPxjuWGLb3JYr59X7H-1frjXODdM7Dd2gX75ugl9vErid2R_el-zbZOmtU1AUoLX8Z01_GL88mZkqL/s1600/chorus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MA0hMfNM8cFajtCnizPx-5xB4JkK_94OccydwLxjHGGY67o9cLFfjxtFSwkR0KlPxjuWGLb3JYr59X7H-1frjXODdM7Dd2gX75ugl9vErid2R_el-zbZOmtU1AUoLX8Z01_GL88mZkqL/s640/chorus.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My street showing the favourite perch of our resident blackbird</td></tr>
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I thought I had finished with the school run. Both children have fledged the nest. However, the eldest hasn't quite developed her flight feathers, so I drive her to work in the morning. The school run has become the work run.<br />
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It is not too much of a bother. At least I have the satisfaction of being useful to someone. The other bonus is being outside as the sun rises. I had forgotten, or maybe hadn't fully acknowledged, that the Dawn Chorus also happens in the winter. While I'm de-frosting the car, and the eldest is applying her make-up in the front seat, blackbirds and robins are shouting their little hearts out. It's a magical start to the day. Well, I think so, the eldest disagrees. <br />
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Let's give some thought to this. Why are the birds singing in the cold, when presumably food sources are still scarce, and the joys of spring are yet a couple of months away?<br />
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<strong>At this time of year territories are being established</strong>. The year old males are eagerly looking forward to their first breeding season, and are the first to claim a territory. So the earliest singers of the year are the youngest males. They may even start in October/November. All the posturing and shouting then sets off the older males. However, since most birds live two or three years, the older males may only be in their second season themselves. <br />
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Once they've got their place, which for urban birds can be as small as a few metres up to an acre or two, courtship and pair bonding happens. That's not to say though that the little guys are mating yet. It only takes a day for an egg to develop after fertilisation. Mating and egg-laying happens all at once in the warmer weather of spring. So what is really happening now is all quite heart-warming. The pairs are simply enjoying each other's company (I may be anthromorphising).<br />
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Here is a table showing the months when the first clutch of eggs are likely to be laid. I've listed the birds I'm familiar with in my suburban street, and some I'm guessing might be around. The numbers are the median date of the first laying. For example, blackbirds may start laying eggs in March if the weather is favourable. During a normal year this is most likely to happen around 22 April, but if it's rainy and wet then the first clutch could be delayed until early summer. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCDeQsrZ9KYATJ_221yhuybVU9VqOXGQ82-Cz4wp4f2SAUak3TRM_8hahBxXP91EKuJUXaHZ8-jdjHdurN-D4rzD5hwJl1XJQ41kWqJPycR18-yjLRfqEKERPkze9yxout7lHPe9kOgal/s1600/laying+dates.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="529" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCDeQsrZ9KYATJ_221yhuybVU9VqOXGQ82-Cz4wp4f2SAUak3TRM_8hahBxXP91EKuJUXaHZ8-jdjHdurN-D4rzD5hwJl1XJQ41kWqJPycR18-yjLRfqEKERPkze9yxout7lHPe9kOgal/s640/laying+dates.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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As you can see there isn't much we can learn from this table, other than there are a couple more months of singing yet to go before it gets really busy, and Woodpigeon are as promiscuous as their feral cousins. <br />
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<a href="http://idcd.info/" target="_blank">International Dawn Chorus Day</a> this year is on 1st May. Which, looking at the above table, now makes sense. This is when you are encouraged to get up before dawn, and go into your garden, or on an organised event, and make a note of the birds you can hear. I have done this a couple of times, with mixed results - <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/international-dawn-chorus-day.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/then-it-dawned-on-me.html">here</a><br />
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But we are getting ahead of ourselves.<br />
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I'll leave you with something to ponder over in an idle moment. This is a table of the same birds showing their preferred diet, and the habitats they are mostly likely to be seen in. I thought there might be a correlation between diet, natural habitat, and the date the first eggs are laid.<br />
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Information source <a href="http://www.bto.org/about-birds" target="_blank">British Trust for Ornithology</a>Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-27978836675649792192016-01-09T15:55:00.000+00:002016-01-10T12:37:32.089+00:00Lichens Teach A Life Lesson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0tYNQyDLbGvFJ3ilEhGjCiwwGMEBAEDlI5c8ozXINc1jr8O-TdVTbMSZFdq6ZUFFe8B1NwsXxqfAttnQuA8jIdz5hJADQWwuKU2jiVCeMgjYI60dokIlIRypb4inOjoIZ2DUwu8BfmVYa/s1600/pixie+cups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0tYNQyDLbGvFJ3ilEhGjCiwwGMEBAEDlI5c8ozXINc1jr8O-TdVTbMSZFdq6ZUFFe8B1NwsXxqfAttnQuA8jIdz5hJADQWwuKU2jiVCeMgjYI60dokIlIRypb4inOjoIZ2DUwu8BfmVYa/s640/pixie+cups.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Happy New Year! May the coming year bring you sunshine and a warm wind.<br />
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<em>[Sorry about the big paragraphs in this post. It's just how it turned out]</em><br />
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Between Christmas and New Year this year we made a quick visit to the Lake District, staying in the <a href="http://www.threeshiresinn.co.uk/" target="_blank">Three Shires Inn</a> in Little Langdale. We have been there a few times because it has an open fire, serves a superb apple crumble, and is ideal for the amateur hiker because you can start walking as soon as you leave the front door. Minutes after polishing off a Full English you can be slogging your way up the fells, without a building or car in sight. <br />
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This time we headed westwards up towards a tarn with a breath-taking view down an old glacial valley. <br />
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I like to think distant geological time can still be seen in the Lake District. You can easily imagine glaciers hundreds of feet deep, and high thin waterfalls roaring down the valley sides as the ice melts. And if you ignore the sheep and stone walls you can just about get a glimpse of the post glacial world of peat bogs, juniper and holly, and wind flattened hawthorn. <br />
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It is easy to forget the Lakes we see now is the product of intense agricultural and industrial activity. But I think there is still some connection with the time when reindeer and wolves roamed the fells.<br />
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As per usual the hubby and son yomped ahead, having intense discussions about boots and socks and sweat wicking underpants. I was left to flounder along at my own mum pace. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Behind Again</td></tr>
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But this suits me really because I like to stop to look at the landscape and imagine ice, and eagles soaring in the sky. For Christmas this year I got a small pair of binoculars, so I was also stopping to whip them out and get a closer look at the distant fells. Which actually was a bit disappointing because there is not much to see in the distance. Before you focus on it you already know that white dot is a going to be a sheep. And my binocular wielding skills aren’t yet good enough to keep pace with flying birds. So all I could say was “yes, I can confirm they are birds.” I tucked the binoculars back under my coat (swinging binoculars are so annoying) and carried on looking at the plants at my feet. <br />
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Given that it has been such a wet winter not surprisingly the mosses were luxuriant: a beautiful green and deep and squishy. I don’t know how to identify the different moss species yet. I’ll have a go one day. Don’t worry; I will let you know when I can. <br />
