Bears eating a caribou carcass in Denali National Park (Public Domain)

Dear Readers, I have been ploughing through a collection of the essays of Barry Lopez (1945-2020) (best known for his book ‘Arctic Dreams’) and have been much taken by his writing – he manages to combine thoughtfulness, close scientific observation and open mindedness, a rare collection of attributes. A modest man, he spent a lot of time in the company of the Indigenous people of Alaska, and in his essay ‘The Invitation’, he makes some thought-provoking suggestions about the different ways that people from different cultures view the world.

First up, he notices that the Indigenous people that he travels with rarely converse. I have to say here that this sounds blissful:  during the eclipse,  folk just wouldn’t stop verbalising their every impression until I couldn’t hear myself think or feel anything, so I had to walk away, rude as it must have appeared. I know that we can get a better range of sensory input if we just shut up sometimes.

But I think that Lopez is making a more subtle point too. Language tends to crystallise impressions, to ‘fix’ them in space and time, and to block out the more subtle things that happen – the scents, the sound of the wind in the branches. Here’s what he says:

“When an observer doesn’t immediately turn what his senses convey to him into language, into the vocabulary and syntactical framework we all employ when trying to define our experiences, there’s a much greater opportunity for minor details, which might at first seem unimportant, to remain alive in the foreground of an impression, where, later, they might deepen the meaning of an experience.”

Lopez uses the example of finding a bear feeding on a caribou carcass. For Lopez, and I suspect for most of us, it would be all about the bear. But for the Indigenous people that he knew, Lopez describes it as ‘an unfolding’. The bear is situated not only in space, but also in time – there may have been signs before, in the footprints in mud or hairs snagged on a thorn bush, and there will be something after as the bear is challenged for its food, or drags it away, or cubs come, or the animal is disturbed. And this is something that I honestly believe we can develop even within an urban setting – the particular sound of crows mobbing a heron or a bird of prey always makes me look up, a  specific smell of decay and buzzing of bluebottles makes me search for a carcass to see what might have been killed, and by what. The natural world  is a long story, not a series of unrelated events. It’s all about context. But Lopez also makes the point that we mustn’t rush too quickly to attempt to find an explanation, a resolution to the ‘problem’ of the bear.

“The lesson to be learned here was not just for me to pay closer attention to what was going on around me, if I hoped to have a deeper understanding of the event, but to remain in a state of suspended mental analysis while observing all that was happening – resisting the urge to define or summarize. To step away from the familiar compulsion to understand. Further, I had to incorporate a quintessential characteristic of the way Indigenous people observe: they pay more attention to patterns in what  they encounter than to isolated objects“.

Lopez’s second point is that, as we rush to analyse and define, we start to ‘leave our body’ – we begin to ignore all the sensory input that our bodies are still gathering, and instead rely on the rational mind. How familiar does this sound?

“As much as I believed I was fully present in the physical worlds I was travelling through, I understood over time that I was not. More often I was only thinking about the place I was in. Initially awed by an event, the screech of a gray fox in the night woods, say, or the surfacing of a large whale, I too often moved straight to analysis. On occasion I would become so wedded to my thoughts, to some cascade of ideas, that I actually lost touch with the details that my body was still gathering from a place.”

There is much to consider here, for me at least. How often do we allow ourselves, in our busyness, to sit in a place and just let what happens happens, without trying to analyse it and tuck it safely away? For example, I love knowing ‘stuff’, and it feels respectful to me to understand the differences between birds, but I wonder if it’s not more helpful, and maybe in these difficult days more important, to consider the pattern that the bird is part of, to observe more closely the way that it feeds, the relationship between it and the hawthorn tree and the tangle of honeysuckle where it maybe has its nest.

Lopez is not romanticising the Indigenous people that he travelled with: he points out that there are inattentive, lazy and undiscerning individuals in both Indigenous and so-called ‘advanced’ cultures.

