No-Mow-May

May returns and “the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land”. Sadly, the voice of the lawnmower is more likely to be heard today, as the grasses, dandelions and daisies surge ahead, and normalising lawn management fires up again. A lawn is a meadow passed under the yoke of culture. For some people even a striped lawn is too wild, and they replace it with plastic green turf. All this ‘normalising’ comes at a cost to the diversity of living things which thrive in grassland. 

Grasses were invented by nature about 120 million years ago, though it is unlikely that dinosaurs ever rolled on a prairie. It would take 70 million years or more before grasses were prolific enough to carpet the ground, so the pleasure of rolling on a greensward belonged to browsing and grazing mammals of the early Tertiary epoch. Later, whole ecosystems such as savannah, steppe and pampas evolved as a joint project of mammals and grasses. Grazers such as aurochs are likely to have maintained forest clearings and floodplain grasslands in prehistoric Britain (Yalden 1999, p.72). Wrested from woodland and valley scrubland for the purpose of livestock farming, hay meadows and grazing pastures are a Neolithic creation (Rackham 1987, p.330). Sheep, cattle and horses need them, and we need these animals.  

Sadly the familiar British meadow has become a rarity, particularly in the lowlands where 90% of it has been lost in the past century (Lake et al, 2020, p152). Ploughed up in favour of arable or replaced by monocultural grass leys, too many old meadows and pastures have been deleted from the landscape and, along with them, the vibrant populations of herbs, insects, birds, mammals, fungi, et cetera,  which had thrived on them for many hundreds of years.

One place in Suffolk with long-established grassland was Brome Park. The Hall was built in Tudor times, about 1550, and an engraving dated 1707 shows the house surrounded by extensive parkland and trees. The Park survived until about 1963 after which it was converted to arable land. The only areas not ploughed up were the grounds of the Hall, its tree-lined avenue and a scrap of land attached to a cottage known as The Bungalow, which is where I have lived since 1992.

Brome Hall, illustrated by Jan Kip, 1707.
The site of the Bungalow is just out of the picture, beyond a pond and dovecote (far left).

At first I mowed the lawns assiduously, to keep on top of the vegetation in a drive for order. I was worried what the neighbours might think if I didn’t. Later, led by a mixture of laziness and botanical curiosity, I began to make a first cut much later in the season. I began leaving some areas of grass longer than others – frankly, I hadn’t the heart to mince up the flowers that began showing themselves. As years went by, the lawn began to lose its carpet-like quality and became more like a meadow, with a tussocky grass structure interleaved with a variety of other plants. Some patches were left longer than others, following a three-tier regime. I became aware of the diverse flora within my care. I noticed discrete populations in different parts of the lawn: stands of cocksfoot grass and common sorrel on brown soils contrasting with timothy grass, ground ivy and mosses on sandier soils.

Germander speedwell (Veronica chamaedrys), ground ivy (Glecoma hederacea) and creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens) in a sward of springy turf moss (Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus), May 2022.

Germander speedwell (Veronica chamaedrys), ground ivy (Glecoma hederacea) and creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens) in a sward of springy turf moss (Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus), May 2022.

Lady's smock (Cardamine pratensis) starring the lawn, with a large anthill (right), May 2022.

Twayblade orchid (Listera ovata), May 2022.

In 1999, I began making a list of as many species of plants and insects as I was able to recognise. I counted seven species of grass and two kinds of speedwell. I was amazed to find a twayblade orchid in one place and a spotted orchid in another; my lawnmower had never given them a chance to grow before. I found an incipient anthill beneath a plant pot, with yellow meadow ants scurrying about. I replaced the pot, and later discovered they had earthed up around it. This gave me the idea of encouraging anthills, of which I now have four – the largest is 30 cm high x 70 cm across. The lawn is now a texturally rich habitat: it may look a bit ragged and untidy in places but it now supports a much richer flora and fauna. In August I notice small moths flying up from the grasses round my feet. Frogs shelter beneath cool, matted tussocks, and voles forge a complicated network of tunnelled pathways. The spotted flycatcher swoops from a vantage point to snatch flying insects.  The green woodpecker bangs away at the ant hills. Rabbits scuff holes and leave scatterings of bare earth which are host for fresh seeds. Plumes of gnats dance overhead, sometimes following my head disconcertingly as I move about. 