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Nestled amongst the pillows of moss were strangely shaped growths. They were slightly taller than the moss fronds, a greyish green colour and seemed to be covered in dandruff like dust. They were shaped like golf tees, with a short stalk ending in a cup-like shape. In fact I’m pretty sure they were the model for Shrek’s ears. But since they were named in a time before golf was invented, and feature length Hollywood animated films existed, they are called <strong>Pixie Cups</strong>: they look like something the fairy folk would drink from. Though if you think about it who has ever seen a pixie? Do we know what size they are? Maybe they prefer pints. <br />
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Anyway, back at the inn, in front of a roaring fire, with a hot chocolate to hand I used the free wifi to learn more about our pixie cups. They are a form of lichen. <br />
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Until now I didn’t really know what lichen was. Yes, I could point to one, but what exactly is it? <br />
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Well, it’s not a plant, like the moss the pixie cups grew through in Little Langdale, nor is it simply a fungus like a mushroom. Instead it is a composite organism created by the symbiotic relationship between the filaments of a fungus and a type of bacteria - cyanobacteria. It is the combination of species from different botanical kingdoms. The variety of lichens you see – the white circular ones on stone, or bright orange ones on trees – have not evolved like a plant species would from a common ancestor over millions or thousands of years, but instead are the result of a particular combination of particular fungi and bacteria. <br />
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Experiments have been done that show that without its associated bacteria the fungus remains as an unformed mass of hyphae, but will slowly develop into recognisable lichen once the bacteria has been re introduced. Which sounds spooky to me. Like a horror story – a bit like Frankenstein.<br />
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Because lichen is a community rather than a single organism reproduction is tricky. <br />
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Fragments of the lichen may break off and manage to survive separate from the main body, but this is more expansion than actual reproduction. Like cloning I suppose. For sexual reproduction to happen both the bacteria and fungus have to disperse at the same time and travel on wind or water or hiking boots, and land some distance away together and then set up a new community. This can happen ... <strong>but I won’t go into details about it because it’s starting to get mind numbing</strong>. <br />
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However, it brings us back to our Pixie Cups. These golf tee shapes aren’t the lichen itself but its fruiting body. The spores (for want of a better word) grow on the rim of the cups. And the cups are on the end of a stem which raises them above the main flat body of the lichen and gives the spores a better chance of being blown away or brushed along by a passing reindeer, or a schlepping mum.<br />
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A couple of days later I was back home deep in the suburbs of Manchester. My son had flown to Sweden to be with friends for New Year (as you do), and hubby was in bed with man flu. I dithered about what to do with my free time. Should I be a good housewife and tidy up? Or be a bad housewife and sit on the sofa with a box of chocolates? Neither appealed so I forced myself to go for a walk, which seemed the sensible thing to do. <br />
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Now, walking in Manchester is very different to walking in the Lakes. There is no far horizon to gaze at, no fells or pikes or gills, no thoughts about reindeer herds roaming desolate post-glacial landscapes. It is mostly a matter of trudging along streets and taking short cuts through empty windblown parks. <br />
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At first I was very grumpy. My deepest wish is to live in the countryside. It always has been. Right from when I was very young. At one point I opened a savings account I called my Land Account. The plan was to buy some small plot of field, just so I could say it was mine. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it. Just owning land was enough. In the end what little money was in the account was spent on the wedding. Good idea eh?<br />
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So stomping down suburban roads is not how I would ideally like to live. But it looks like I won’t get to live in the country now. Time is running out. And I have no money. So I must make the most of my Mancunian streets, and enjoy the nature I find there.<br />
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After a while my grumpy internal dialogue calmed down and I started to pay attention to where I was. In a tiny park the recent bad weather had torn some branches from the trees. And on them grew patches of luminous green lichen with the same cup like growths as our Pixie Cups. Interesting. <br />
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I took a picture, and <strong>then went on a determined hunt for more lichen</strong>. <br />
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It is amazing what you can find when you look. There was another grey green type growing on tarmac. When you walk past it just looks like a grey splodge – like chewing gum - but when you crouch down to take a photo you can see it is made from little stubby branches.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XRyh2onPQ7YjUjkJLIIrJBfAP7FwUtm1pJ9J8cszXkON4H7pjAG5KJGbXGygTZE38exrm3E79EkuhLy01s9UAiTJNCCOVsJ_C4tQMNUsDbAsR5CMycVdYNHgZ4hyphenhyphenFrtJm20FM4aEPnDc/s1600/pavement+lichen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1XRyh2onPQ7YjUjkJLIIrJBfAP7FwUtm1pJ9J8cszXkON4H7pjAG5KJGbXGygTZE38exrm3E79EkuhLy01s9UAiTJNCCOVsJ_C4tQMNUsDbAsR5CMycVdYNHgZ4hyphenhyphenFrtJm20FM4aEPnDc/s640/pavement+lichen.jpg" width="524" /></a></div>
<br />
And another powdery lichen on a tree on closer inspection looked like thousands of seabirds on a vertiginously tall cliff-face overlooking a wild sea.<br />
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<br />
<br />
The lesson I learnt is that <strong>what we seek in the vastness of National Parks, also exists in the grey drudgery of cities.</strong> <br />
<br />
It is true if you want to be awed and challenged then yes, the sublime you look for is there out in the fells, and not at the end of your road. BUT <em><strong>the wild part of the wildlife that you can so easily see in the countryside also exists in the crevices of your streets. </strong></em><br />
<br />
What magic strangeness unites too separate entities to make a third? How can such a seemingly unlikely and precarious relationship survive successfully for thousands, maybe millions of years? Lichens were eaten by the reindeer that roamed Britain at least 8 thousand years ago. The reindeer have gone, but the lichen remain. Likewise the lichen that grows on the tarmaced footpaths of Manchester once grew on its sandstone bedrock left behind when the ice age glaciers finally retreated. <br />
<br />
That’s awesome. <br />
<br />
What did Dylan Thomas call it? <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower<br />
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees<br />
Is my destroyer.<br />
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose<br />
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.<br />
<br />
The force that drives the water through the rocks<br />
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams<br />
Turns mine to wax.<br />
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins<br />
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.</blockquote>
