The poinsettias at the Etobicoke Christmas Flower Show (fromhttps://www.toronto.com/things-to-do/enjoy-poinsettias-etobicokes-christmas-flower-show-has-30-varieties/article_27ecbb8e-7701-598c-86a6-4cc05ebd9156.html?)

Dear Readers, apologies for the lateness of my responses to your comments over the past few days – Bug Woman has travelled across the Atlantic for some rather heavy family business. Fortunately, things are going rather better than I’d feared ( I would share the details with you, but this is not my story to tell), and so I’ve had a chance to have a quick look at the Christmas decorations in Toronto. Sadly, I won’t be getting to the Christmas Flower Show in Etobicoke, (where they have no less than thirty different varieties of poinsettia), but my hotel is absolutely crammed with the little devils. But how did a plant that comes originally from Mexico end up being a Christmas favourite across the northern hemisphere? Read on, gentle readers… and don’t miss the poem at the end, it’s a doozy.

Poinsettia – Photo by Tony Hisgett from Birmingham,

Dear Readers, I can scarcely believe that I haven’t done a post on poinsettia before, but here it is, in all its Christmassy glory. Who would have thought that this plant is actually a Euphorbia? In the wild, it lives in Mexico and Central America, and is named after Joel Poinsett, the first United States Minister to Mexico. Poinsettia grow to the size of a small tree if left unmolested, but most of them live their lives in a pot as a temporary house plant, being thrown in the bin at the end of the Christmas period as they lose their leaves and start to look extremely sad. It doesn’t have to be this way, though! Read on!

As you probably know, the red ‘flowers’ are actually leaves, or bracts, with the actual flowers being the little yellow and green blobs in the middle. They have been cultivated to appear in a variety of other colours, including cerise,  white and salmon. However, pretty as they are, cultivated poinsettias are diseased, according to Clare Wilson at New Scientist – to make short, bushy plants, growers infect poinsettias with a bacteria that causes them to grow lots more side shoots that terminate in those colourful bracts.

Poinsettia varieties (Photo By Andy Mabbett )

If you are lucky enough to receive a poinsettia at Christmas, the advice is not to overwater it – wait until the plant’s leaves are just starting to droop, and then put them in to a bowl of water for about an hour. The plant should also be kept at a fairly stable temperature (i.e. not next to a window where they’ll be cold overnight) – Wilson’s article mentions that the plants don’t need high light levels for the month or two that they’ll be on display, so they can be positioned well away from a window.

But are poinsettias poisonous? There was an urban legend in the 1920s that a child had died after ingesting a leaf, but this was later found to be untrue. Like all euphorbias, they can cause skin irritation, and I wouldn’t want to eat a poinsettia risotto or feed any to my dog or cat, but generally they are inoffensive plants. The Aztecs used the plant for traditional medicine, and one of the active chemicals in poinsettia is being investigated as a potential drug to treat Alzheimers disease.

Poinsettias in front of an altar in the Philippines (Photo By Ramon FVelasquez)

In Mexico, a 16th century legend tells of a poor girl who wanted to bring some flowers to the altar at Christmas, but couldn’t afford to buy any. An angel told her to pick some weeds and in the morning they had turned into poinsettias. The red colour is supposed to represent the blood of Christ, and the flower shape the Star of Bethlehem. And goodness, we have just missed National Poinsettia Day, which is on 12th December. Apparently the poinsettia is the most valuable potted plant in the world in terms of sales, with over 70 million plants sold in the US every year, to a value of about $250m.

How sad, then, that by January most of the plants are looking very sad, with their leaves dropping off and their glory much reduced. My Dad was a dab hand at bringing them back to life for the following Christmas, and though I’m pretty sure that he didn’t do anything as scientific as the advice below, it’s certainly possible.

Andrew Fuller from Bridge Farm Group in Spalding, UK, recommends that the poinsettia gets 12 to 14 hours of darkness per day for about two months once it’s lost its leaves. You can do this by putting the plant into a cupboard for that period, or sticking a bag over it. In a commercial greenhouse, the plants are actually ‘put to bed’ by pulling the curtains every night, which seems rather sweet to me. You will have to remember to do it every night, though. I have a suspicion that Dad just put the poinsettia into a room that wasn’t well lit for a few months and held off on the watering, to ‘give it a rest’.

And finally, a poem, by Jamaican poet Claude McKay (1889 – 1948). As I look out at the snow, it reminds me that for many people, December is a warm month. What a thought.

Two slugs mating!

