Tilting at Windmills

The recent outcry over the omission of the Green Party from pre-election debates prompted me to look more closely at the environmental policies of new-comers to the debating table, UKIP. It was rather like turning over a stone; the blind, wriggling creatures you discover are fascinating and repulsive in equal measure.

Take, for example, their attitude to trees. They are all for trees, are UKIP, which is great. They want to see England swathed in woodland once more, to the point of banning ‘the mass falling (sic) of trees in all forms’. Which is fine unless you want to manage one of those awkward non-woodland habitats, like heathland or chalk grassland. And what about coppicing?

And then there’s renewable energy. UKIP aren’t so keen on renewable energy. They hate wind farms, because ‘the rotating blades kill and maim countless of (sic) innocent birds…’ They also ‘emit grotesquely disturbing noise pollution which petrifies so many small animals’. The horror…

Photo: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:GreenMountainWindFarm_Fluvanna_2004.jpg

Solar farms are no better. Encouraged by the ‘obscene’ feed-in tariff incentive, they are effectively a ‘life sentence for the countryside’, scarring a landscape they describe as ‘the most breathtaking on mother Earth’ (clearly UKIP members don’t travel. Not ‘abroad’, anyway).

Whilst I love the British landscape dearly, even I admit that there are parts of it – the flat, agricultural lowlands, for instance – that can be a little, well, dull. There; I said it. But here I think the UKIP are mistaking green for Green. Vast rolling acres of high-intensity cereal agriculture may look verdant, especially if you spend most of your time in an urban environment, but in ecological terms they are close to deserts.

It's green. Green is good, right?

 Solar farms tend to be constructed on the poorest quality agricultural land; areas that require high (and therefore expensive) fertiliser input in order to scrape a financially viable crop from them. So leaving aside the point that we should be encouraging the use of solar power anyway, we are also talking about the conversion of land that is ecologically depauperate and requires a high input of agrichemicals into something that produces energy from sunlight. But the key point is that, with appropriate landscaping, such sites can become wildlife havens too.

The lack of disturbance and chemical input means that the area around solar panels is ideal for the sowing of low-maintenance seed mixes. In a landscape where nearly all the plant species remaining are wind-pollinated cereal crops, providing a long-flowering nectar source can have enormous benefits for pollinating insects.

A scar on the landscape?

FlowerScapes are excited to be working with the British Beekeepers’ Association and major solar energy providers Belectric on a number of sites across lowland England. These sites have been transformed from sterile green prairies into a blaze of nectar-rich colour. I’m sure UKIP will hate them, but the bees might disagree…

Ragwort - friend or foe?

Ragwort is a plant that provokes strong reactions amongst a certain group of people. We'll come back to that, though. First of all, ragwort is not a single, plant; it's a group of related species, all members of the genus Senecio. Common ragwort (Senecio jacobaea) is a widespread plant of grassland, meadows and road verges throughout Britain. Its close relatives - hoary ragwort, Oxford ragwort, marsh ragwort and fen ragwort - are less common but very similar in appearance.

Hoverfly and cricket feeding on ragwort

Oxford ragwort is a non-native invasive species which was originally introduced to Britain from Sicily in the early 18th century. It found the clinker of railway tracks very similar to the volcanic slopes of its homeland, jumped the wall from Oxford University Botanic Garden and began to spread along railway lines. Fen ragwort, conversely, is native but extremely rare, being confined to a single ditch near Ely.

Pair of mating red soldier beetles

But let us return to the common ragwort and its problems. It has the unfortunate property of being poisonous to horses and other livestock, causing liver damage or death. Whilst they might avoid it as a living, green plant, once cut and dried as hay it becomes more likely to be ingested. This effect on the pampered mounts of the chattering classes has led to common ragwort being vilified and persecuted. It was listed on the 1959 Weeds Act (yes, there is a Weeds Act), which can require a landowner with ragwort on their property to take action to control it.

