Dear Readers, earlier this week I made a trip to Cookham, to see the Stanley Spencer Gallery, and the church where he was buried. Spencer has long been a favourite of mine, with his combination of the everyday and the divine,  but I was of course diverted by a magnificent ivy hedge, upon which there were dozens of ivy bees. You might remember that these insects are fairly recent arrivals to the UK from continental Europe – clearly they are breeding here in some numbers now (you can see some amazing photos of reader Philip Buckley’s garden here), and I think we’re all the better for it. They are the last bees to hatch, so they don’t compete with any of our established species, and they are handsome and docile little insects, with their sharp yellow and black stripes and gingery thorax.

Newly emerged Ivy Bees (Photo by Philip Buckley)

Such a shame, then, that so many people think this is a good time to trim back their ivy, or to remove it altogether. It provides late pollen for other insects too (including bumblebees and queen wasps), and the berries are loved by many birds. So let’s leave it alone, eh.

I didn’t realise that Charles Dickens had written a poem about ivy, and he seems to have a (somewhat  grudging) respect for the plant. See what you think.

The Ivy Green

Charles Dickens
1812 – 1870

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy’s food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.