Four-banded Flower Bee (Anthophora quadrimaculata)

Dear Readers, in a bid to ‘big-up’ the invertebrates that are so often overlooked when people think about animals, The Guardian has launched a competition to nominate your ‘Invertebrate of the Year’. But how could one possibly choose? From the super-intelligent octopus to the leopard slug, from the enigmatic New Forest Cicada to the innocent froghopper, our gardens and rivers and seas are full to the brim with fascinating life, most of which we know next to nothing about (unless they’re a ‘pest’ and we decide that we want to eradicate them). I wonder how many entomologists began by studying insects that they loved, and ended up planning how to poison them for a living?

I think it would be well worth nominating an insect – I’ve already nominated mine though it was a hard decision. But I think that the sheer range of possible species is almost more important than what wins (though I shall be mightily fed up if it turns out to be the honeybee, which, for all its sterling work is a most unimaginative choice, and practically a domestic animal to boot).

Here are a few that I considered. First up, the four-banded flower bee pictured above, because it is a fast, high-pitched, energetic little critter that is also mostly a Londoner (at the moment at least), and because it has green eyes, and that’s good enough for me.

And then there are jumping spiders in general, and the Fencepost Jumping Spider in particular. I love the way that, when you look at them, they look back at you. I love that they stalk their prey like tigers and then leap several times their body length to capture an unsuspecting fly. And they eat flies! Honestly, how could you resist voting for him?

Fencepost Jumping Spider (Marpissa muscosa)

How about a new arrival, the Jersey Tiger moth, with its Vulcan bomber-shaped wings, and caterpillars that feed on green alkanet, that most divisive of weeds?

Jersey Tiger (Euplagia quadripunctaria)

Or the Emperor Dragonfly, surely the most adept flying insect of all?

Emperor Dragonfly (Anax imperator)

And to go completely off-piste, how about the leopard slug? What’s not to like about a slug that eats other slugs?

Leopard slug (Limax maximus) (Photo by Michal Maňas – Own work, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7984616)

Or, seeing as I am Bug Woman, how about a bug, like the froghopper who protects its youngsters in a bubble of froth?

Meadow froghopper (Philaenus spumarius) Photo by Charles J Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=38317620)

Or the pondskater, that communicates with other pondskaters by vibrating the surface of the water at a certain frequency?

Pondskaters in flagrante (Photo by Markus Gayda)

But, in the end , it had to be my very favourite bees, the hairy-footed flower bees. There might be a bit of ‘recency effect’ about this, but this species is one of the first to appear in the garden in any numbers, and there’s so much to love about them, from the fact that the sexes are different colours, to the way that they fly around with their tongues poking out, to their loud and determined buzz, to the fact that they have such a short flight season – come summer, they’ll be gone. Don’t let me influence you though! And do vote – the more people vote for their favourite invertebrate, the more people will actually think about the little things that basically run the world.  And let us know your favourite invertebrate, and why. We can have our own little contest here!

Hairy-footed flower bee (Male)

Hairy-footed flower bee (Female)

Dear Readers, everything is budding and singing and greening up in Coldfall Wood, just round the corner from where I live in East Finchley. It’s true that it’s damp and muddy underfoot, but there is still the sound of bird song, including the flutey warblings of this male blackbird. I’m trying to remember which poet described it as having a ‘crocus-yellow bill’, but it’s exactly right.

And there was an unexpectedly friendly jay poking about too. Normally you get a quick flash of pink and blue and then they’re off – if you’re lucky, you get to see how rounded their wings are. They almost seem to float. That  electric-blue stripe on the wing psychedelic – so few animals are truly blue (and in fact these feathers reflect blue light rather than being blue themselves). Alas, the blue feathers have been cause enough for people to shoot them, as Mark Avery suggests in his article here. Technically, a jay can only be shot after non-lethal methods of control have been tried, but as people seem to be able to shoot golden eagles without being found and prosecuted, I imagine that the odd dead jay would be as nothing. Still, in urban ancient woods the jays seem to be thriving.

Jay

And then there are the wild cherries (Prunus avium), just coming into bloom. They look positively ethereal. I love how the one below is doing well in one of the coppiced areas, which is giving it a bit more light.

Overall, though, a lot of the wood has no understorey at all, as I’ve mentioned at least three times this week (sorry everyone! It just makes me sad).