Bumble bee nectaring on the flowers of ragwort

 

Dr Karin Alton examining a range of pollinators on Ragwort

Which is a shame, because it's a really good pollinator plant. It flowers abundantly, it is visited by a wide range of insects, and it is even the host of a particular species of moth, the cinnabar, whose distinctive striped caterpillars are found nowhere else (I recently heard them referred to as ragworms, a word I am going to use from now on). And it really is only a problem where horses or other livestock are likely to graze. So let's leave the poor plant alone on road verges and waste ground, and long may it support its ragworms!

Burnet moth

 

Cinnabar moth caterpillar

All photos copyright: Karin Alton

God's Acre

An area of land, open to the public, protected from development, with a long history of management as, usually, grassland with scattered trees. 

Nature reserve? No – churchyard!  

 

Photo: Mark Patterson

Above shows one of the 7 lost cemeteries of  London, now no longer a working cemetery, but a local nature reserve, with grave stones overgrown with red valerian, giant squil, catchfly and ox-eye daisy.

 

St Wilfred's Church in Haywards Heath.

Many of our churchyards are havens for wildlife, having had the continuity of management that many nature reserves can only dream of. Many of them are incredibly old – ancient churchyard yew trees often pre-date the church itself, marking pre-Christian sites of worship – and they are often undisturbed, particularly if contemporary burials are taking place elsewhere. This long history of steady management means that species have time to colonise, and some churchyards support a high diversity of plants, insects and – on the gravestones – lichens. 

The rare Black headed cardinal beetle found by Mark Patterson at Tower Hamlets cemetery. A new species for London.

Churchyards do suffer, however, from the blight that afflicts many public spaces – over-tidiness. Especially in areas that are still actively visited by relatives, there is an expectation to see the grass mown short and the weeds eliminated. And that is fine, but as is so often the case, there is almost always space for a little wildness.

In the old, unvisited corners of churchyards, many more enlightened churchwardens allow the vegetation to grow up in the summer, effectively managing it as a meadow. Sometimes they do this in the face of criticism from their parishioners, but surely – in God’s acre – there is room for all creatures great and small?

The Humble Dandelion

Some plants are so ubiquitous that we almost lose sight of them; we certainly take them for granted. A classic example of this is the humble Dandelion. Recorded from virtually every square kilometre of the British Isles, the ‘dandelion’ is actually a group of 229 very similar micro-species, adapted to a wide range of habitats but all of them with the ability to spread far and wide by seed. 

Great spring forage for a variety of flower visitors. A honey bee enjoys the nectar produced by the dandelion.

Indeed, they have even abandoned sex, producing fertile seed spontaneously without the need for pollen. Having said that, they are still an excellent resource for pollinating insects, not least because they are in flower almost all year round. 

Hoverfly taking a rest on the bright flower head.

And when left unchecked, as any gardener knows, they flower in abundance.

Dandelion seed head

Being so widespread, the Dandelion has found a firm place in folklore and herbal medicine. Its role as a powerful diuretic is reflected in a range of earthy folk names; ‘pis-en-lit’ in French, for example. 

Dandelion 'clock'

Dandelion pollen

‘Dandelion’, though, comes from ‘dent de lion’ - lion’s tooth, referring to the jagged leaf margins. The scientific name, Taraxacum, comes from the Greek taraxos (disorder), and akos (remedy), reflecting the plant’s long history as a herbal medicine. Due to its diuretic action, it is widely used for kidney disorders, with all parts of the plant being used but especially the root.

The leaves can be eaten as a salad green, the root can be roasted as a substitute for coffee and wine can be made from the flowers. And let us not forget its role in that British classic, Dandelion and Burdock.

All photos copyright Karin Alton (except the last: Steve Alton)

Of Cuckoos and Fritillaries

One effect of the wet winter seems to have been a particularly good show of Cuckooflower (Cardamine pratensis). This member of the mustard family is common on damp grassland, including road verges, and is the food plant of the Orange-tip butterfly (Antocharis cardamines).

It takes its common name from the fact that it often flowers around the time the first cuckoo is heard, but shares the name with several other, unrelated, plants that flower around the same time. Scientific names were invented to avoid this kind of confusion.

Another, sadly much less common, plant of damp grassland is the Snake’s-head fritillary (Fritillaria meleagris). Although widely sold as a garden bulb, in the wild it is confined to a handful of wet meadows from Wiltshire and Oxfordshire to Suffolk. 