Dear Readers, if you’ve been following the blog for a while now, you’ll know that I am actually not averse to having a few slugs in the garden – as a fascinating talk by slug expert Imogen Cavadino pointed out a few years ago, most slugs are actually useful as they eat dead and decaying matter, and help with the whole process of decomposition. There’s even the leopard slug, which eats other slugs. However, this is all faint recompense when a small army of slugs (or snails) has eaten your seedlings down to the nubbins, so I am always interested in any humane ways of persuading molluscs to slide away and feed on something else. Step forward James Wong of New Scientist, to give us the latest!

First up, enough already with the eggshells. Slugs and snails aren’t deterred in the slightest by these things, as their slime enables them to slip over such substances without going ‘ouch’ once.

Slugs are, however, attracted by the smell of yeast, so those of you putting out beer to entice our sluggy neighbours will probably be successful. Drowning the poor things is not exactly humane, however, so let’s cast a discreet veil over any ale-related traps (and let’s forget that Dad used to douse slugs with salt every time he saw them)

Coffee grounds are apparently an actual deterrent, but too high a concentration of caffeine will damage the very plants that you’re aiming to protect, so this is a very fine balance to achieve without a laboratory at hand.

However, one thing that does seem to work is garlic extract, made using garlic powder and water. How strong it needs to be, and how often you need to apply it is not clear, but James Wong suggests that it needs to be strong enough for the neighbours to notice. The smell of garlic and onion plants relates to various chemicals used to dissuade animals from munching on them, so this isn’t that much of a surprise. I wonder if interlacing your cabbages with onion/garlic plants would have a similar effect? Do let me know if you’ve tried it.

The New Scientist piece finishes with a plea to understand that not all slugs are bad, and that they are part of the ecosystem too. And  if you have any doubt, here is Henry the plush slug. If Henry doesn’t appeal, you can find Barry the Banana Slug at the same Etsy shop. After all, Bug Woman was rescuing slugs’ eggs from her salt-happy Dad when she was six, so you can’t start too early.

Henry the slug, from https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/389073404/mini-henry-the-slug-lambswool-plush-toy/

Hawfinches (Coccothraustes coccothraustes) from https://animalia.bio/hawfinch

Dear Readers, the Hawfinch is a mighty seed-cracker of a bird – just look at that beak! A Hawfinch can crack a cherry stone without breaking a sweat (though I suspect that birds don’t actually sweat).  The Hawfinch’s Latin name means ‘ seed-shatterer’, which seems particularly apt when you consider that its beak can deliver a crushing force more than a thousand times greater than its own weight (Birds Britannica by Mark Cocker and Richard Mabey).

It is the only species in its genus, and its closest relatives are birds such as North America’s Evening Grosbeak. It is also a bird that I should be keeping an eye open for – it loves mature, deciduous woodland, and in particular hornbeam trees, so I need to take my binoculars to Coldfall Wood at my earliest convenience. This is, however, a very shy bird with regard to humans – it can sometimes be seen flittering about in the finest, highest twigs, but only comes to the ground to drink or look for seeds. The bird nests at the very tops of trees (average nest height above the ground is 16 metres), and the male builds the nest, most unusual in finches. My Crossley Guide describes the flight of the Hawfinch as appearing to be  ‘out of control’ so you would think that the bird would not be that difficult to spot, especially as the population increases three-fold in the winter as migrants make the trip south from Scandinavia to the UK.

However, the Hawfinch is a rare breeder in the UK, and becoming rarer for reasons that don’t seem clear – the nests are predated by the usual suspects (magpies, crows, jays) but not to any increased extent, and for once squirrels don’t seem to be involved, maybe because the bird nests on such fine branches.  So, the jury is out on why the bird has declined so much – the current breeding population is probably less than 500 pairs in the whole of the UK. I suspect that because it has such particular requirements (mature woodland, big trees) habitat degradation/loss is likely to be at least one factor.

The Hawfinch male has a complicated breeding display which he performs for the female, involving hops and bows and a little kiss at the end. There’s a little snippet of the performance here Why all the film makers insist on slapping on a merry tune as well I have no idea, but it’s still charming.

And in case you want to hear what a Hawfinch actually sounds like, here’s one recorded in Norway by Elias A. Ryberg.

So, do keep your eyes peeled for a big-beaked finch at the top of a tree during any woodland walks this month. Who knows, you might get lucky!

Dad December 2017 (post nap, before G&T)

Dear Readers, I first published this in 2020 in the middle of the pandemic, but it feels as appropriate in the run-up to Christmas/Chanukah/ other celebrations as ever. Sending any of you who need it a hug. I see you, doing your best in difficult times. 