Coldfall Wood

Still, generally most dead wood is allowed to rot in place (except where people are using it for dens) which leads to a fine selection of fungi, especially in autumn.

Standing dead wood near the stream

Someone was mentioning how ‘yellow’ the spring flowers are, what with all the dandelions and lesser celandine and marsh marigolds. I’m not sure this is 100% true, but it might be because yellow flowers are very visible to flies, who don’t have colour vision but who can tell light from dark. Flies are generally out and about earlier than most bees, and as I’ve mentioned before are important but underrated pollinators, especially of early flowers.

Marsh Marigolds by the wet woodland

And the corrugated leaves of the hornbeam are just emerging. Coldfall is a hornbeam and oak wood –  the hornbeam would have been cut back pretty much to the ground every year, with the twigs being used for kindling or charcoal. The oaks would have been left for up to a century and then harvested. It always moves me to think of people  planting these trees that they would never see fully grown, but then that’s what legacy is about – paying things forward for a future that we won’t see. And every spring brings a feeling of hope, of possibility. A walk in the woods always cheers me up.

Hornbeam leaves emerging

tEntering Canons Park

Dear Readers, when you left us yesterday I’d just been walking through the redwood and cedar trees on Canons Drive. Opposite North London Collegiate School there’s a most inviting path into the woods and, as the sun was shining (for once), off we went. Now what impressed me most is the understorey here. Just look at this sea of lesser celandine!

Not to mention the wild garlic – a couple walking ahead of us pulled up a handful, but there is certainly lots to go round.

And a few bluebells are just raising their little heads – judging by the colour, the drooping stems and the curled-back petals I’d say that, miraculously for an urban setting, these could actually be English bluebells rather than hybrid ones. Correct me if I’m wrong, lovely people! At the very least, these don’t look particularly ‘hybridish’ if there’s any such word.

What I want to know is, what is going on here that isn’t happening in other North London Woods? Is it just that people are sticking to the paths, or that it just isn’t as well used as my local woods? Bluebell Wood in Bounds Green doesn’t have a single English bluebell (as far as I’m aware) and my beloved Coldfall Wood has practically no understorey at all. Here’s a photo from today. The green that you can see is growing along the stream. It isn’t just to do with dense leaf cover either, as neither Canons Park nor Coldfall Wood are in full leaf yet.

Coldfall Wood

Anyhow, back to Canons Park. The Cow Parsley is coming into flower too.

And soon we leave the wood and see another church in the distance. I do like a walk with a bit of symmetry, and after exploring St Margaret of Antioch church yesterday, we come to St Lawrence Whitchurch today.

St Lawrence Whitchurch

The stone tower dates back to 1360 but the rest of the church is apparently in the Continental Baroque style (18th century), which is unusual in England. Alas, the church was closed so we couldn’t have a look. It contains the Chandos Mausoleum – the Duke of Chandos was responsible for the original estate that Canons Drive and the wood were part of, and he also ‘messed around’ with the original medieval church building. The Mausoleum was designed by Grinling Gibbons, though the architectural writer Pevsner is a bit sneery about it and thinks that it was probably knocked up by his workshop rather than the man himself. It shows the Duke as a Roman citizen, with two of his wives kneeling beside him (he was married three times in all, so I guess the third one survived him)

The Chandos Memorial (Photo by By Doyle of London – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=140541390)

Furthermore, the church is home to an organ that was played by George Frederic Handel himself, who was composer-in-residence from 1717/1718. He composed a setting of the psalms known as the Chandos Anthems while he was there, living with the Duke in his stately home (demolished in 1747). I have a great love for ‘Mr Handel’ – it’s difficult to be sad when listening to all that exuberance! But I had no idea that he’d been composing away in Edgware, and playing the organ in this little church. I must go back to see what I make of the interior – it looks quite something!

And then it’s time for a wander around the graveyard, where a parakeet is stripping the cherry blossom, bless her…

There are some graves here from the 18th century…

And some more recent ones. This one tells of an entire family wiped out in a WWII air raid, with possibly just the son (who was maybe on active duty) surviving.

Such terrible stories, but it is so peaceful here. I can imagine when the roads and houses were open fields and countryside. As with so many churches, they seem to have seen it all.

And the church still has its lychgate. This is where a coffin would have waited, under cover, until the first part of the burial service had been read and it was time for the deceased to be brought into the church.

