A Hurricane in a Teacup

Posted on February 22, 2022 by johnshortlandwriter

With much of Britain recovering from the effects of three storms – Dudley, Eunice and Franklin – within ten days and Storm Gladys about to arrive, it seems appropriate to have some up-to-date thoughts on the time when we England experienced a hurricane. Or did we experience one? After the ridicule that poor Michael Fish, the weatherman, had to endure after he proclaimed in 1987 that “Britain doesn’t have hurricanes” only for the nation to wake up to find itself flattened, the forecasters have avoided using the ‘H’ word. Instead we have storms that are now named in the same way as hurricanes. Even more recently still, we are told we have ‘red alert’ storms. So, were these latest storms hurricanes or in reality were they, as my late father would have said, “just a bit of a blow?”

I wrote the thoughts below many years ago when pondering on the English Hurricane and the later 1990 storm. That wasn’t officially a hurricane either but did far more damage – hurricane-like damage, in fact. The only thing that this and these latest storms prove is that the debate hasn’t moved on very much over the intervening years…

*The dangerous work of reconnecting electricity continues through the night*

English people constantly talk about weather. It’s in our makeup, our genes – we can’t possibly walk past someone, even a total stranger, without saying something about it. We can’t help it, no matter how much we realise that the person isn’t that interested (or, for that matter, even if they don’t speak English, when we madly gesticulate skywards). We rattle on about too much rain, too little rain, too much sun, no sun, cold for the time of year, how warm it is. So, in the spirit of being a true Englishman, despite my part-Polish ancestry, I’m just going to mention that we had a fantastic sunset in the secret valley a couple of days ago.

I think the reason we may behave like this is because English weather is nearly always gentle. The landscape that makes up England is beautiful and can be dramatic but not in the way of so many other countries. Take the USA, for example. Where’s our Grand Canyon, our towering redwoods, our Rocky Mountains, our Great Plains and our Niagara Falls? We have them in miniature and, perhaps, that is just as well as we are such a small country. And likewise, our weather: we have heatwaves, we have floods, we have blizzards. But they are rarely anything truly spectacular (except to those poor people affected by them, of course). And so when we were told by the weather men in 1987 that reports of a hurricane were completely exaggerated, we believed them totally. And despite the fact that much of the country was hit hard by it when it arrived, my part of the Chiltern Hills where I lived at the time was not much affected, even though it is one of the most wooded parts of the country.

The night in January 1990 was different. This time we had winds, whilst not as severe as three years earlier, which created total havoc with the already weakened root systems of the trees. Great swathes of the magnificent beech woods that are the very heart and soul of the Chilterns were flattened in a couple of hours. I lived at that time in the middle of one of these woodlands and am frequently reminded that, as the rest of the world cowered in their beds and the trees came crashing down all around our house, I woke up to say “a bit windy out there” before falling asleep again. As dawn broke the true damage to the landscape (but fortunately not our home) could be seen.

It is now over thirty years since that storm and the woodands have been transformed. Those of us that remember the 200 year old beech know that the majority are gone and, in their place, are new trees of mixed species. It will be many years before the magnificence of the woods return but they are healing. This photo below is taken from the same spot as the one above. Some of the biggest old stumps have been left, too difficult to move – time has hardly changed their appearance apart from their ‘roof’ of mosses.

One of the unforeseen benefits of the hurricane is the increased amount of light reaching the woodland floor, for beech trees cast a dense shade where little can grow, other than where the canopy is lightest. Apart from the view to the valley below, which was unseen before, many wild flowers are better now than ever. Roll on April when we can see the blue carpet of tens of thousands of bluebells disappearing into the distance.

Oh! And I nearly forgot to say, the weather today is a mix of sunshine, cold winds, rain and sleet. Don’t forget to tell the next person you meet!

Coppicing Hazel – the how, the why, the where

Posted on February 18, 2021 by johnshortlandwriter

Lamb’s Tails (as country children call them), the pale-yellow catkins of the hazel, are a familiar sight at this time of year. A traditional component of our hedgerows, they are perhaps seen in more glory when growing unchecked along roadside verges where they can achieve a much greater height. There, up to 15 metres tall in favoured conditions, the soft golden shimmer of hundreds of catkins really is one of the earliest harbingers of spring.

*Lamb’s tails: their pollen is released by the wind*

Catkins begin to form early in the winter, small, stubby and dull in colour where they wait until, quite suddenly, they are as we see them now. The transition always goes unnoticed. Even less noticed are the female flowers – for catkins are male. Whereas the majority of plants are self-fertile, Hazel, Corylus avellana, is one of a number that carry both male and female flowers. Wind-pollinated, the breeze carries the pollen from the male to the female to fertilise. However, the pollen has to reach a different plant for it to be successful. The tiny, female flowers can be discovered by careful searching along the branches a few days after the catkins have fully formed.

*The short, stubby embryo catkins form* in early winter

The minute, female flowers take a bit of finding…

For gardeners, hazel is one of the most traditional and useful of plants and it is worth growing one or two in an odd corner if you have the room. There they will quickly create a multi-stemmed shrub. Visually, as a garden plant, when left to its own devices, it is of limited value (wildlife love it, of course). However, by coppicing the plant there will be a regular supply of poles for runner beans to climb and the twiggy top-growth is the perfect support for garden peas, mange-tout and the headily-scented sweet peas. They are also useful for supporting taller herbaceous plants, saving them from collapse and look so much more attractive than canes and string or wire netting. It’s far quicker to do, too!