<br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-81568265343624557502015-12-20T19:01:00.000+00:002016-01-09T16:14:49.438+00:00No Filter Caterpillar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMR8gGzEJJTGhHwWxZqCRRr4f3GZloxS5ozZZTAF2PFwEPgwBYeIFXmafvBE10kHvKkVmsK_wBOLl1hDq-3zY65QdY_Zr3F_ugdd0cxs7f8ZrSJpUnt5omYCjxSjKh7XZRKOaLs0nitmO/s1600/caterpillar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" height="484" id="blogsy-1450638515231.508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMR8gGzEJJTGhHwWxZqCRRr4f3GZloxS5ozZZTAF2PFwEPgwBYeIFXmafvBE10kHvKkVmsK_wBOLl1hDq-3zY65QdY_Zr3F_ugdd0cxs7f8ZrSJpUnt5omYCjxSjKh7XZRKOaLs0nitmO/s640/caterpillar.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />This week's post is going to be a simple, straight-down-the-barrel, amateur naturalist one. There will be no underlying themes, or thoughtful conclusions. Just a quick glance at a bit of seasonal nature, then that's 2015's blog done and dusted, and we can relax back to watching Christmas TV and eating mince pies.<br />
<br />
This is a caterpillar. A very luminous caterpillar. No filters were applied. <br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="more"></a><br />
<a name='more'></a>I uncovered him while wrestling Garden65 into some order. A robin chirruped in a nearby tree. I took a quick snap of our caterpillar and tucked him under some vegetation but I do I fear for his safety.<br />
<br />
After I'd peeled off the wellies I plonked down in front of the PC and had a bash at ID-ing our little glowing friend. This was not an easy task ...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii00n6PKLg9WcRS2iSudmtBYNXmhD2h_wSMaX038HoL489fv7dI5W5jaD3kXVl-9v7dnmqlUTRSycKIeYR7KVBiO0HjE8tbwMHoq7lmovttVSUZKE4etOt-gbPN73r4rpzrzO5i6F9VoEj/s1600/identification.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" height="360" id="blogsy-1450638515173.292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii00n6PKLg9WcRS2iSudmtBYNXmhD2h_wSMaX038HoL489fv7dI5W5jaD3kXVl-9v7dnmqlUTRSycKIeYR7KVBiO0HjE8tbwMHoq7lmovttVSUZKE4etOt-gbPN73r4rpzrzO5i6F9VoEj/s640/identification.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wildlifeinsight.com/british-caterpillar-galleries/british-moth-caterpillar-galleries/" target="_blank">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Which one do you think? <div>
<br />
I've settled for the answer that he is a moth caterpillar, rather than a butterfly, but will not be drawn any further.</div>
<br />
<br />Apart from the problem that most caterpillars, like our friend, are green, I didn't fully realise that while in this larval stage they continue to grow. Once hatched they begin as the tiny energetic munchers of leaves, the ones that hang from threads from trees and catch in your hair when you're gardening. And then progress through 4 or 5 instars to end up as the juicy grub we see here. Identifying them from photographs on the net are not then easy because they don't show all the changes each moth goes through before it turns into a pupa.<br />
<br />So we shall graciously abandon the attempt at specificity.<br /><br />Moths and butterflies use different strategies to survive winter. Some like Red Admirals (<a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/halloween-butterflies.html" target="_blank">this post</a>) migrate south, others like Peacocks and Brimstones hibernate. The advice is to leave these alone if you find them, but if they are awake in a centrally heated room it would be kindest to put them outside in a shed or sheltered place. Being an egg or chrysalis is another way to wait the cold months out. But the most common method is to hunker down in vegetation as a caterpillar. And this is what the majority of British moths do. <br /><br />So there we have it. We have admired the outrageous beauty of a humble caterpillar, learnt a few things about his journey to adulthood, and now know what to do if a butterfly unexpectedly joins in our Christmas festivities. <br />
<br />Wishing you a happy few days. Garden65 will overwinter on the sofa and will emerge butterfly-like in the new year.<br />
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-521291941730575942015-12-13T20:53:00.000+00:002015-12-13T20:53:42.108+00:00Flood Defences<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It's been a wet winter.<br />
<br />
Due to climate warming? Maybe. Some say so. <br />
<br />
Due to human-caused climate change? Maybe. Maybe not. <br />
<br />
Has it rained before in winter? Yep<br />
Have the rivers flooded before? Yes<br />
Have they flooded to such extremes before? Yes.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
As a Guardian reading, Green voting archaeology graduate my sensibilities naturally lean towards the 'we're all going to hell in a handcart' variety of environmental opinions. The basis for these ideas however is a little shaky.<br />
<br />
I could definitely point to decreasing numbers of birds and insects as proof of environmental impoverishment. But I'm guessing this is due to pollution and neglect, rather than the amount of carbon in the air. Whether manmade climate change is a distant cause of the extreme flood events of recent years I cannot say for certain. The physics and mathematical models used to explain this relationship are too complex for me to understand. It becomes a matter of faith and world view. Scientists would hotly deny it, but for most people agreement with scientific explanations of anything must be a matter of belief and trust, not complete understanding. It works in a similar way to religion. The educated Latin-reading, logarithm-juggling priests tell me this is the way the world works, and if that doesn't sound too outrageous I'll meekly go along with their pronouncements. <br />
<br />
To counter this inevitable passivity I try to look to what I know for certain. The empirical scientific approach if you like.<br />
<br />
Does it rain in winter? <br />
Do rivers flood in winter?<br />
<br />
I realise it is a moot point to those whose houses have flooded, but for us without the fear I think it is worth remembering that all the rivers that surround us are not flowing as they would like. Rivers as we experience them now are all shaped by human activity. This is most evident in towns and cities. Our dear old Mersey is severely canalised and even disappears below Stockport's main shopping street. But it is also true of rural rivers. They flow through agricultural land that is managed. Riverbeds are dredged. Banks are worn by livestock, or reinforced with crates of rocks. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4abp82KG5B3-ZpDIRUooK4wZT1ijjvIu1qlaHfN30NG71e-GsyMSqooPacitcDKT-6piZKM0U-rgo6fA6362p_oTDL1DLIjxdeMxBPfA2UaWIAQUPrDjCgvCDdVnNC2opoyQg39_dICX/s1600/Thames.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4abp82KG5B3-ZpDIRUooK4wZT1ijjvIu1qlaHfN30NG71e-GsyMSqooPacitcDKT-6piZKM0U-rgo6fA6362p_oTDL1DLIjxdeMxBPfA2UaWIAQUPrDjCgvCDdVnNC2opoyQg39_dICX/s640/Thames.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thames in 1817 before embankment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That a flood is deemed disastrous is a reflection on the degree to which a landscape is populated by people. A flood is not disastrous if people aren't in its way. It is merely a natural seasonal event. A river that meanders through its floodplain unhindered by human activity will overflow its banks out onto the surrounding land in response to increased water input from its catchment area, and no one need shriek <br />
<blockquote>
<h4>
'what's the government doing?', </h4>
<h4>
'we need to stop burning fossil fuel',</h4>
<h4>
'it's never been like this before'.</h4>
</blockquote>
In reading around this subject I found a blog by a Phd student about 'flooding, community and resilience': <a href="http://herecomestheflood.com/" target="_blank">herecomestheflood</a>. I really recommend it if you would like an unemotional discussion of these events. <br />
<br />
One topic he writes about is the public's understanding of flood risk terms. A once in a hundred years flood is not one that will happen once in a hundred years, but one that has 1% chance of happening every year. Worth thinking about. There is more detail in this post: <a href="http://herecomestheflood.com/2015/12/07/my-long-read-understanding-floods-how-big-how-often-and-how-should-we-defend/" target="_blank">My Long Read: Understanding floods – how big, how often, and how should we defend?</a><br />
<br />
I'll let this scientist have the final word:<br />
<em></em><br />
<blockquote>
<em>This isn’t an act of god, it isn’t the Environment Agency’s fault, it’s simply what happens when you mix society and nature.</em></blockquote>
Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-67015783001611889272015-12-06T17:12:00.000+00:002016-02-12T13:53:25.562+00:00Eco Illiteracy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The term ‘ecoliteracy’ is threaded through the nature conservation discussion. Many grant applications site the improvement of eco literacy as justification for their projects. Wildlife charities say the environment is being depleted because the public are not <em>ecoliterate</em>.<br />