“But they tend to value more highly the importance of intimacy with a place. When you travel with them, you’re acutely aware that theirs is a fundamentally different praxis from your own. They’re more attentive, more patient, less willing to say what they know, to collapse mystery into language”.

What do you think, Readers? Does any of this ring true to you? I think that the ability to remain quiet, attentive and unjudgmental as natural events unfold around us is something that can and should be learned – witness a small child completely focussed on a piece of gravel, or a flower, and I sense that we all could do this once. Can we still enter into an event with our senses alive, our sense of mystery intact, our need to categorise and analyse for once on the back burner? Lopez describes such moments thus:

“A grizzly bear stripping fruit from blackberry vines in a thicket is more than a bear stripping fruit from blackberry vines in a thicket. It is a point of entry into a world most of us have turned our backs on in an effort to go somewhere else, believing we’ll be better off just thinking about a grizzly bear stripping fruit from blackberry vines in a thicket. 

The moment is an invitation, and the bear’s invitation to participate is offered, without prejudice, to anyone passing by.”

Australian trapdoor spider (Gaius vilosus) Photo from https://ala-images.s3.ap-southeast-2.amazonaws.com/store/f/e/9/7/2f84ce62-fd70-4e2a-a147-94358a6379ef/original

Dear Readers, as I was sitting on the sofa surrounded by a heap of tissues this morning (Dreaded Lurgy Day 3) Facebook delivered up a ‘memory’ from 2016, but it wasn’t the usual photo of Mum or Dad, which always knocks me for six. No, it was this:”World’s Oldest Spider Dies Aged 43′.

And so I was reminded of what was quite possibly the early demise of Number 16, an Australian Trapdoor Spider living in the North Bungulla Reserve in Western Australia. The spider was studied in the wild by arachnologist Barbara York Main; she started to survey the spiders back in 1974 by following some spiderlings as they dispersed and marking each of their burrows with a peg. Australian Trapdoor Spiders are extremely loyal to their burrows, which serve as both traps for hunting and as protection from the elements and from predators (of which more later).

The well-concealed burrow of the Australian Trapdoor Spider (Photo from https://ala-images.s3.ap-southeast-2.amazonaws.com/store/a/b/9/2/ce9cceb7-b102-43ec-92d9-1840e24629ba/original)

Number 16 was monitored at least annually for 40 years, and as she grew older, a tradition grew that her burrow was the first checked by the researchers. Sadly, in November 2016 researcher Leandra Mason went to Number 16’s burrow, only to discover that the silk plug had been pierced, probably by a parasitic spider wasp, and the spider herself was missing. Spider Wasps paralyse spiders, and then lay their eggs into them, so let’s hope that Number 16 was already dead before meeting this terrible fate. The invertebrate world has (what seem to me at least) some truly awful ways to die.

Australian Spider Wasp paralysing a Huntsman Spider (Photo By Bjenks – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6264515)

The research team were very distressed by what they viewed as Number 16’s untimely end. Mason said “She was cut down in her prime […] It took a while to sink in, to be honest”. But long-term studies in the wild such as this yield such useful information, and enable us to understand changes over time, and to assess the impact of climate change and habitat degradation. It also illustrates how animals that live in such harsh environments as the Australian Outback can evolve to live quiet lives, deep underground in their burrows, with limited exposure to the heat of the sun. Who knows how old Number 16 might have lived to if she hadn’t been predated? And who knows how many other fascinating things there are to be discovered about the plants and animals that we share the world with, if we only take the time to really look?

I suppose what I find most touching is how attached the researchers clearly became to this reticent, reclusive creature. Humans have such capacity for empathy and love, given half a chance, though it’s easy to forget that when you read the news. I believe that if we pay attention to the individual behind the rhetoric, whether it’s a scary spider or a scary human, we’re much more likely to understand.

Correct sneezing poster by Meduza

Dear Readers, I suppose it was inevitable but after a six-hour plane flight with a lot of people sneezing and coughing their heads off, I have gone down with a bug and not a nice one either. Last night I was under the covers with my teeth chattering, but today I feel a smidge better, and the whole experience has got my wondering about what exactly a ‘lurgy’ is?