So, what is coppicing and how do you do it? Well, for a start, it’s a dead easy and very uncomplicated form of pruning! All that has to be done is to cut with secateurs or garden loppers the stems to a few inches above ground level during the winter. If you do this over three years by removing only a third of the stems each year you will have stems of varying heights and diameters without losing any screening effect. Although coppicing may seem a drastic form of pruning they quickly regrow and it also prolongs the life of the plant considerably.

*Coppiced hazel can make a good summer screen in the garden*

Many years ago, coppicing of hazel (and, sometimes, ash and field maple too) was standard practice in many of our woodlands. These days it is still carried out as a conservation tool to encourage the breeding of our now endangered dormouse and other wildlife. Hazel is the food plant of many moths and the autumn supply of nuts are great favourites with jays, squirrels and wood mice – and, of course, humans. In the photo below of long-neglected woodland, the hazel is naturally regenerating as coppice as the old and heavy branches collapse onto the forest floor.

*Neglected storm-damaged hazel naturally regenerating as coppice*

Hazel can be useful, along with willow, to create living structures such as pergolas, arches, fencing and tunnels. They all involve regular pruning in much the same way as coppicing although in most instances the number of upright growths is reduced to one or two. The prunings make excellent kindling for wood burners and, if you’re feeling really creative, rustic furniture. Why not have a go? From just one native species we can have fun projects that are ideal for people of all ages. It can be used as an educational tool too: nature study and conservation, rural history and artistry make it the perfect resource for lockdown and home learning.

*This living hazel tunnel* *makes a fine garden feature and is also good for wildlife*

*An imaginative and practical way of using* *hazel branche*s

Conceived on Exmoor?

Posted on March 30, 2019 by johnshortlandwriter

There used to be a standing joke between my mother and I that I must have been conceived on Exmoor as it has such a magnetic hold on me. My parents had honeymooned there, staying at Ye Olde Cottage Inne at Barbrook in the mid-1940s – the fact that I was born in the early 50s and had an older sibling we conveniently overlooked.

Wedding Day

When I first came across Exmoor, in the summer of ‘68, I thought I had stumbled into a paradise, if not unknown to others, certainly unknown to members of my family. “Stumbled” is an accurate description. My intention had been to cycle further west into Cornwall before returning south to Exeter for the train journey home. Poor map reading skills took me instead to the North Devon Coast at Westward Ho!. During my final term at school we had studied the novel Lorna Doone and now seeing Doone Valley, Exmoor marked on the map it seemed logical to visit despite it being way off to the east.

Badgworthy Water, Doone Valley

Brought up in the Chiltern Hills, I was used to a hidden landscape of narrow lanes, high beech hedges and dense and extensive beech woodlands. Rarely, was there an unbroken view of far-distant places and, almost as rarely, large expanses of sky and cloud. Cycling across Exmoor with its open, rolling landscape ablaze with heather and gorse and views across the sea to the Welsh coast was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Sometimes the lanes would pass between high banked hedgerows or descend into well-wooded coombes reminding me of home. I came across a farm where I pitched my tent intending to stay two days before leaving for Exeter.

A Chiltern lane winds its way through dense woodland

The open views of Exmoor

Helping on the farm, two days turned into weeks and then into months by which time I had moved into the farmhouse and embraced Exmoor life. I occasionally telephoned my parents, or sent a postcard, always being evasive about where I was staying and only telling them I was working on a farm and being well cared for. With the benefit of maturity, I sometimes wonder how they coped with their sixteen-year old son, on his first lone holiday, disappearing for so long in an era of no mobile phones or credit cards for them to track my progress. They only succeeded in finding me after I foolishly reversed the telephone call charge and soon after arrived on the doorstep to drag me away, kicking and screaming. It was time to get “a proper job” but Exmoor and the farm had completely changed my outlook on life as well as the direction it would ultimately take. After twenty years of “a proper job” I finally escaped to agricultural college and a life of outdoor work.

Brendon Barton 1968

At agricultural college 1994

I had been surprised and a little disappointed when I first discovered my parents also knew Exmoor. Despite not having been conceived there, my attachment to Exmoor has never waivered and more than fifty years later I regularly return. Upon entering the moor the same emotion of discovery, as if seeing it for the first time, remains. Many of the old friends that I made in those early years and their unique way of life that I was privileged to be part of, albeit in a small way, have gone but the landscape remains remarkably unchanged. The heather and gorse are still a carpet of purple and gold, the sea (at least, on a fine, sunny day) still blue.

Countisbury Common, where the moor falls into the sea

Very recently, through researching my family history, I have found that an earlier cousin, at a similar age to myself, had also discovered Exmoor. He too had never settled in school and life on Exmoor changed him. He also chose to write about his time on the moor, something else we have in common. Although I was surprised to learn of his life and his book, this time I am delighted!

002

Postscript. Just a few years before she died at the age of 93, I spent a few days on Exmoor with my mother and took her to revisit the honeymoon hotel. Long widowed, the day must have been a mix of emotions.