<br />
Too true I say. Look at this destructive example of hedge management I came across this Sunday walk. Looking at the savaged stumps do you think any care was taken? Forethought? Horticultural training? Awareness of consequences? <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
These are blackthorn. I picked sloes from them in October, flung them in a jar of gin and am saving the resulting lusciousness to welcome in Christmas. But it’s not the deprivation of next year’s seasonal alcohol that I’m angry about, but the evident aggression and speed of the hedge cutting. Maybe, though I doubt it, the blackthorn was growing over the path, and its nasty thorns were injuring people. Maybe it did need managing. Then why has it not be pruned or coppiced? I’m guessing it is because the person who did it was <em>eco illiterate</em>. He hadn’t been taught. Taught not only the practical skill of cutting back hedges (surely a noble skill a man would be proud to have?), but also the ecological consequences. I will have to wait for my next lot of sloes, but so will the birds and insects, the creatures that need the plants.<br />
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<br />
<br />
It is not simply a case of the lack of skill and knowledge, but it seems to me, a sign of disrespect. This is where <em>‘ecoliteracy’ </em> becomes more of a philosophical or moral term. And here perhaps is the problem. It is not a matter of telling junior school children how bees make honey, or high school pupils the chemistry of photosynthesis. Nor will expensive glossy BBC nature documentaries, or cosy Springwatch programmes (though I think Chris Packham is a darling) truly increase public awareness of the needs of wildlife, in other words how the world works. <br />
<br />
To stop destroying nature people must also be emotionally and socially literate. Empathy and an understanding that we are a part of the world, not the lords of it, would change our relationship with nature, so that our actions become ones based on nurturance and tolerance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Having said all this I don't want to be a finger-wagging puritan. It is easy to point out mistakes and give the impression you don't suffer from the same failure. In this spirit I confess to an embarrassing mistake in my recent post <a href="http://garden65.blogspot.co.uk/2015/11/rivers.html" target="_blank">'Rivers'</a>. I am, dear reader, eco illiterate. I will stump up a coffee and danish to anyone who spots it.Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-34873259430670689612015-11-29T18:02:00.000+00:002015-11-29T22:16:53.445+00:00The Wrigglers In The Dirt<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
As you know I find subjects to write about by simply walking out into Garden65. It won't be long before the question 'What's that?' has popped up and sent me scurrying back to Wikipedia.<br />
<br />
The other day I stepped out of the front door to go Christmas shopping and come face to face with this tiny centipede wriggling on a stump not two feet from the front door. It is as though Nature had flung a challenge. “Go on, call yourself a nature blogger, see what you can do with this then.”<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
“Ha!” I replied. “Easy”<br />
<br />
Nature waggled a cautionary finger, “No boring your readers with 500 words on the difference between centipedes and millipedes.”<br />
<br />
I hesitated for only a moment. There must be more to centipedes than the anatomical arrangement of their legs. As we have learnt from this blog before, where nature goes humankind follows with reams of words. I typed ‘centipede’ into Google.<br />
<br />
Nature quickly quashed that impulse. “And don’t go thinking repackaging Wikipedia pages counts, either.”<br />
<br />
I was stumped. I don’t possess any fascinating knowledge or amusing anecdotes about centipedes. Sorry. I filed the photos of the little chap, and carried on shopping.<br />
<br />
But today, finally, a use for our many-legged friend has sprung to mind, so we shall proceed knowing his brave appearance in the front garden was indeed highly significant, and not mere coincidence.<br />
<br />
<br />
Centipedes, and other tiny invertebrates, are the unseen foundation on which all ecosystems are built. Not only are they food for higher forms of animal (I'm sure our centipede was eaten by a hungry winter bird), but provide what is termed in the cold world of modern conservation, 'ecosystem services'. They help in making soil and aerating it, pollination, decomposition, pest control, and nutrient recycling. The world would be a different place without them, and yet they are generally unacknowledged, overlooked in favour of larger, fluffier more attractive animals.<br />
<br />
The phenomenon is repeated when we go further down the food chain. Micro-organisms are even more numerous and microscopic than the tiny insects in our gardens, and, again, are vital to the health of our world. I'm sure you have been reading about the microflora in our own guts, and how our health relies on the right balance of bacteria. Scientists are beginning to study these small entities and discovering their importance. Similarly, I've noticed an increase of articles in nature journals about the need for micro-organisms in soil to maintain and improve fertility, and simply to stop it from running away into the sea. These reports include the concern about the over use of antibiotics and artificial fertilisers, unwittingly, but dangerously, killing off important organisms. (In the same way neonicotinoids kill not only aphids but bees as well).<br />
<br />
The theme I'm picking up is that science, and the media that reports it, is coming to terms with the realisation health is built on the unseen elements of nature, not on machines nor the chemicals or food products we manufacture.<br />
<br />
It also occurs to me that the concept of dark matter is of similar significance. I don't understand it at all, but if the general idea is that the universe is largely made of a force that cannot be seen, then it must have the same impact on our understanding of life as the recognition of its microscopic foundations.<br />
<br />
The new narrative of our place within the scheme of things may be moving from a human centred (together with gods created in our own image) one to one in which the invisible, the ugly, and the downright scary are the true citizens. Our health and our existence relies on the 'insignificant'.<br />
<br />
It would be good if the world's leaders, political and commercial, came to this understanding too. Is the health of a nation, and the worldwide social system in which it exists, dependent on the wellbeing of the many: the silent, the poor, the unattractive, the dangerous? The wrigglers in the dirt?<br />
Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-69778144225761345452015-11-22T17:10:00.000+00:002015-11-22T19:49:11.926+00:00Victory Wrestled From Defeat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWeLsXtOBgmKrM8gtyFvR5QB2s7St4RdOuAElRcrULRPch8Fw0GKtxUp61gcAGHKp2ueZwiA3lyuuMxZpQjfeRDzaqKpd9B6qLi66-WbA4DPbKr3twsrJYZH-c-1wSI3zbyYrKmUnr7CB7/s1600/unknown+plant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWeLsXtOBgmKrM8gtyFvR5QB2s7St4RdOuAElRcrULRPch8Fw0GKtxUp61gcAGHKp2ueZwiA3lyuuMxZpQjfeRDzaqKpd9B6qLi66-WbA4DPbKr3twsrJYZH-c-1wSI3zbyYrKmUnr7CB7/s640/unknown+plant.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
If we don't count the occasional introduction of garden centre plants there are only two times of the year I do some proper Gardeners Question Time type of gardening. One in spring when young weeds are suddenly everywhere, and then now, in November, when the dead and dying need tidying away.<br />
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This season's visitation also involved the digging up of the 'what was I thinking?' plants. <br />
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These include the climbing rose with the vicious thorns and complete absence of flowers, the gloomy comfrey from when I was going to be a dedicated gardener, and the above blush-inducing tumescence. <br />
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What is it? I have no idea. Maybe it's a vegetable, a kind of celery. Maybe it's a self-sown Triffid.<br />
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Whatever. It's gone into the green bin. Though I imagine there are some roots lurking deep in the soil who will make their presence felt next year.<br />