The Oxford English Dictionary defines a ‘dreaded lurgy’ as ‘an unspecified or indeterminate disease’, but its etymology is rather interesting. When we were growing up, a fixture on the radio was always The Goon Show, starring Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Eric Sykes. Dad, my brother and I always loved it, while Mum sat in the armchair shaking her head and wondering why we had tears of laughter rolling down our faces. Anyhow, one episode (from 1954) was called ‘Lurgi Strikes Britain’, and it Ned Seagoon has to deal with a highly dangerous, highly infectious and, as it turns out, completely fictitious disease called ‘The Dreaded Lurgi’.

Nowadays, people often use the word ‘lurgy/lurgi/lurgey’ to explain why they can’t come to a social occasion, or go to school. It’s its indeterminate nature that makes it so useful – it’s a disease that’s worse than a cold, not as bad as flu, and isn’t clearly anything else that you can put a name to. I wonder if my North American readers have ever heard of/used the term, or if it’s a purely British thing?

In Canada, a related term seems to be ‘cootie’ – this comes originally from the Malaysian word for ‘louse’, but in Canada it specifically means some kind of germ or contaminant, real or imagined, especially from a member of the opposite sex (and so often used by children at their most squeamish stage). An example of usage from Wikipedia is ‘I’m not using this glass until I’ve washed the cooties off’. Along with ‘chesterfield’ for sofa and ‘toque’ for hat, this feels like a pure Canadianism that I haven’t come across anywhere else.

So now we know! And I’m going back to bed. See you tomorrow!

World Clocks at Parque de Pasatempo, Galicia, Spain (Photo By Óscar (xindilo/fotosderianxo) – This file was derived from: Reloxos no Parque do Pasatempo, Betanzos.jpg, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=42176234)

Dear Readers, jet lag is a truly miserable phenomenon, as I am finding to my cost this week. On my way to Canada I adjusted within 24 hours – we travelled out early, dragged ourselves through the whole day and were so exhausted by the time we got to bed that we slept right through. On the way east, though, it’s a different story – again we dragged ourselves through the day following an overnight flight, but when I got to bed I was instantly awake, and stayed that way until about 4 a.m. At 4.30 a.m. the cat started to sing the song of her people, and so that was that.

That  was on Sunday. Every morning I’ve made sure to get up early and mingle with people (the light and being around other folk is supposed to reset your body clock), and on Wednesday I coupled that with falling flat on my face, having tripped over a speck of dust/molecule/something invisible. You might remember that I have a habit of doing this but I’m pretty sure that jet lag was implicated in the stumble. No harm done! And my trusty twenty year-old Canon Powershot survived the fall, which was something of a miracle.

The friend that I was with is a first-aider at her workplace, and as I staggered into the café she asked if the staff would break out their first aid box. Antiseptic wipes, plasters and antiseptic cream were soon applied (thank you Coal House Café) and I can recommend the coffee and the chocolate and mandarin gluten-free cake, just what you need to get over a shock. Plus, having watched every season of Masterchef the Professionals it was a delight to have a knee covered in bright blue catering sticking plasters.

So, what the hell is jet lag? At root, it’s chronobiological (and what a great word that is)  – we have a body clock in our brain, called the suprachiasmatic nucleus (SCN), which is closely linked to light reception, and little ‘clocks’ in our cells, which record the amount  of time since we last slept. Unfortunately, these two systems don’t always work at the same rate – we can use light to reset our SCN (and indeed elite athletes often use light therapy to help them reset their body clocks), but the receptors in other parts of our body take different rates to catch up.

