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.
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.
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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.
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| Germander speedwell (Veronica chamaedrys), ground ivy (Glecoma hederacea) and creeping buttercup (Ranunculus repens) in a sward of springy turf moss (Rhytidiadelphus squarrosus), May 2022. |
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| Lady's smock (Cardamine pratensis) starring the lawn, with a large anthill (right), May 2022. |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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 |
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.