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The result of all this seasonal effort is bare soil and naked fences. And I don't know how to fill them. Is it acceptable to admit your garden has defeated you? If I had the money I would employ a professional garden designer to thrash it into submission, but the combination of my relative poverty and lack of horticultural knowledge means attempts to turn the garden into an oasis of refined coherence only seem to result in a melee of bullying and strangulation.<br />
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I am tempted to do my own rewilding experiment. If I step back entirely and let succession take its course perhaps a natural grace will develop. Flocks of birds will return, beavers will dam the ponds, and I'd howl with the wolves at night.<br />
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In reality, if you let a suburban garden develop at its own pace the climax community would less romantically involve brambles and nettles, and possibly a nest of rats. Super for biodiversity, but not so pleasing to gaze at while doing the washing up.<br />
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Yet, for all this angst, I did enjoy the work. It was cold, but I warmed up after chasing comfrey roots. The sky was a pearlescent grey. Starlings chatted in a distant tree. The hubby brought out steaming cups of tea. I even pricked a finger on the rose thorns which means I've now got a grubby plaster as a badge of gardening honour. <br />
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A thought spontaneously bubbled up that I would like Heaven to be a never-ending day of November gardening. Which is not to say I don't expect it to be warm and sunny, spent in pleasant indolence with 72 virgins at my beck and call (perhaps I'll give that last expectation some more thought). It's just that doing meaningful physical work outside at a time of year when there is so much to see and feel makes me happy. Not a champagne swigging, dancing on tables kind of happy, but a content happy. <br />
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Nature feeds the soul, however much your garden may sap it.<br />
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-55424881439527526052015-11-17T22:56:00.000+00:002015-11-22T17:14:47.591+00:00A Witchy Prose Poem: While Barney Blows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No, I don't know what a prose poem is either. I'm just using it as an excuse for posting an incoherent bit of something I've whipped up while Barney does his stuff.<br />
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"Rolled in yellow light. Wading through carpet in slippers as heavy as hiking boots. Surrounded by hissing appliances. The television whispers to the low watt light. The PC sings with the central heating.<br />
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Entombed in warmth, biscuited, enveloped in cushions. Maslow’s needs met, Witchy rages at her privilege. Gifted with all, her blood slumbers, her arse grows fat, and her neurones numb.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>She knows. Do not think she is unaware of her unearned luck. A saintly previous life can only explain this comfort while Barney blows outside.<br />
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Would that this safety could lighten her heart. Make her eyes shine, not close them in afternoon drowse. Somewhere there must be some edge, she rails in the middle of her sofa. This could go on forever, until next year at least.<br />
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Cocooned, mummified, stopped for the winter.<br />
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Barney shoulders into a window. The hem of a curtain sways. The corner of the witch’s eye notices.<br />
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Outside.<br />
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Outside is dark and silvery cold. It rolls past.<br />
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She draws aside the curtain and looks through its pane of glass. Rain rivers down the lizard skin road of a bruised night. Diamond studded cars glisten.<br />
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She looks back over her shoulder.<br />
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Facebook looks back.<br />
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Twist, push, the window is open. Out. She is out. Her breath is taken away. Shoulders round protectively. Skin bites. It feels good. Slippers soften. Feet wet.<br />
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There is a roar like a Portuguese wave. And she joins it, dancing down the road. On an edge. An edge of suburban sense.<br />
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Let her go. The hissing yellow house will always be her home."<br />
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-3334621599216799952015-11-15T22:29:00.000+00:002015-11-15T22:34:10.322+00:00Rivers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVap8YRyYZ45GlH25y8DgnCgpR5yBzn5S7fEgb-fO4m_Tl62-RacaoOqQ2d3Q9k6SdJQzjjPn9GXaSjTLo0MfwvPpD4SxAXq7jKFyODIpEAdv8buHa7wKnmwwFgmRXvxyAfIB1MVEAiUQB/s1600/Mersey+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVap8YRyYZ45GlH25y8DgnCgpR5yBzn5S7fEgb-fO4m_Tl62-RacaoOqQ2d3Q9k6SdJQzjjPn9GXaSjTLo0MfwvPpD4SxAXq7jKFyODIpEAdv8buHa7wKnmwwFgmRXvxyAfIB1MVEAiUQB/s640/Mersey+2.jpg" id="blogsy-1447626785735.1824" class="" alt="" width="640" height="480"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">River Mersey at West Didsbury</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p>So it wasn't the named storm Abigail, but an unnamed blob (scientific term) of rain that caused England's rivers to flood.</p>
<p>Hoping for some drama to enliven a suburban weekend I stomped down to the Mersey, and was gratified to find it had indeed over spilled its allotted embankments and was sitting sulkily across the pathways. </p>
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How exciting to have a well used public path closed by an act of nature. It was almost like being on a proper hike where you have to use your wits to find the route ahead. In this case the challenge was too great, I simply turned round and walked along a road to re-join the river further up. That is what I, as a middle-aged mum, did anyway. A rather nice young Irishman who I debated the problem with chose the more macho solution by clambering up the bank, but I was too chicken to follow.<br>
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<p>Flattened grass and mounds of twigs showed the river had been up to a metre higher earlier on. Which is just what the graph produced by the Environment Agency shows. This particular graph is for Northenden weir, and it shows the peak flow had occurred during the night and early morning. </p>
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<p>It looks like the level is rising again. The nearest measuring station upriver is at Baguley Brook at Northern Moor. I'm guessing that a high river level there would mean an increase in water volume here a few hours later. This graph then is ominous:</p>
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<p>The Mersey is already well over the height it normally floods at, and it doesn't seem to be falling much. All that water is coming our way.</p>
<p>These graphs are really interesting (as long as your house isn't in the way) and I recommend a play with the EA website to see how your local rivers are flowing. <a href="https://flood-warning-information.service.gov.uk/" target="_blank">Live Flood Warnings</a></p>
<p>Once I'd bypassed the flood I went to the weir at Northenden expecting to see a wild torrent of water, but it had completely disappeared and there was barely a ripple to mark its existence.</p>
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<p>So on I trudged. There was a heron, and a grebe, and an abandoned tyre.</p>
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<p>The walk had a strange meditative quality to it. The air was warm, and the river, although fast flowing, had a rolling motion. I was feeling fuzzy headed because I had spent the day before indoors*, trying to process what has happened in Paris. There weren't many people about, so it was just me and the grey water and the grey sky.</p>