Dear Readers, it’s 6.30 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the office, listening to the thin, sweet song of a robin. Outside it’s still dark as pitch, but a runner has trudged past, taking advantage of the quiet street to jog up the middle of the road. And I have been thinking about Christmas, and how different it will be this year, not just for me but for many of us. This is my first Christmas as an orphan, and the idea is taking some getting used to.

Until a few years ago, the weeks before Christmas were frantically busy for me as I tried to get everything in place for Mum and Dad’s visit. We already had the stairlift so that they could get upstairs, but there was the commode and the reclining chair to get, the temporary registration of the pair of them with my doctor, not to mention the food and the presents and the cleaning. The wheelchair had to be rented and popped into the hall, ready for action. The night before they arrived I would be nervously eyeing up everyone who parked outside our house – we don’t have a car, but it’s a long tradition that you can ‘save’ a parking space by popping a couple of wheelie bins into the road, and with Mum and Dad unable to walk very far it could save a lot of worry.

And then they’d arrive, usually driven down by my brother, and the work would really begin. Everything had to be perfect, of course, just as it had to be perfect when Mum used to be in charge. I wonder why I didn’t learn from the way that she often had a migraine on Christmas Day from sheer stress? I remember one day when Mum was in a particular tizzy about something. Dad was sitting in the armchair with a purple paper hat slightly askew on his head, a gin and tonic in one hand and the cat on his lap.

‘Syb’, he said, patting the chair next to him, ‘Just come and sit down for Gawd’s sake. The brussel sprouts can wait for half an hour’.

‘No they can’t!’ she said, and burst into tears.

And so by the time Christmas was over, Mum was worn to a bit of a frazzle. So maybe it’s no surprise that I remember the days after the big event with particular fondness – the days of eating cold turkey, hot potatoes and pickle, playing Trivial Pursuit and watching the obligatory James Bond film with Dad.

And, strangely enough, it’s not the big things that I remember about the Christmases that I hosted either.

It’s the afternoons when Mum and Dad both had a doze, Dad in his recliner, Mum on the sofa, both of them snoozing along peacefully.

It’s the morning that the great spotted woodpecker turned up on the feeder and I gave Mum my binoculars so that she could see him properly.

It’s the night that the International Space Station went by on Christmas Eve, and Mum and I watched it go sailing past.

This year will be the first Christmas in a long, long time where I don’t have anywhere to go, or anyone apart from my husband to cater for. I am lucky to have him, I know.

The losses pile up, and the difference between the Christmas gatherings on the television advertisements and my quiet, subdued bittersweet Christmas could not be starker.

But I know that I am not alone – for so many of the people reading this, there will be an empty space at the Christmas table that can never be filled. And so this is to say that I see you, and I’m holding you in my heart. Grief is the tax that we pay for loving people deeply, but  bereavement is a bitter path to walk, and attention must be paid to what we’re feeling at this time if we’re to bear it. There is a time for distraction, and a time for weeping, and only you will know which you need at any given time, but my advice would be to make room for both.

And unlike so many, many people, I don’t have agonising choices to make about who to see and how. I have not spent the year worrying myself sick about elderly relatives that I can’t see, children who haven’t been able to go to school, or who have gone and then been sent home because of a Covid outbreak. I’m still in work, and still housed. I see you too, trying to make this very different Christmas work because other people are depending on you. Please be kind to yourselves. The brussel sprouts will wait for thirty minutes while you have a cup of tea and watch something ridiculous on the television.

Outside there’s the slightest hint of a lightening sky, and the robin has stopped singing, duty done for another morning. In a few days time we’ll reach the winter solstice, the longest night for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, and the light will gradually come back, until one day we wake up at our usual time and hear the dawn chorus, not a solitary robin. The world turns whether we want it to or not, the bulbs are already starting to stretch and yawn in their loamy beds and life will carry on. Let’s take things both lightly and with deep seriousness, with a sense of fun and with a sense that what we do matters, because it does, more now than ever.

‘Tree with a robin’ drawn by Dad December 2019

Dear Readers, you might remember that when I used to live in Islington, I spent five years fostering a whole variety of cats. One day, I was asked if I’d take care of a pregnant Mum called Rosa, and I’ve rarely been so excited. We made a bed in a cupboard for the mum-to-be, and she wandered in and wrapped herself up in a blanket, so we tiptoed up to our own bed.

Rosa

The next morning, we looked for her and couldn’t find her. Of course, she’d crept behind the bookshelf and had given birth in the tiniest space imaginable. We left her to her own devices, but I could just about count four black and white kittens.