One of the classic localities is in the meadows of Magdalen College, Oxford, where it flowers in its thousands. Here it looks wonderful with a show of cowslips.

Photos: Steve and Karin Alton. Orange tip: Wikipedia

 

Blackthorn - the first spring blossom

Blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) is a large shrub or small tree, named for its black bark and abundant sharp spur shoots. Its spiny nature made it an obvious choice for stock-proof hedging, and it is widespread in hedges throughout the British Isles. 

It is one of the first shrubs to flower in the spring, beaten only by the introduced cherry plum (Prunus cerasifera). The two species are often confused; the flowers of blackthorn, however, are creamy white and produced before the leaves emerge.

The fruit is the sloe, a blue-black miniature plum with a white ‘bloom’ on the surface. Sloes are incredibly astringent, even after a few sharp frosts have mellowed them, and are best prepared with sugar, either as a jam or in a bottle of gin. A red wine can also be made from them. 

Blackthorn hybridises freely with a number of related species, including the cherry plum and the bullace (Prunus domestica ssp. institia). The resulting plants are all very similar, but often have leaves present when the flowers open.

Blackthorn and all it related species are good early spring forage plants for a number of insects including ladybirds, bees and hoverflies.

All photos copyright:  Karin Alton

Get yer biodiversity 'ere! Tuppence a bag!

You would think that something as innocent as creating a bit of habitat for wildlife would be a straightforward matter; after all, nature has been getting on with it unassisted for millions of years. But like anything that humans get themselves involved with, beneath the surface lies the potential for confusion.

For example, I recently came across this bald statement:

‘Designer combinations of non-native and native wildflowers can provide longer nectar and pollen flow for pollinators, but a traditional wildflower meadow will give you more biodiversity generally.'

Now clearly, as a supplier of what I guess could be termed 'designer combinations'  of pollinator-friendly plant species, I have a vested interest here, which I freely admit. And I've ranted before about the pervasive 'native is best' knee-jerk response in habitat creation circles. But leaving all that aside, I am genuinely interested in resolving this question. The ecologist in me is still very much on the fence, even if the businessman isn't (bear in mind I have 25 years of working with UK natives under my rapidly expanding belt).

A designer mix, modeled here by the lovely College Road

So I got to thinking, what exactly are the characteristics of a traditional wildflower meadow that would make it better for biodiversity?

Firstly, we need to compare like with like; an ancient hay meadow in rural Dorset doesn't compare with a recently-created patch of non-native pretties in the centre of London. The former is going to win every time, if only because of length of establishment and proximity to other bits of 'good' habitat.

So let us consider two plots, cheek by jowl, both sown at the same time, one with a 'designer' mix of non-natives, one with a traditional native meadow mix. What are the biotic features of our new native meadow that make it superior? What, indeed, are the characteristics of any patch of vegetation that allow it to support biodiversity?

Let's tackle this by looking at the groups of organisms that might make use of our two sites, and what their requirements are.


Detritivores


At the bottom of the heap, so to speak, are all those little gribblies that feed on dead plant material. Invertebrates for the most part, from the microscopic up to the worms that manufacture our soils and an inordinate number of beetles. Well, as far as I am aware, dead plant material is dead plant material, whatever part of the world it originally evolved in. So I'm not convinced there's going to be much difference there.

Local flowers for local insects

Herbivores

Again, I'm pretty confident that green stuff is green stuff, the world over. The only possible advantage I can see here for the natives is if the exotics were unpalatable due to chemical or physical defenses or somehow difficult to detect due to not smelling right. This would particularly be an issue in the case of specialist species - butterflies with a specific larval food plant, for instance. So there's potentially a point there in the favour of natives.

Predators

Again, for generalist species I would imagine that anything below you in the food chain is fair game. Unless you're a real specialist adapted to feed on only a limited range of prey species.  Glow worms with snails, for instance.

Nectar and pollen feeders

Nectar is sugar solution, basically, and pollen is little packets of protein. I have it on good authority that pollinators are not fussy about where either come from, though different flower structures have different fans. Honey bees and bumblebees, for instance, prefer different species. But overall, unless someone is growing bat-pollinated species, I think this one is a draw.