So, what an interesting walk in Edgware! London never ceases to amaze me, with its infinite variety. And all because of an article about redwood trees! You never know where a trail will lead you next.

St Margaret of Antioch

Dear Readers, you might remember my piece about Sequoias earlier this week, when I mentioned that there was reported to be a row of these majestic trees in Edgware, a few miles away from where I live. So, as it’s Easter weekend, how could I resist an expedition to see what’s going on? Plus, I have never actually been to Edgware, even though it’s so close. So, on Saturday we jumped onto a bus to Golders Green and a Northern Line tube to Edgware to see what gives.Well, there’s certainly a lot of independent shops and cafés about, selling all sorts of different cuisines – Indian, Chinese, Lebanese, Afro-Caribbean, Romanian, and lots of others. But we’d just stuffed our faces in East Finchley, so on we went. First up was the rather intriguing church in the first photo. St Margaret of Antioch is the Church of England parish church for Edgware, and was first mentioned in the 13th century, where it was used by the Knights Hospitaller – this was a military order based in the hospital of St John of Jerusalem. These days, it runs the St John’s Ambulance Brigade, and the Saint John Ambulance Brigade in Jerusalem. The tower dates to the 15th century, but the rest of the building has been rebuilt and renovated several times, most recently in the 19th century.

St Margaret of Antioch was one of the saints that Joan of Arc was said to have conversed with. She was born a pagan, but was reared as a shepherdess by a Christian woman after she was disowned by her father for her conversion. Legend has it that she was devoured by a dragon, but that the cross she was carrying irritated the dragon’s innards so much that she was able to make her escape, though exactly how is not entirely clear. She also did battle with a demon in her cell and won by battering him with a brass hammer. She was clearly a woman after my own heart, but alas she was decapitated in the end. She is the patron saint of pregnant women, servant maids, kidney-sufferers and can be invoked against demonical infestations, should you have any.

Saint Margaret of Antioch, with a dragon (Photo by By Postdlf, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2679945)

On we go, past a rather fine stone war memorial, and some buildings that I originally took to be mock Tudor, and which are actually real Tudor, with some of them dating back to the 16th century. Who knew that Edgware had such a rich architectural heritage? They currently house a range of restaurants and bars (one of which was serving flagons of beer though it was only 10 a.m.)  and a driving school.

Actually it’s not so surprising that Edgware has a long history as it’s situated on Watling Street, a Roman road that linked St Albans and the northern cities to London.

And now, we reach Canons Park, a conservation area with a long history. It was originally part of the lands of the Augustinian Priory of St Bartholemew, who also ran St Bartholemew’s Hospital in London. Later, a magnificent house was built in the estate grounds, which now forms North London Collegiate School. The avenue that led up to the entrance still exists, and was planted in 1910 with a variety of magnificent trees. This was the main reason for the expedition, and as they say in Tripadvisor Restaurant reviews, ‘They didn’t disappoint’.

View along Canon’s Drive

We have a mixture of trees here – lots of Giant Sequoia (Sequoiadendron giganteum), one California Redwood (Sequoia sempervirens), some Dawn Redwoods and a whole variety of cedars and monkey puzzles and goodness knows what else. I was utterly amazed. For those who would like to be able to tell the difference between the Giant Sequoia and the California Redwood, help is at hand below. First is the cone and leaves of the Giant Sequoia – see how the leaves are tiny, in long sprays. The trees themselves also have a more conical, heavily leafed shape than the California Redwoods.

Giant Sequoia leaves and cone.

Cones and leaves of California Redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) Photo from https://www.picturethisai.com/wiki/Sequoia_sempervirens.html)

Giant Sequoia

Cedar (not sure what type, possible Deodar)

Giant sequoia

Nearly all of the trees have tree preservation orders (TPOs), but this hasn’t stopped some insurance companies from asking for them to be cut down – I recently signed a petition stating that three of the trees had been blamed for subsidence and were threatened with destruction. I’m pleased to report that two of the trees have now been saved, but the petition is still stating that one tree is under threat (though I do note that the petition is more than two years old, so maybe this is old news). Anyhow, it just shows that even with trees as impressive as these, it still pays to be vigilant.

And let’s not forget a) that these trees are relatively just babies (redwoods can live to 3000 years old), and b) are nothing like at their full height yet – the tallest is a mere 110 feet tall, when they can grow to 380 feet. Plus they were planted before there were any houses here at all. Honestly, councils and insurance companies have to sort this stuff out. Too many trees are cut down purely for financial reasons.