She gave birth on 4th November, and the very next night was Bonfire night, and our neighbours had their usual firework party in the middle of the road. It sounded as if an artillery battery was taking place amidst the sedate Georgian houses. Through it all Rosa remained calm, feeding her babies as if she was used to appearing in re-enactments of World War I battles outside the window.

We named them Mostly Black…

Mostly Black….

Stripey Tail…

Stripey Tail

Mostly White….

Mostly White

and Stripey

Stripey

They were all male, and they were something of a handful, but we didn’t care. Suffice it to say that the Christmas tree didn’t stay up for long (top photo) – we tried one without decorations, but then we were worried that the little devils were going to garotte themselves.

The whole gang

They loved watching the washing go round in the washing machine, so my husband, who wasn’t sure about cats, made them a little seat so they could watch. 

Suffice it to say that they were very well socialised by the time they left us…and my husband was a cat-convert.

Honestly, if you’ve ever thought about fostering cats, do give it a go. I was sad when my little family went off to be rehomed, but what a privilege to be there when they were born, and to see them grow from little scraps to friendly, independent cats, each with their own personality. And after Christmas I suspect that there will the usual numbers of cats and kittens given as presents and now unwanted.

Though I’d make sure that your toilet paper is locked away safely. It’s irresistible!

Dear Readers, I am clearly in a bit of a kerfuffle this week, with my Wednesday Weed on Thursday and my Thursday Poem on Friday. Normal service will be resumed next week!

I like this very much – I saw a fox once in the snow outside Birkbeck (just around the corner from the British Museum). There was that same sense of time stopping, though in this case the fox froze and we looked at one another. What did the fox see, I wonder?

Fox
For M (who calls me Lita)

by Rachel Spence

A fox on a wet autumn night outside the British Museum
fleeing into a gas pipe as I chivvy you out of the building
into the rush-hour rainshine of car metal, headlights,

trampled leaves. I’m several steps ahead when
you shout “Lita!”. And I stop. And you shout, “Fox!”.
And I turn. At the word’s promise of wildness.

Of something feral. And we wait.
Don’t know how long for if I know
one thing it’s that fox has her own time.

Perhaps she was always there, poised on the brink
of her refuge – exact, minimal, radiant in her lack
of surplus. Perhaps I was always here, longing

to tell you her eyes remind me of rocks I once saw
in a mountain stream. How if you looked closely
you’d see words etched on their skins by priests

who were also poets. But she resists. Refuses
to be anywhere but there, scared, doubling back
into her tube’s tundra. And I know if I were

to kneel down, peer in, shine torchlight over
every inch of every curve I wouldn’t see her
though her eyes drill me, down to the bone.

Dear Readers, apologies for this truly terrible photo, but at least it proves that I was visited by a very fine fox this morning – he (for I’m pretty sure it was a he) had a magnificent bushy tail, not a trace of mange, and  a fearless expression. I’ve been hearing foxes calling to one another for the past few nights, but this one had clearly had a night on the tiles, and was deciding whether to dig up the few bulbs that the squirrels have left (sigh) before heading off.

Another David Attenborough-quality wildlife photo.

What interested me, however, was where he went. The foxes in the garden have traditionally come from a path to the right of the garden, but the six-foot fence that was recently put up seems to have caused some changes – the fox looked left, looked right and then jumped into the garden of the house to the left. From there, though, it’s another very high jump to get out into the next garden. The ‘friendly fences of East Finchley’ are becoming something of a rarity – historically, these are high next to the house, for a bit of privacy while people are in the kitchen, but lower in the garden itself so that folk can chat over the garden fence, but the fashion now seems to be for higher, less permeable fences. My neighbours, fortunately, are open to getting some hedgehog doors so that at least the little prickly folk will be able to go through, but it will still present something of a barrier to foxes. 

Research shows that foxes have a very clear 3D map of their territories, and are often found sleeping on shed roofs or even running along scaffolding, so a fence alone will not necessarily deter those that are young and fit. On the other hand, one of the commonest injuries that I’ve seen in urban foxes appear to be sprains of one or more limbs, so I wonder how many are caused by having to climb or jump from an unexpected height? If animals can’t make their way safely between gardens they will often end up on the road, where the hazard from cars is the main danger – the average age of an urban fox is only eighteen months, and the casualty rate is largely due to road accidents.

How I love to see the foxes – it’s always such an unexpected pleasure to see such a large animal in an ordinary suburban garden. I hope that this one comes back soon so that I can get you all a better photo. In the meantime,  here’s a fox who visited regularly a few years ago. What a handsome boy he was!