<p>The whole situation is so complicated I doubt it can be fully understood, and no words I have can solve it. To borrow the river as a metaphor, we are like twigs carried along by the flood of history. What is happening has deep roots in time and is so powerful we as individuals cannot stop it. But, this particular war is about culture. The enemy wants to destroy culture, not just ours, but their own as well, and this is where we can do something. Every unproductive act of joy is an act of defiance. Every time you eat in a restaurant, go to a gig, share in another's culture you are defeating the enemy. Even watching Xfactor and Strictly becomes heroic (maybe). So this blog, which tries to find meaning and story from a mixture of personal observation and science, is my contribution, my show of strength.</p>
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<p>*A comforting marathon of The Onedin Line</p>
</div><div style="text-align: right; font-size: small; clear: both;" id="blogsy_footer"><a href="http://blogsyapp.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://blogsyapp.com/images/blogsy_footer_icon.png" alt="Posted with Blogsy" style="vertical-align: middle; margin-right: 5px;" width="20" height="20" />Posted with Blogsy</a></div>Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-69662197869252293712015-11-12T22:06:00.000+00:002015-11-12T22:06:12.103+00:00Flirting With Monty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-11482496863609131632015-11-11T20:51:00.002+00:002015-11-11T20:51:10.812+00:00Without a Name<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Goodness, mushroom identification is difficult.<br />
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I think these are a species of Bonnet mushroom.<br />
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Maybe Angel's Bonnet<br />
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Maybe Ivory Bonnet.<br />
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Or Milking Bonnet<br />
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I don't know. I just have to let go of the need to name, and let them live their brief little lives unlabelled.<br />
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Have you ever given a false name in Starbucks? It's one of the few sources of excitement I have these days. As I wait in the queue, eyeing the naughty pastries, my heart starts to beat faster. What shall I be called today? How exotic dare I go? I try to claim the names of assertive women, real or fictional. Dynamic, shiny bright women with zippy names they completely embody. Natasha Kaplinsky for example. What would your life look like if you were called Natasha Kaplinsky? Rather than Janet Walsh.</div>
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The tantalising fear is that the barista will stop scribbling on the side of the paper cup, look at me with a puzzled look on her face and say, "No you're not". But they never do, it's disappointing really. Even when I declare my new pretend name in a wobbly voice that ends in a squeak, they still don't question it. The final test is the owning of the cappuccino when it's finally made. "Yes, that's me." </div>
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For more seditious reasons I also give false names on online forms. Natasha Earnshaw is my current nom de plume. The returning 'Dear Natasha' emails make me giggle.</div>
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The delicate white mushrooms exist freely without a name. As do all the inhabitants of the natural world. With perhaps the exception of our micro-chipped pets. We humans, however, cannot. </div>
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-71791579555813204202015-11-07T17:33:00.000+00:002015-11-07T17:36:26.763+00:00Rootling In The Soil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYpPqE9tGi8IbO-n_lV_v19PxXzn0W9eiQCh8xh0wztykPoiYh1ZptYNW1EZpnBKs7AVepQuBd-WAUD53VRA5EFAIeUqV8LLf-YbNiBLDpzWq1ATgoALgrZgYV76K83hF4fQtC1L4vtUh/s1600/mycellia.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYpPqE9tGi8IbO-n_lV_v19PxXzn0W9eiQCh8xh0wztykPoiYh1ZptYNW1EZpnBKs7AVepQuBd-WAUD53VRA5EFAIeUqV8LLf-YbNiBLDpzWq1ATgoALgrZgYV76K83hF4fQtC1L4vtUh/s640/mycellia.png" width="491" /></a></div>
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Like the mycelium in this image I have many hyphae probing for nutrients in the soil of the internet. I mean I'm always on the look out for new places to find new information about the natural world.<br />
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A session on Twitter usually begins by following a hyperlink to a newspaper article, then the opening of a new tab to find the author's own webpage, that usually leads to their own blog. In amongst the writing may be a reference to another expert, and then the whole circuit begins again via bursts of Amazon browsing, and the rush to Tescos to get a new printer cartridge to print out that 20 page pdf. <br />
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The above photo is of the mycelium (fungus) growing round the roots of a pine seedling. It was being retweeted on Twitter without the name of its originator . Then it appeared on my Facebook feed. This time it was attributed to someone called David Read apparently from the site <a href="http://returntonature.us/" target="_blank">'Return to Nature'</a>. So off I go down the rabbit hole of the internet .... and come across this chap: Dan de Lion. <br />
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Yes - Dan de Lion.<br />
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Suddenly the study of fungal growth became fascinating. I rooted around his website. Dan is an American herbalist. He leads foraging walks, and has a fondness for semi-naked didgeridoo playing. If I didn't have domestic responsibilities I'd be on the plane right now.<br />
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Alas, you may have noticed, Dan de Lion is not David Read. He merely blogged the mycelium picture. Emeritus Professor David Read is a sober suited scientist who has written the definitive work on Mycorrhizal Symbiosis. So lets settle down and have a swift look at the symbiosis between plant roots and underground fungus. It is why we are here after all.<br />
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Prof Read says: <br />
<blockquote>
Mycorrhizas, not roots, are the chief organs of nutrient uptake by land plants</blockquote>
Plant roots and soil fungus have a mutually beneficial relationship. The fungus gains access to carbohydrates the plant makes from photosynthesis in its leaves, and the plant benefits from the soil minerals the fungus can access and its higher water absorption capacity. <br />
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The network of mycelium around one plant can be so extensive that it interacts with the system around neighbouring plants, with the result all plants within a community are linked together, chemically communicating and feeding together. Some people say that because of this connection underground a group of plants is not made of a number of single independent specimens but is one single organism. For example, if one dandelion within a group growing on your lawn gets eaten by the family pet rabbit the greater 'dandelion organism' continues to exist even though one part of it has gone.<br />
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Knowing this I like to look at the street trees that grow in suburban Manchester and try to think of them as one big tree spreading out under the tarmac and down along the road. It is good to see things differently. Our understanding of the world is not as complete as we generally think. A whole other universe carries on around us without our knowing.<br />
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Researchers are looking into ways of exploiting this plant/fungus relationship. The most obvious application is to increase the mycorrhizal fungi within agricultural and horticultural soils to improve crops yields and plant health. This also benefits the soil itself by improving aeration and moisture content. The fertility of the world's soils is decreasing, and the soil itself is disappearing so using this mechanism on a big scale could prevent that particular hellish pathway we are going down. It would also help with mopping up chemicals from contaminated soils.<br />
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As our dreadlocked guru says:<br />