Can anyone else see a face in the trunk below? It definitely looks like an Ent to me….

All too soon, we’re at the end of Canons Drive, peering through the fence into North London Collegiate and wondering what to do next. But lo, what is this?

A leafy path through a little wood on a sunny day? Looks good to me! Let’s see how we get on tomorrow.

Dad, fresh from helping to pilot a boat from Weymouth to Portland.

Dear Readers, four years ago today (31st March 2020) my father passed away, and I became a middle-aged orphan. Today, I think about how I used to phone my parents every Sunday, and how I sometimes thought of it as a chore – Dad would speak to me for about five minutes, but he never really knew what to say. Then he’d pass the phone onto Mum. If talking had been an Olympic sport she would definitely have got a gold medal, so I was rarely on for less than an hour. Mum had to tell every story verbatim, in real time – it was as if every detail was of equal value, every exchange, even the most humdrum, worthy of attention and retelling. Only later did I understand how diminished her life had become, how small her world, so that every incident grew to have an almost Homeric importance, though if a wooden horse had ever turned up in Milborne St Andrew I imagine that we’d still be on the phone now.

Yet, after they passed away, the time when I would have phoned them gave me a physical pain, every week for months and months. For a while I would ring their number, just to hear Mum’s telephone voice announcing that ‘Neither Sybil or Tom are able to take your call at the moment’. How I yearned to have one of those long, meandering, infuriating calls again. I would have loved to hear a verbatim report of Mum’s argument with the milkman, or to have a blow-by-blow account of the adorable thing that the cat did. I suppose that it’s often not the big things that we miss so much when someone dies, but the day-to-day familiarity of a voice, or a touch, a turn of phrase that no one else has.

Dad, on the other hand, was a very taciturn person. He was, however, easily exasperated by inefficiency and lack of planning, even after he moved into the nursing home because of his dementia. When I went to visit, Dad would often throw up his hands as he recalled some mishap or source of confusion.

“It was chaos, utter chaos!” he’d say, with a roll of the eyes. Sometimes, if the nursing staff were within hearing range, he’d lean in and say, sotto voce

“And that one” (jerk of the head), “he’s the worst”.

I’d turn to see some poor gentleman trying to manoeuvre his walker through a space that was clearly too small, or someone carrying a plate full of cake at a precipitous angle.

Dad was quick to judge other people as idiots, but he was easily conned or bullied, even before his dementia. However,  Mum took over the phone calls as Dad’s faculties diminished, and she was more than able for any scammers. One ill-advised chap was trying to persuade Dad to give him his credit card details when Mum snatched the phone and gave the scamster such an earful that he told her she was ‘a very wicked woman’ and put the phone down on her. Clearly her way with words was not always a disadvantage.

And so, as the years go by, I find myself thinking less and less about the last few years and the challenges that they brought, and more about what special people Mum and Dad were, and what a good team they made. They always presented a united front in public, and both of them hated it when they were with couples who were contemptuous of one another, or who spoke to one another with a lack of respect. Of course, things could be different in private – my brother and I used to call them ‘Stadler and Waldorf’ after the couple of old men in The Muppets – but basically they had one another’s backs, and were on the same team, for the best part of sixty-five years.

I once asked Mum what the secret of a life-long relationship was.

“Luck”, she said.

I was surprised. I’d expected ‘unconditional love’ or some such notion.

“When you’ve known one another since you were fourteen years old,” she said, “You’re bound to change over the years. The question is, do you change in ways that your partner can deal with? Can you still love one another? We were lucky, because we did, and we grew old together. But sometimes people can’t, and in that case it’s best that they find someone that they can love, rather than spending the rest of their lives miserable”.

I have no idea what happens after we die. Part of me would love to think of Mum and Dad still being together in some way, their essence mingling like smoke. But what I do know is that they were so much part of one another that Dad was always looking for Mum, in some way or another, until his dying day, even though he didn’t really understand that she had died. And now his searching is over, and if nothing else, he has some peace, even though I miss both my parents more than I can say. My heart is heavy today, but I am full of memories, and of gratitude for what they gave me, and who they were.

Mum and Dad in 2016

Dear Readers, in previous years I’ve put together a collection of autumn poems, but in a strange oversight I’ve managed to forget all about spring. No more! Here are a few of my favourites, do feel free to let me know which ones you like.