The Christmas Narwhal

Dear Readers, our Christmas decorations went up on 1st December this year, which is early even for us – we’re going to be away for a few days before the big day, so it felt as if we needed to do it now or it would be too late. It’s the first Christmas since Mum  died that I’ve managed decorate the house without tears – Mum loved the festive season so much, and latterly Mum and Dad would spend the holidays with us, so getting the tree decorated was a welcome break from organising wheelchairs and the stairlift and the reclining chair for Dad and getting them registered with the local doctor. Mum died in 2018 and  we had a few Christmases at Dad’s nursing home, before he died in March 2020. Since then, it’s just been my husband and I (touch of the Queen’s speech there), and although it’s been more restful and less anxiety-inducing, it’s also felt a little bit empty. But this year, after breaking my leg and having an ‘interesting’ time, I just feel very grateful for all the love I’ve been shown, and was able to really pay attention to all my ageing decorations and bits and pieces.

My tree is covered in animals. I’m very partial to the Christmas narwhal (above), and the Christmas brontosaurus…

This rather ragged robin has been with me for about forty years. No wonder he looks a bit shell-shocked.

The artificial Christmas tree is at least thirty years old, and every year bits drop off, but I’m sure it’s good for a few years yet.

The blue tit comes from the Wetlands Centre in Barnes…

This amazing creature came from an exhibition about Persepolis at the British Museum many moons ago…

And this spotty creature was made in South Africa, and was bought on my first ever trip to the continent when I was an IT training  consultant back in the mists of time.

But these are my favourites. The cross-legged Santa Clauses belonged to Mum, and when we were children we loved to rearrange them to see if she’d notice.

But the snowman in the middle is my absolute favourite. He was our Christmas cake topper for years, and I inherited him from Mum. Last year two of the branches with the robins broke, and I was heart-broken. But I’d reckoned without the healing power of superglue, and so here he is, restored. I love his cheeky little face.

My tree is somewhat overburdened (and indeed has to be duct-taped to the floor because otherwise it will fall over) but I couldn’t possibly leave any of the decorations in the bag when it’s their only chance to see a bit of daylight. Not that I’m anthropomorphising or anything. I’m sure Mum would have done the same – she always found room for everyone and everything at this time of year, however tired or overwhelmed she felt.

So, Readers, is anyone out there popping up the Christmas tree, or are you all waiting for a bit? Do you have decorations that mean a lot to you? Sending a big hug to everyone out there who needs it at this time of year. I know it isn’t easy for many people.

Dear Readers, after being Debbie Downer yesterday with my blog about the decline in Britain’s wader species, it cheered me up so much to read about a remarkable rewilding project close to Perth in Scotland. The 90-acre site was originally used for barley, and had undergone years of pesticide and herbicide use and soil degradation. When the field was surveyed before the project started, only 35 bumblebees were counted on the whole site.

The original site in 2021

Within two years, the number of bumblebees had increased to a staggering 4,056 individuals, and the number of species of bumblebee had increased from five to ten. The Bumblebee Conservation Trust always needs volunteers to walk particular area routes (transects) to record the insects every week, and how useful that data can be is clearly shown here.

The site wasn’t reseeded, interestingly, but seeds in the seedbank came through and thrived – although some would describe the plants as ‘weeds’, they are extremely useful for pollinators, and this particular field seems to be golden with hawkbit, a favourite with bees of all kinds.

The same field in 2023

A number of techniques have been used to increase biodiversity – the field was grazed by a small herd of cows, which help to fertilise the land naturally and create ‘mini-habitats’ as they feed. There is an orchard, and I saw with interest that volunteers are trying to encourage a meadow amongst the fruit trees by planting up yellow rattle. I hope they have more luck than we did in the Coldfall Meadow last year, but fingers crossed for our yellow rattle seed planted this autumn.

And back in June, a Northern Marsh Orchid popped up, where there had previously been barren soil.

Photo from Rewilding Denmarkfield – Northern Marsh Orchid

Goodness, it’s easy enough to despair these days, but what gives me hope is that, all over the country, small groups of local people are working to preserve, regenerate and protect their green spaces be they woods or parks, meadows or coast. And I have the sense that a groundswell is growing. This is a spectacularly successful project, but it’s not the only one! Let me know if anything exciting is going on in your area, and let’s give one another something to put a spring in our step.

You can find out more about Rewilding Denmarkfield on their Facebook page here or their Instagram page here. Well done those people!