People swear by melatonin (not available for use in the UK), the aforementioned light therapy, keeping to the sleep-wake schedule of the country that you came from (not practical in most cases), and various drugs, some of them illegal. This may cure the jet lag, but I wonder if any of you also have a strange sense of dissociation, when you arrive home after a trip, a feeling that ‘home’ is not quite the same as it was? I nearly always have this, and it takes a few days for things to feel ‘right’ again. I wonder if humans were meant to travel as far and as fast as we do these days – after all, jet lag is a modern phenomenon. Time was it would have taken weeks on a ship and then overland to travel from London to Toronto, and now we can do it, door to door, in about twelve hours. No wonder our poor minds and bodies are confused! Some cultures have a sense that the body travels so fast that it takes the soul a while to catch up.

There’s an interesting article about just this phenomenon by one of my favourite travel writers, Nick Hunt. He describes walking to Istanbul from London back in 2011, and then returning by plane, and how disorientated it made him feel. Here’s his description of what jet lag really is:

‘At three miles an hour, the world is a continuum. One thing merges into the next: hills into mountains, rivers into valleys, suburbs into city centers; cultures are not separate things but points along a spectrum. Traits and languages evolve, shading into one another and metamorphosing with every mile. Even borders are seldom borders, least of all ecologically. There are no beginnings or endings, only continuity.

If driving breaks that continuity, flying explodes it. It shatters reality into bits that have to be pieced back together. We label this “jet lag” — a disruption of the circadian rhythm caused by different time zones — but what really lags behind is much more fundamental.'(Nick Hunt, ‘Travelling at the Speed of the Soul’)

I think there is also something about integrating and processing what has happened while you’ve been away. For me, this journey was both a delightful experience (The eclipse! Renewing friendships! Seeing beavers!) and a melancholy time, a reacquaintance with the demon of dementia and the heaviness and sadness that it brings. So I came home carrying a lot, good and bad, and maybe it’s no surprise that I fell. But today things seem to be settling a little more, and home feels more like home, and the cat only sings from about 6 a.m. as opposed to every hour, on the hour. And so, things are inching back to normal.

But not for long, because soon I’ll be off again. More on that soon!

Wood sorrel (Oxalis acetosella) Photo from https://tyt.lt/picture/32606/category/1241-oxalis-acetosella-paprastasis-kiskiakopustis

Dear Readers, wood sorrel is a small, delicate plant that grows in ancient woodlands and flowers at around Easter time, in April or May, hence its vernacular name ‘Alleluia’. In ‘Flora Britannica‘, Richard Mabey notes the endless moral associations linked to the plant by the Victorians. Here is a passage on the plant from the 1860 diary of Charlotte Clifford, copied from a book called ‘The Garland of the Year’

‘A more beautiful floral emblem of praise could not be selected than this exquisitely sensitive little plant. Coming forth at the first summons of spring it continues to adorn the woods with its bright triple leaves, until the fading foliage of autumn consigns it to a living grave. Even then, the flower-searcher may discover here and there a delicately-folded leaf looking out from the desolation and death by which it is surrounded. For the alleluya, fragile though it be, can brave the roughest storms, bowing its meek head below the clouds, and looking up with joy, to greet the sunshine. Sweet and precious are the lessons that this little woodland plant may teach us – lessons of humble faith, and constant loving praise. Teaching us that, as the shrinking wood sorrel finds protection in its triple leaves, so our souls, strengthened by the three-fold gifts of the Holy Ghost, should bow in meek submission to the trials of their mortal existence. Ever praising, never repining, bearing all sorrows; thankful for all joys!’

Well, that might seem quite a weight of parable for a small woodland flower to bear, but there is much close observation here – the flowers do close at night and in gloomy weather, for example. In the photo below, they seem to be just about to open in the morning sun.

The three-lobed leaves have led to it being occasionally mistaken for shamrock (though it’s generally accepted now that shamrock is actually a kind of clover) and the flowers fold up during the night and open up again during the day. I was delighted to spot some recently, though it’s not in flower just yet. Wood sorrel is often found in the shadiest, dampest spots in woodland or below hedgerows, and often grows directly on leaf-mould or even fallen logs.