First up, William Wordsworth, in a pensive mood. He’s not wrong, though.

Lines Written in Early Spring
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

And I rather love this one….

“Feuerzauber”
BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER

I never knew the earth had so much gold—
The fields run over with it, and this hill
Hoary and old,
Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.

Such golden fires, such yellow—lo, how good
This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God!
This fringe of wood,
Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see
Your face grow mystical, as on that night
You turned to me,
And all the trembling world—and you—were white.

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb;
The fields absorb you, color you entire . . .
And you become
A goddess standing in a world of fire!

I confess to a great fondness for Billy Collins. Some people complain that he’s ‘too accessible’ or ‘too sentimental’ but sometimes he just nails it. See what you think.

Today
BY BILLY COLLINS

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

And if that was too sentimental for you, can I recommend Edna St Vincent Millay? The last few lines have me chortling every single time. She rather reminds me of ‘Johnny Nice Painter’ from ‘The Fast Show’. If you haven’t met him before, have a look here.

Spring
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

And here’s a little gem by Thomas Nashe (1593 – 1607), He was a prolific writer of prose and poetry but is best known for this one, and for ‘In the Time of Plague‘, and  two poems could not be more different in tone. Let’s stick to this one for now. It’s so full of joy!

Spring, the sweet spring
BY THOMAS NASHE

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year’s pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet spring!

Incidentally, the four birds singing are the cuckoo, the nightingale (jug-jug which seems a little prosaic), pu-we (the peewit) and the tawny owl (to witta-woo). How happy I would be to hear them all in one place!

Common Cuckoo – Photo by Mike McKenzie, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

And finally, with no apologies, here is the poem that I chose when we interred my Mum under the cherry tree in the graveyard of St Andrew’s Church in Milborne St Andrew. I loved it then, and I love it now.

The Trees (1974)

PHILIP LARKIN

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

California Giant Redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) Photo by Bernt Rostad on Flickr, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Dear Readers, when you’re trying to photograph California Redwoods (Sequoia sempervirens) it presents something of a problem. How can a photograph possibly do justice to a tree that, at its largest, can be 380 feet tall, 29 feet in diameter and can live to be 2000 years old? Well, lots of people have tried, but I honestly think you need to be standing next to one to really appreciate that these are not just any old tall trees.

Photo by Tim Waters, taken at Big Basin Redwoods State Park, California (https://www.flickr.com/photos/tim-waters/5524503526/)

However, the history of the California Redwood is not a happy one. Beloved of loggers they have been cut down until they survive naturally  in only a few isolated patches of the California coast. Although they actually need forest fires in order to reproduce, changes in forest management and the increasing frequency and ferocity of the conflagrations means that the redwood seedlings that germinate following a fire are quickly crowded out by other plants.

Interestingly, although the California Redwood is a mighty fine tree, the largest tree by volume in the world is the Giant Redwood (Sequoiadendron giganteum). It isn’t as tall, but ‘General Sherman’, a tree living in the Sequoia National Park in California has a diameter of over 37 feet. It is subject to the same problems as the California Redwood, and is even longer lived (given the chance) – the oldest known individual is over 3,000 years old. It’s thought that the tannin in the bark helps to give protection against pests and fungal diseases.

General Sherman (Photo by By Clementp.fr – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=133084171)

Now, the Victorians get the blame for a lot of things (Japanese Knotweed, Giant Hogweed) but they did plant a lot of California Redwoods and Giant Redwoods on their estates, and for once this has proved to be a good thing, because the trees appear to be thriving, just as they are under threat in their native ranges. About half a million Giant Sequoias have been planted since the 19th century, along with vast numbers of California Redwoods. A recent report in New Scientist suggests that the trees are doing every bit as well in the UK as they did at home in California, sequestering an estimated 85 kg of carbon every year, and apparently loving our more stable climate. The author of the report, Matthias Disney of University College London, does point out there’s no current evidence of the trees reproducing – maybe their need for fire in order to germinate might be a bit tricky to, well, reproduce. Disney also wants to look at the relationship between the redwoods and the native ecosystem to see what impact, if any, the trees have.