Ant activity amid leaves of creeping cinquefoil (Potentilla reptans) and tufted vetch (Vicia cracca), May 2021.  

Having this meadow on my doorstep has transformed my engagement with and understanding of wildlife, particularly plants and insects. It has prompted photography, microscopy and the gathering of a small reference library. 

What I have done here is allow the inherent richness in this small corner of Suffolk to express itself. The diversity - the seven species of grasses, for example – is a legacy of the past, and argues for habitat continuity here. I didn’t plant them. I argue that my lawn is the final, biodiverse remnant of the old Brome Park which goes back to Tudor times, at least. The sward reminds me of old churchyards; it may never have been ploughed. None of the other land round here – not even the grounds of the Hall – is anything like so rich. I admit of having made additions to the garden over the past 30 years, for example alexanders, hyacinth, marjoram, lungwort, mahonia, box, magnolia, and – on the lawn – a clump of greater knapweed. I argued that none of these have modified the baseline plant population, which I think is an ancient one. I fear that when I leave here this little world will be endangered by someone who does not appreciate just what a special place it is.

Common sorrel (Rumex acetosa) and fading leaves of lesser celandine (Ficaria verna), May 2022.

My advice to gardeners is to stop mowing in May and see what comes up on your lawn. See what plant and animal diversity you already have – get to know and identify it, discover it close up; take macro photographs. If you find a monoculture then by all means diversify it, with native species chosen to typify a Suffolk meadow in your corner of the county. Someone in the future will thank you. Vary your mowing regime – I use a hand scythe in July to cut the longest grasses in the centre of the lawn while carving out swathes of different lengths in other parts with a petrol lawnmower. Sit back and note what happens. Give yourself a decadal timescale. Prepare to be surprised and delighted by what you find. Remember: it’s not all about ‘you’: the world is a fabric of other lives, from slugs to hedgehogs, frogs to daisies, and your lawn is part of the tapestry which makes theirs possible. Make space for nature, and remember that there is nowhere on Earth that we can take wildlife for granted any more. You have a scrap of our planet in your care.

A small hay meadow in the making - first growth of grasses Alopecurus pratensis, Arrenatherium elatius, Dactylis glomerata, Lolium perenne, Poa trivialis, Poa pratensis and others, May 2022

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REFERENCES

Lake, S. et al 2020. Britain’s Habitats. Princeton University Press.

Rackham, O. 1987. The History of the Countryside. J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd.

Yalden, D. 1999. The History of British Mammals. T & AD Poyser Ltd.

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In memory of a friend

Grief comes as a sudden surprise, like a sudden shower in May, and I remember you.

I never imagined this day would come - you, strong as a horse, brave as a bear - you now underground, and all my crowding memories in your stead: the places we saw, the times we had, our expeditions, which were always purposeful adventures. You had a way of condensing action, like a lens with the rays of the sun; of gathering purposes from a frayed spray of ideas; seizing an idea then running with it - to chaos or glory, failure or success.

You inherited your father Adam's instrumental, but slightly unhinged and experimental, approach to life. Mythic passion was your driver. You're the sort of man who'd cut his way through forests, axe in hand with tinder & flint in his pocket. You'd climbed trees in order to see further, like Strider scouting a way through Mirkwood. You'd know how to play a tune on a hand-made whistle or squeeze drinking water from moss. You are just the sort of man I'd want in my tribe. Your passion spanned trees and songs, handicrafts and tools, hounds and gunpowder. 