Another vernacular name for wood sorrel is ‘Granny’s sour grass’, and the leaves have a lemony, acidic taste, much like that completely unrelated sorrel, Rumex acetosa (not surprising as both contain oxalic acid, and the word ‘sorrel’ comes from the French word for ‘sour’). The leaves of wood sorrel can be used in salads, but, again in Flora Britannica, one forager pops the leaves into a cream cheese sandwich, which would work rather well I think.

Wood sorrel (Photo https://www.flickr.com/photos/joerghempel/)

I recently acquired a copy of Culpeper’s Herbal (not an original because that would be worth a small fortune) and here’s what he has to say about the medicinal virtues of wood sorrel:

‘Venus owns it. Wood Sorrel serves to all the purposes that the other Sorrels do, and is more effectual in hindering the putrefaction of blood, and ulcers in the mouth and body; and in cooling and tempering heats and inflammations, to quench thirst, to strengthen a weak stomach, to procure an appetite, to stay vomiting and very excellent in any contagious sickness or pestilential fevers’. 

I can well see how the lemony flavour would help with digestive problems of all kinds, and several foragers mention how wood sorrel leaves can help to quench the thirst when walking on a hot day.

The reference to Venus is also interesting. The cuckoo was believed in folklore to be the messenger of the goddess of love, and one legend has it that the cuckoo had to eat wood sorrel in order to get its voice, hence yet more vernacular names for the plant – cuckoo bread and cuckoo’s meat.

Incidentally, the dried leaves of wood sorrel are said to enable you to see fairies, but knowing their mischievous reputation I think we should probably leave the wee folk to their own devices.

Photo by Nina Laakso from https://www.flickr.com/photos/talaakso/8829041158

My Field Guide to Caterpillars gives only one creature that eats wood sorrel, and that’s the twin-spot carpet moth (Mesotype didymata). As this is a most unpernickety larva, which eats many other woodland plants, I wonder if the oxalic acid puts off all but the hungriest caterpillar?

Twin-spot carpet (Mesotype didymata) Photo by Janet Graham at https://www.flickr.com/photos/149164524@N06/50194787602)

And finally, a poem. I rather relate to this one, by Scottish poet Anne Ryland- I am a great fan of ‘Being nobody, at home with all the lamps on and quite shapeless within beloved habits.’ And I love the last stanza. See what you think.

Miniature Delights

By Anne Ryland

You in your new cranberry sweater, glasses askew
reading about James Bond then Elgar.

Being nobody, at home with all the lamps on
and quite shapeless within beloved habits.

The unknown bird at dawn who laughs
an ascending scale of notes in our garden.

Opening a card of bluebells and wood sorrel
to find a letter written in neat fountain pen script.

A conversation lasting six and a half hours,
completing it without being put off or told off.

The vacancy for a part-time shepherd –
wondering how it would blend with poetry.

A slow breakfast at the foot of a castle while ruins
tell their stories and cows promenade the cliff.

A stroll along the pier in my pale blue duffel coat,
greeted only by the seal who wants to flirt.

Smoke spiralling from chimneys, the long breath
of a house, or its thoughts purified by fire.

Listening to Ave Maria, imagining Schubert asleep
in his glasses in case a new song woke him by surprise.

Dear Readers, I have visited Bluebell Wood in Bounds Green before, but never, I think, in the spring. And it’s been a hard one for this little patch of ancient woodland – the incessant rain of the early part of the year reduced whole areas to a mud bath. Today, though, things have dried up, and so I took a wander with my friend S to see what was going on.

First up, the understorey is looking very good – fences have been put up in some of the areas that have been most heavily trampled during the pandemic to allow the forest floor to recover, and it’s doing just that.

There is herb robert and forget-me-not…

But there are also ancient woodland indicators such as wood anemone, which have been lost from so many ancient woods.

There are a few tiny patches of sweet woodruff too.

Sweet woodruff

And there are bluebells everywhere – the vast majority appear to be hybrids, but there are some that look closer to English bluebells.

Definitely hybrids

Slightly less hybrid-y!