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Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-5617929926191823392015-11-04T15:18:00.000+00:002015-11-04T15:20:49.642+00:00Specious Names<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUT2O4qd1mc0plRL5Xjsw54b1eUu6ZKDuNd_HVwV3K5N0G_81yhq6PA-U7ughp9WQT5eBcnc2ak0B_M-5rz4yeNQNWMQmu4PS2-wGh5c1Qvhf_chxVvKwdvlQfR62ahxR2OQJbz05i-keH/s1600/mersey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUT2O4qd1mc0plRL5Xjsw54b1eUu6ZKDuNd_HVwV3K5N0G_81yhq6PA-U7ughp9WQT5eBcnc2ak0B_M-5rz4yeNQNWMQmu4PS2-wGh5c1Qvhf_chxVvKwdvlQfR62ahxR2OQJbz05i-keH/s640/mersey.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mersey on a Dull Sunday Afternoon</td></tr>
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Walking down by the Mersey last Sunday I began to despair of finding anything to write about. The river banks have been mown into one long strip of drying sticks. Where is the story there? Luckily just before I despondently tramped home I stumbled across a patch of Autumn Crocuses craning their necks out from the dry grass. <br />
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You would think you’d be confident in identifying these as Autumn Crocus, they are crocus shaped and it is autumn, but no, that would be a specious assertion.<br />
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There are three flowers of similar appearance that pop up this time of year. They come in shades of purple, with bright yellow stamens, grow out from the parent corm with long white tubes, and none have accompanying leaves. One common name for them is ‘Naked Ladies’, because they are not clothed by surrounding leaves.<br />
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To the casual passerby out for a Sunday stroll the distinction is unimportant. The aesthetic value of the pretty flowers is not enhanced by knowing precisely which species they are, but there is always a story to discover if you ask ‘What is that?’<br />
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Like a folk tale of yore it begins with a swapping of identities. Autumn Crocus is also known as <strong>Meadow Saffron</strong>, both are naked ladies, but true Meadow Saffron is not a saffron-bearing crocus at all, but a lily (Colchicum autumnale).<br />
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This lily is bit of a femme fatale. She contains a chemical colchicine that is used to treat gout, but take too much and it turns to a poison, which has no antidote. Be careful on those foraging trips.<br />
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Meadow Saffron is one of those rare plants that are native to Britain. Whereas the plant it shares its name with is not. The genuine <strong>Autumn Crocus</strong>, Crocus nudiflorus (once again we are back to naked ladies) was brought here from the Pyrenees by mediaeval monks in need of something to spice up their dull monastic gruel. The spice saffron is harvested from the Crocus sativus flower which doesn’t grow well in Britain, particularly here in the Northwest, so the monks grew a less potent form of crocus, but one that could survive our cold damp conditions. It was also used as a medicine to treat malaria, common in the times when much of the land was still marsh. Thus it began as a cultivated plant, but escaped into the wild, and was first spotted there not long ago in the 18th century.<br />
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The tale hasn’t finished. Not all crocuses that grow in autumn have travelled the same journey. The ones I found last Sunday may look the same but come from somewhere else. If you look close you can see the flowers have darker veins than the monk’s crocus. Their binomial name is speciosus, which means showy, and one of its common names is <strong>Showy Autumn Crocus</strong>. Its attractive nature is the reason for its introduction into the Victorian gardens of Britain.<br />
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At this point we enter the world of the great plant hunters and their early attempts to turn their interest in plants into a science. Our showy crocus first appears in the records in the early 19th century. Though, if you think about it, it had existed unnamed by bewhiskered Victorian gentlemen for thousands of years before.<br />
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A German, Friedrich von Bieberstein, sent by Catherine the Great to do some botanising on her southern borders, and William Herbert, Dean of Manchester, were two men who corresponded together about this particular crocus that had been discovered in the lands round the Black Sea; with it finally being called <strong>Bieberstein’s Crocus</strong>. <br />
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Herbert was an expert on crocuses and other bulbous plants. He grew many varieties at home and experimented with hybridisation. His book ‘A History of the Species of Crocus’ was published in 1847. He was doing this at the time people were shaping the concept of evolution, and his work with plant breeding was noted by Darwin:<br />
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<em>‘no one has treated this subject with more spirit and ability’</em></div>
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However, being a clergyman Herbert didn’t fully agree with the Theory of Evolution, but chose to believe instead that species are simply varieties of one type, rather than separately evolved distinct species, thus not differing far from God’s original design. Funnily enough this is an explanation of species given in a Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet that recently got posted through the door.<br />
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This long story, which I’ve simplified for the sake of your patience, is yet another illustration of why you must keep asking ‘What is that?’ Because beneath the glib answer ‘a flower’ are the tangled roots of (wo)man’s relationship with nature: medicine, food, science.<br />
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What you see on Sunday strolls is not nature’s story, but humankind’s.Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-61101117260135704352015-10-31T18:07:00.004+00:002015-10-31T18:08:06.365+00:00Short Seasonal Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A short Witchy story, inspired by recent trips to Manchester Museum. I'm afraid it doesn't have any useful nature tips in it, it's just a bit of seasonal fluff.<br />
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"Witchy stepped away from the screaming children and their cheese sandwiches and went to sit out under the wide blue sky. In a rare instance of misjudgement she had decided to visit the museum at half-term.<br />
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The entrance hall, normally cathedrally quiet, swarmed with families. Their main activity appeared to be eating. Witchy momentarily faltered in her resolution but then sailed through the mob in the conviction mothers would not want to steer their children to the particular display she was heading for. <br />
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The case she had in mind was at the end of a side gallery. It was reached by following a labyrinthine trail up marble stairs, then under a whale skeleton, past taxidermied monkeys, then along a corridor lined with pinned butterflies. <br />
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Her gallery was narrow. Blinds shaded the windows. The light that did manage to squeeze through illumined dancing dust motes. She breasted through the sunbeams and reverentially moved down the corridor, her skirts sweeping up the dust as it fell on creaking floorboards. In the gloom she stood before her cabinet. It was old, a fitting of the original Victorian museum. Its wooden frame was darkened by years of polish. The glass itself was finer than that used in modern cabinets. Ripples and minute bubbles were trapped in its fabric, slightly distorting the object it protected.<br />
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Screams echoed from the Egyptian galleries. It was not a week to pay quiet homage to Sekmet. Children have a natural affinity with mummies and crocodile gods, so during school holidays their care-givers bring them to the museum to let them press sticky fingers to cases of dead people and sacrificed cats. It is fun and educational. Anthropology lite.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sekmet</td></tr>
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In her overlooked gallery Witchy tried to block out the hubbub. Before her was what at first looked like an overcoat a homeless person might wear. It was a large shapeless garment draped over a legless mannequin. Why would she want to see this, and not the turquoise bling of the Egyptians? Because in its tatty folds lies a greater magic. This was last worn by a shaman dancing down the corridors of consciousness in a time when the spirit world was nearer than it is now. <br />