• Remembering that time at Hellions Barton when we made a bomb and pushed it deep into the clay of a river bank. When it went bang and after the smoke and spray had cleared we found we had almost dammed the stream. 
• Or trespassing into the gloomy woods at Heyford Hall on Dartmoor, where Arthur Conan Doyle got his inspiration for 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'. Setting up sheeps' skulls on a row of stakes. "What are you doing on my land"? the man demanded to know "Just doing some Ju-Ju, sir!", replied Jonathan coolly, "Well clear orff and take those bloody skulls with you".
• New Year, 2015, with Bede and Beaumont in the South Downs, treading in the footsteps of Edward Thomas, climbing up through a slippery chalk wood, with badger setts and prehistoric flint flakes under foot; each tree a storied thing, a bearer of tales or, potentially, timber. 

Your generosity. When I was ill you drove 175 miles - and back - to bring me a load of fire wood.

I cannot understand how all your strength has been laid low. Who was your foe: a treacherous branch, or your own brave inattention? Whatever, the wood elves have taken you for their own, my friend, and you have gone with them into the West.

We find ourselves standing here, alone in the Grey Havens, humming our wistful songs.

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

You are forever in my heart, my friend. You are gone with the stars. You are off rolling, like Beaumont, with Orion. I know one day I'll join you.

Carstone and Chalk

'Carstone I will mention in order to abuse it" 

(Jacquetta Hawkes ('A Land', 1951).

Why not? This orangey-coloured Norfolk sandstone does not look attractive on its own nor does it combine attractively with other materials. It presents a burning, gingery face to the world and does not weather gracefully. It outcrops between Hunstanton and the Nar valley, where several quarries - such as Snettisham and Middleton - specialise in producing blocks of 'big carr' for masonry or 'small carr' for hardcore or shillet walling.  

The Carstone is at its finest and boldest in the famous geological layer-cake of Hunstanton Cliffs. It underlies the Red Chalk and Grey Chalk and forms a sort of solid biscuit base for those more mellow, pastel layers. Its only fossils are worm burrow traces, and it is laced with liesegang rings: patterns of dark and light cementation brought about by migrating iron compounds. Here, it looks like a sort of industrial slag. 

The only way the Carstone can achieve aesthetic lift-off is probably as a crude pigment. It is so gritty that its iron oxide is a chore to extract for creating home-made paint, but its bold, uncompromising colouration lends itself to astonishing, disharmonious juxtapositions in the landscape. At outcrop it colours the soil a rusty brown and on Hunstanton beach it yields a brown, exotic-looking sand. Hawkes called its effects 'strident': sometimes stridency is needed to shock us out of our visual complacency. Consider this photograph taken in the Snettisham Carstone Quarry.   

Image courtesy Frimstone Ltd

Grey Chalk is as different from the Carstone as cheese. It is indeed it looks like a type of moon-cheese, with a glimmering and dulcet milkiness which is readily ground into lime and - in the right circumstances - can be cut into blocks of stone known as clunch. The Grey Chalk and overlying White (Upper) Chalk span over 40 million years of time. They were deposited on the seabed in a world which was much hotter than our own and had a much higher percentage of atmospheric carbon dioxide. Hawkes calls the Chalk the 'prime creation of later Cretaceous times'. Indeed, the carbon dioxide went into the skeletons of countless billions of planktonic marine organisms whose lime-rich remains rained down through the water and were laid down as calcium carbonate mud. The Chalk now forms ancient seabed deposits as far afield as Russia and Kansas as well as the White Cliffs of Dover. 

Hillington Chalk Pit.

Image courtesy West Norfolk Lime Ltd

Unlike the White Chalk, the Grey Chalk does not contain flints. Instead, it has a variety of body fossils such as echinoids and bivalves and is composed of various horizons of harder or softer texture. It has been extracted in a series of quarries along its outcrop, as at Gayton and Hillington. Where they intercept the groundwater, flash ponds may result on the quarry floor and surprise the eye with a tropical turquoise-blue. 

Hillington Chalk Pit.
Photo with acknowledgements to West Norfolk Lime Ltd.

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Some thoughts towards 'EXTRACTION : ART ON THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS' at Groundwork Gallery, King's Lynn, 2021.