Even less hybrid-y

The cow parsley is in flower, and there were lots of ants on the flowers. I am guessing that somewhere on this plant there are some aphids, and that later in the year it will become apparent that the ants are farming them. Either that or the ants have suddenly developed a taste for nectar or pollen, which I think fairly unlikely. Let me know  if you’ve noticed cow parsley with ants on the flowers, it’s a first for me. 

There are a lot of young trees in Bluebell Wood, including both Midland and Common Hawthorn. It’s a bit difficult to see in the photos below, but Common Hawthorn has just one stigma (the pointy bit in the middle of the flower), whereas Midland Hawthorn has two or three, and the leaves of Common Hawthorn are more deeply incised than those of Midland Hawthorn. Midland Hawthorn is a plant of ancient woodlands, and its numbers have diminished along with its favoured habitat.

Common Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna)

Midland Hawthorn (Crataegus laevigata)

There is Bird Cherry in the wood too. It always reminds me of a little white firework display.

Bird Cherry (Prunus padus)

And there are a few patches of wild garlic (ramsons). Not enough to be picked though, so hands off!

And the holly is in flower. It’s interesting to me how smooth the leaves are on the holly in the first photo. The story usually told (including by me) is that the spikes, which are energetically expensive for the plant to produce, appear on leaves that are likely to be browsed by large mammals, whereas the leaves at the top, which are harder for deer or ponies to reach, can be smooth. However, some recent studies suggest that the reason that spiky leaves are produced is damage of any kind, not just browsing. So, a holly bush that is regularly pruned will produce more spikes that one that’s left to its own devices. I’m thinking that there is probably a genetic factor here too, with some garden varieties being inherently spikier than others. Anyhow, you can read a very interesting explanation of the phenomenon here, and the article also mentions that the amount of spikiness on a plant is known as ‘spinescence’, a new word for me but definitely one to add to the dictionary.

And finally, here’s a grass. Grass doesn’t get half as much attention as it merits in my opinion, being such a vital part of so many habitats. We might not think of grasses as playing much of a part in the understorey of woodlands, but this is Wood Melick (Melica uniflora), and very green and delicate it looks too.

Wood Melick is the foodplant of the Slender Brindle moth (Apamea scolopacina), The caterpillar starts its life in the stem of the grass, before emerging at night to eat the leaves and spending the day hiding on the ground. It eventually pupates on the ground, and emerges in late summer. What a stunning moth it is!

Slender Brindle moth (Photo by Ben Sale at https://www.flickr.com/photos/33398884@N03/48275585567)

So, Bluebell Wood is a tiny slice of ancient woodland, but it certainly punches above its weight. As we walked, we could hear great tits, blue tits, robins, blackbirds, wrens and black caps singing, and green woodpeckers and ring-necked parakeets yaffling and squawking away. The fenced areas are allowing biodiversity to return, without impinging on the pleasure of walking in the wood. I look forward to seeing what other plants and animals will turn up as the wood recovers.

Dear Readers, I couldn’t help but notice that spring in Toronto is just about starting, whereas here in East Finchley some plants have already gone over. It looks as if I’ve missed the best of the cherry blossom, at least if the pink confetti in the gutters is anything to go by…

But there’s still lots in flower, and  coming into leaf. Barnet Council have planted a hibiscus on one of the County Roads, and it looked very sad earlier this year, but look! It looks very healthy now, so fingers crossed for the next few years, as it grows and matures. There are some very healthy specimens in Golders Green and Temple Fortune, so I’m looking forward to seeing this one in flower in due course.

According to the Tree Map of London, the tree below is an apple. I’m so confused with Prunus species that I couldn’t say, but I will note that I’ve never seen any apples on it. Very pretty, whatever it is.

And these might not be English bluebells, but they’re very also very attractive. I love what people manage to grow in the tiniest and most unpromising of spaces, such as on the top of a wall or gatepost.

Along the side of All Saints’ Church there are thickets of garlic mustard (great for the orange tip and brimstone butterflies).