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The tunic is made from fine deer skin. Some areas shine dark from wear and sweat, others are cracked dry. Strips of leather and woven ribbons hang from its shoulders and down its arms. When she danced these would lift and move like feathers. If you lean in close to the glass (Witchy had to put her reading glasses on) you can see hundreds of beads and small metal shapes sewn to the body. Today they are dull, hanging limply, but when people knew their symbolic power they shone in firelight, dazzling, mesmerising. Dozens of silver bells strung from the ribbons would fly out as the dance grew wilder calling to the spirits to come closer.<br />
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Witchy remembered.<br />
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Suddenly a young girl crashed into the gallery. Witchy swung round and glared at her like an angry cat. The girl stopped short and dashed back out, but she’ll never forget that look.<br />
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Perhaps it is time to leave. It is difficult to contemplate the ineffable when you can hear a cash machine tinkling in the shop below.<br />
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Witchy retraced her pilgrimage and stepped out under the wide blue sky. It was a sharp October day, sunny and cold. Before flying off she took a moment to sit in the neighbouring university gardens. It was very pleasant. There were many young students passing through, but the atmosphere was quiet. Voices were indistinct. It sounded as though she was sitting beside a burbling brook, gloop gloop along.<br />
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Tomorrow would be Halloween. A time when even the numbest person risked a peek behind the veil of the material world.<br />
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Witchy mused on the discomfort we feel with the possibility of other worlds, natural or transcendent, and how we try to disarm them by putting them in display cases and labelling them ‘Other’.<br />
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She looked over the young people, saw the children tumbling out of the museum, and wondered who of them would unlock the glass cabinet."<br />
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<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5303642131761346577.post-377556525464382142015-10-29T15:46:00.000+00:002015-10-29T16:17:22.929+00:00Surrounded By Gems<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j1LUz1g2hvzv5P9tQiXvonXYof-TaGnnVwGHiXwIxpOfqQgRaEbvxZkEX4IRSRMsZcclFCOhpFS2TWsh3WxTEE33KWX5XUIWCQKGaUQe1M8TCcKxJHeFVzK1PjW5LjBP-TVd0A6VuSGw/s1600/goldcrest_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_j1LUz1g2hvzv5P9tQiXvonXYof-TaGnnVwGHiXwIxpOfqQgRaEbvxZkEX4IRSRMsZcclFCOhpFS2TWsh3WxTEE33KWX5XUIWCQKGaUQe1M8TCcKxJHeFVzK1PjW5LjBP-TVd0A6VuSGw/s640/goldcrest_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goldcrest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The world appears to be a miserable place these days, full of horror, institutional irresponsibility, and unstoppable change. At least this is the story the news media likes to tell us. <br />
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I’m trying hard to avoid the news. When it comes on the radio I turn it off; the only newsprint I read is the weekend magazines. And then there is Twitter. It is a full time job searching for cheerful or even neutral accounts, and then Unfollowing the angry ones. My most recent Follow is <a href="https://twitter.com/AllAboutBinky" target="_blank">BinkyBear</a>. Little does he know a middle-aged woman looks to him as the saviour of her mental health. (I know, I'm losing it)<br />
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Yet while the human world makes itself uglier another world carries on in all its glory as it has done for thousands of years, ignored by the national news. Unreported perhaps because it is not considered relevant to our lives, and because it does not exist in a world where worth is measured in monetary value.<br />
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At the moment thousands of birds are flying over the North Sea to spend the winter in Britain. The first Bewick’s swans of the year did make the news, but this was because they dragged with them a warning of severe cold spreading from that old bogey Russia. News of a natural event is not useful if it can’t be used to worry people.<br />
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Accompanying the swans are thousands of tinier birds, such as snow buntings, twites, chiffchaffs and siskins. This year a great number of goldcrests have arrived. The little birds, weighting only 6gs, launch themselves across the sea in an act of great bravery and faith. They use the prevailing wind to help them, but arrive exhausted desperate for food and a safe place to sleep.<br />
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Twitter is good for some things, and I’ve been enjoying the photos posted by birdwatchers of the plucky little goldcrests as they finally reach our coast. <br />
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There is a lovely post by a birdwatcher on his blog <a href="http://northernrustic.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">‘Northern Rustic’</a> about the risks the goldcrests take to get here.<br />
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<blockquote>
Hence, when such arrivals take place, we get to witness the bittersweet phenomenon of Goldcrests battling towards our shores and pitching down just as soon as they can, in the far from ideal settings of clifftops, coastal slopes and even on the Brigg itself. For a bird that weighs barely more than a twenty pence piece, the impacts of such a journey are impossible to imagine, but then, that's migration in all its harsh reality; it simply wouldn't happen if it wasn't worth it, with migratory strategies constantly evolving as and when - which can be over many thousands of years, or over just a few generations. Magical indeed. </blockquote>
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I would like to experience waves of birds landing at my feet. Bird numbers are dwindling in Mancunian suburbs. I’m sure there are fewer sparrows and starlings and assorted little brown ones. I get excited when a troop of blue tits flits across Garden65. For a minute or so the garden comes alive with their twittering conversation and busy movements. But they are only moving through. They are soon gone. It must be magical to see lots of birds, even the little brown ones.<br />
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That’s it. I’m putting a trip to the east coast during the autumn migration on my bucket list. <br />
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An Independent journalist, <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/nature-studies-how-can-a-bird-that-weighs-six-grams-get-here-from-denmark-a6700526.html" target="_blank">Michael McCarthy</a>, went to the North Norfolk coast to witness the goldcrests arriving. Even as a seasoned birdwatcher he was “delight(ed) beyond measure” to see so many. <br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The goldcrest invasion will stay in my memory. It felt like nature’s version of the Jewel House in the Tower of London: everywhere we went, we were surrounded by gems – but these were not only sparkling, they were full of life.</blockquote>
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In my fight to avoid the scary stories national media wants to feed me I ask a question before I reach for the off button, ‘Do I need to know this?’ The answer may be ‘Yes, if you want to know what is going on in the world’. And then I come back, ‘Which world? I don’t need to know about the ugliness of yours. I need to know about the beauty, and hear the stories, of the real world.’ Off.<br />
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<em>Note: I haven't contacted the above Twitter accounts to ask permission to use their images because of the extremely small readership of this blog, but, if you are one of them and have stumbled on this blog and do object to their inclusion then please let me know and I'll be happy to delete them.</em><br />
<br />Janethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09571577405797531948noreply@blogger.com