General Sherman being wrapped in fire protective material before a forest fire reaches it – the danger is that flames penetrate some of the fissures in the bark, causing damage (Photo by By Elizabeth Wu, National Park Service – https://npgallery.nps.gov/AssetDetail/0c58fd17-f4fe-4f43-a4d0-83cae496f019#, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=129955141)

Interestingly (and I feel a mini-trip coming on) there is an avenue of Giant Redwoods in Edgware, on the approach to the North London Collegiate School – the school was once a fine country house, and the trees were planted in 1910. Paul Wood (of London’s Street Trees fame) says that they are doing extremely well, and if you’re a North Londoner and fancy a trip they’re on Canons Drive. Wood reports that there is also a younger group of Giant Redwoods in Kilburn (Fernhead Road and Kilburn Lane) – these have apparently been planted right into the pavement, not into a verge as in the case of the Edgware trees, but they seem to be doing fine. So you don’t have to go to Kew, or to Scotney Castle (where the tallest redwood in the UK can be found, 55 metres tall) to see these magnificent trees. Turns out, they’re everywhere! Long may they prosper.

Cherry blossom at Market Place in East Finchley

A series following the 72 British mini-seasons of Nature’s Calendar by Kiera Chapman, Lulah Ellender, Rowan Jaines and Rebecca Warren. 

Dear Readers, the idea of Hanami – cherry blossom viewing – seems to have taken off over the past few years. In Japan, where the idea originated, it’s very much a social thing, a chance to view the blossoms, meet friends, maybe picnic under the pink and white canopy. In Toronto (much on my mind as my trip approaches) they have Cherry Blossom season in High Park, with weekly updates on how the blossom is progressing (you can read all about it here). In the UK, the National Trust are currently publicising ‘the best places to see blossom‘ (and this isn’t just cherry blossom, but also some of their magnificent magnolias which should be reaching peak condition round about now). And in fact, here in the County Roads in East Finchley we have some very fine cherry trees of our own.

Here’s a lovely pink one at the junction of Durham Road and Creighton Avenue….

I love the way that the fallen  petals look like confetti…

And then there’s my favourite tree on Leicester Road…

And then there are some on Huntingdon Road. Apparently the pink rings at the base of the stamen indicates that the flower has been pollinated. Who knew?

And this one has blossom growing out of its trunk in a most intriguing way…

As Rebecca Warren points out in ‘Nature’s Calendar’, cherry trees became popular as street trees because they are small in stature (with a correspondingly small root run), and because they not only produce blossom but often have stunning autumn foliage. They really punch above their weight, both in a small garden and alongside a suburban road. But (whisper it) my favourite cherry tree species is not one of these cultivars, but the tree after which I suspect Cherry Tree Wood here in East Finchley was named – the bird cherry (Prunus padus) with its firework-tail flowers. It doesn’t flower until May, when  all the other cherries are pretty much over, and so it is a late-spring pleasure.

Bird cherry (Prunus padus)

The delight of cherry blossom is that it is ephemeral – some years it feels as if you could blink and miss it. And the weather doesn’t help. On a blustery, wet day (of which we’ve had way too many just lately) you can watch the flower petals being torn from the tree  and sticking to the damp pavement. But what a pleasure it is to see it, after the long dark days. It feels important to stop and drink it in, however busy we are. And who said it better than A.E. Housman? He seems to capture the transience of both the blossom and the lives of humans so well here, in all its poignancy and resilience.

A Shropshire Lad 2: Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Interestingly, what Housman is talking about is our native wild cherry (Prunus avium), which, as it grows to nearly sixty feet tall, is not a popular street tree. As Paul Wood says in his book ‘London’s Street Trees‘, a wild cherry can ‘give most of the Japanese cultivars a run for their money’ when in bloom. What a beautiful sight it is, and it shows how accurate Housman’s line about ‘the cherry hung with snow’ is.

Wild cherry (Prunus avium) Photo By Jean-Pol GRANDMONT – Self-photographed, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25272609

Dear Readers, one of the joys of being retired is that it gives me a chance to explore a bit more of London, and bask in its history. And so, on Monday, I took a trip to Ham House in Richmond, to get an eyeful of the 17th interiors and to admire the Stuart-era gardens. It’s a very imposing building, and there’s a very imposing chap in the middle of the lawn. It makes a real change to see a statue of a naked man given such prominence, as opposed to the usual women who look as if their clothes have dropped off. This is Old Father Thames, very appropriate considering that the river runs a few hundred metres away.

Old Father Thames

But first, a quick trot around the gardens, as the house doesn’t open until midday. There’s a whole lot of geometry going – not my favourite style of garden, but extremely impressive nonetheless.