And along the fence, there is an abundance of three-cornered garlic. I sense a general garlic theme going on – I could see either of these plants being used for a garlic-bread equivalent, or as a stuffing for a nice big portobello mushroom, though I’d want to be fairly sure that the local dogs hadn’t peed all over the plants first.

On we go along Twyford Avenue. Last year I spotted these interesting wisteria, which were growing more as shrubs than climbers – they’ll be in full flower soon, I must go back and take a photo to see how they look this year.

The Twyford Avenue wisteria bushes last year.

One of the gardens has been re-landscaped, and I rather like it – it’s a bit tidier than mine, but there are still some pollinator-friendly plants on this open, sunny site.

And the lilac is in bloom everywhere.

Now, what is it with this brutal tree-chopping that I’m seeing at the moment? Look at this poor tree, or what’s left of it. I’m guessing there’s a reason for just decapitating the tree, rather than taking it out completely (cost?) but it looks awful. And it’s not the only one either.

The plane trees are gently leafing up on Grand Avenue in Muswell Hill…

And this Cotinus (smoke bush) was positively glowing in the sunshine.

But my heart is always with the weeds, and how I love this yellow corydalis sitting on top of a wall and soaking up the sun. It doesn’t matter how much weed killer is sprayed about, this little plant always seems to come back.

After a coffee at Sable D’Or (highly recommended if you’re in the vicinity of Muswell Hill) we walk back down Queen’s Avenue, and I am much taken by this tree peony. I think it might be a Ludlow’s tree peony, and it’s the first one I’ve seen around here. The species comes originally from Tibet, where the plant is known as ‘God’s flower’. What a splendid plant to stumble across in North London.

And here is a very dark blue California lilac (Ceanothus), much loved by bees, and yet another plant on my front garden list (if only I can find some room).

As we head back onto Fortis Green Road, there’s a lovely Clematis (Montana I think) – I’d never noticed how sweet this plant smells. This one was absolutely smothered in flowers.

Clematis montana (?)

But finally, here is a relatively rare species – a Trojan Electric Vehicle charger! The council has been cheerfully putting these in all around East Finchley, but this is the first one I’ve seen actually plugged in. Let’s hope they soon become as common as three-cornered garlic or garlic mustard.

A blond squirrel

Ah Toronto, second home, vertical city, squirrel-spattered, sparrow-flattered city of cold grey steel and warm-hearted people. It’s been a heavy-hearted visit as we watch someone who was always so curious, so full of interest in other people, reduced to a ten-minute cycle of repetitive questions.

3.19 p.m. (totality) in Mount Pleasant Cemetery

The city gave us days of brilliant sunshine, until the eclipse (of course) when the clouds rolled in and all those eclipse-glasses turned out to have been unnecessary. Except for that brief ten minute window before ‘totality’ when you could see the moon taking a bite out of the sun in a gap between the clouds. Not long enough to get a photo, of course, but some things are better experienced than captured.

And the birds, so anxious and confused.

And the woods and the wetlands, and the view of geese flying home as the sky reddened.

And the beavers, of course.

At the end of two weeks I’m always both sad to be leaving and happy to go home. There always seems to be so much more to explore, and yet a feeling that I’ve had enough. What a strange thing, and how fleeting, how quickly two weeks goes.

As I look out of the window of this cafe (upstairs in Indigo if you should be looking for a spot to chill) you can see the old Town Hall, and three Canadian flags fluttering with their big red maple leaves. One shows the flag of Ontario which still has a Union Jack in one corner, and a trio of golden maple leaves in the other. It’s won my heart over the twenty-four years that I’ve been visiting, and I will miss it, and the people who were John’s friends but who have made me so very welcome. But I know the months will fly, and I’ll be back before I know it, eating pancakes the size of a side-plate in the Sunset Grill and hanging out at the Queen Mother Café. And until then, there will be an exam to do for my Open University course, and a trip to the Azores to watch whales to experience, and no doubt the garden will be a jungle.

Bye for now, Toronto, and thank you for everything.

The sun beginning to fade over Toronto