Interestingly, there appears to be no evidence that the gardens were like this originally, but even so it was decided to keep them, and they’re certainly a talking point! At the back of the house is ‘the wilderness, a series of intersecting paths and lawns absolutely busting with bulbs, and with strategically-placed conservatories and other places to sit. Much more to my taste.

The grape hyacinths and some species tulips are out at the moment, and a few bluebells are just coming into flower – they look very like English bluebells to me, so it will be spectacular in a few weeks.

And here’s a view of the back of the house. I can just imagine the Stuart carriages pulling up, and hear the sound of the horses’ hooves on the gravel.

A lot of attention is now being put into the kitchen garden, which grows a wide variety of fruit and veg, and lots of flowers for the house and the essential National Trust café.

There are all manner of espaliered fruit trees along the wall…

Pear Tree

Peach tree

And there is the most magnificent wisteria along the wall of the café, just waiting to burst into bloom. What a photo opportunity that will be! Wisteria Hysteria, anybody?

Anyhow, now it’s midday and time to go into the house itself. It was built in 1610 and was first occupied by William Murray, 1st Earl of Dysart. He was a close childhood friend of Charles I, and might have been his ‘whipping boy’ – this was a child brought up alongside a royal child, and  who took all the punishments meant for the monarch to be. I imagine that the house was something of a compensation. However, this was a time of change, and being a Royalist sympathiser wasn’t such a smart move after Charles I was executed. William shrewdly signed the house over to his wife Katherine, who somehow managed to keep the house from being handed over to the Parliamentarians after paying a 500 pound fine. You can still see the words ‘ Vivat Rex’ over the very impressive front door.

Then you go into the Great Hall, probably used for dining and entertaining.

The staircase is astonishing, with individual carvings of everything from horse armour to cannons. I was very sorry that my military-history buff husband wasn’t there to explain all the details. Historian Christopher Rowell described the staircase as ‘without a close parallel in the British Isles’. It’s thought to date back to the 1630s.

I have always had a great fondness for marquetry, which is surprising as I am hardly a dab hand with a chisel. But look at this cabinet! It wasn’t open when I visited, but the interior is full of little drawers and niches and cubby holes of all kinds. It’s made from ebony, stained bone, walnut, stained fruitwood and (alas) ivory.

There’s a fine portrait of Charles I by Van Dyck. Whenever I look at these portraits, I always wonder at which point he realised that he was doomed.

And this is a bit of a mystery. It depicts Elizabeth Murray, the daughter of William and Katherine, who rose to prominence when Charles II came to the throne. She married the Duke of Lauderdale, Lionel Tollemache and Ham House became a centre of Restoration intrigue. But what of the black child? The portrait doesn’t mention him at all, so we have no idea if he was part of the retinue of the house, or if the artist brought him along as a ‘prop’, which according to one of the guides was not at all unusual.

Apparently, although when the house was first built the family were likely to have dined at a single long table, later the fashion was for smaller individual tables, as if you were in a restaurant.

Dining Room

And this is Elizabeth’s bedroom, but at the moment it’s showing a Stuart reclining chair rather than her bed.

Downstairs is the bathroom, which has both a round Stuart bath, and a nineteenth century rectangular one. Being so close to the bedroom would have been very handy!

Downstairs, via a very narrow and plain staircase, is the servants’ quarters. I like that some of the details of the people who worked in the house are stencilled onto the walls, the dates and job titles gleaned from the accounting records of the house. A very knowledgeable guide told us that laundress would have earned three pounds per year, while the mole-catcher earned four pounds and ten shillings.

When the house was first built, there would have been no interior staircase linking the kitchen and servants’ quarters to the rest of the house, so all the food would have been walked around the outside of the building. But latterly the servants had a way of taking the food upstairs without braving the elements, though it’s thought that maids and kitchen boys used to sleep under the table when there was something that needed to be watched overnight, such as bread baking or possibly meat roasting.

The long table with a sleeping platform underneath.

Ham House remained in the Tollemache family until 1948, when the house was given to the National Trust and the contents to the Victoria and Albert Museum (later they were brought back to the property). It is a remarkable survival from Stuart times, and the National Trust have done a great job of preserving it and of putting it into context. I recommend a visit if you’re in London, and the café does a great cheese and onion marmalade toasted sandwich if you’re in need of a bite.