A hoverfly, showing a disappointing lack of discernment

Seed eaters

Again, seeds are little containers of fat, starch and protein and - unless they are somehow inaccessible for physical reasons - I can see no reason why a granivore would differentiate between natives and non-natives. (A granivore, incidentally, eats seeds. Not grandmothers.)


Have I missed anything? Well, probably - this is just me thinking out loud really, and not a scientific dissertation. But overall it seems to me that the only advantage a native meadow would have over a patch of non-natives would be in the case of real habitat specialists, the proper fussy species with very specific requirements. And my gut feeling is that they are in the minority, and less likely to be found in an urban setting anyway. Which is, after all, the only place you should be creating non-native vegetation.

There is, of course, a more fundamental question here: what do we mean by 'biodiversity'? The quotation at the start of this post talks about 'more biodiversity generally', as if biodiversity is a commodity like sugar. But how are we measuring 'more' here? Species diversity? Biomass? And is there a quality issue? Are a few rare species better than a wide range of common ones? Inquiring minds want to know!

So, that's my take on things. I'd welcome any thoughts or comments, but I'd particularly welcome a nudge in the direction of any proper scientific studies that have addressed this issue.

Surely somebody out there must have tackled this? If not, there's a PhD project right there...

The Man Who Didn't Plant Trees

My earliest practical conservation activity was tree planting - Rother Valley Country Park, a former opencast coal mine in South Yorkshire, as a schoolboy of maybe 12 or 13. I have a certificate somewhere to prove it. And I suspect it's the same story for a lot of people; tree planting will have been their first - and in many cases last - experience of practical conservation work. And after all, why not? What could be better than getting out in the fresh air and doing something positive for the environment? And besides, tree planting has a kind of glamour about it, a whiff of folk-heroism, conjuring up images of Johnny Appleseed and Elzéard Bouffier, the subject of Jean Giono's charming novella The Man Who Planted Trees.

But let's take a closer look at that last example. A man takes it upon himself to 're-forest' a 'desolate' valley in Provence, where only wild lavender grows. But hang on a minute - one man's desolate valley is another man's herb rich calcareous grassland. And why was it 'desolate' in the first place (assuming, for a moment, that we equate a lack of trees with desolation)? The guy's a shepherd; I have a sneaking suspicion that it was his own livestock that were maintaining its treeless state, preventing scrub encroachment and allowing open grassland species like the lavender to survive. It may even be that, left to its own devices, the landscape would - like most of temperate-zone Europe - have reverted to woodland anyway.

(As a literary aside, an ecologist friend of mine gets very agitated about The Lord of the Rings, in which the Barrow-downs continue to support treeless turf long after the men of Arnor - and presumably their grazing livestock - have succumbed to the Witchking of Angmar. That's maybe taking scientific veracity a bit too far...)

Lavender - quick, plant some trees on it!

But that wouldn't have made so charming a story; 'The Man Who Did Bugger All, But Let Natural Succession Take Its Course' is not as snappy a title. And it's not just that; a lack of action is perceived as a negative thing, an abandonment of responsibility. Also, crucially, a lack of direct action is a devilishly difficult thing to fund, particularly in these days of bureaucratic overkill. So we plant trees, because we can fill out the form saying we will buy 2000 whips of the following species, and this is how much they will cost, and this is how many days of volunteer labour input in kind will be involved in the planting, and our measurable output will be lots of little saplings sticking out of the ground in their serried rows, demonstrably there for all - particularly the funders - to see.

Which is why we have a whole green industry in this country devoted to servicing our moral imperative to do something for the environment, to plant 2000 trees for the new millennium or 60 trees for the Queen's Jubilee or whatever the current funder-friendly gimmick happens to be. And it is this need for trees that has driven the trade in cheap imports from Europe. As we are starting to realise to our cost, moving trees around the globe brings its own problems.

I worry that the most recent addition to our fungal pest flora - Chalara fraxinea, the causative agent of Ash Disease - will provoke a fresh flurry of tree planting. People like to help; it's like the decline of the honey bee. The most common reaction to news stories about Colony Collapse Disorder was to rush out and buy a bee hive and some bees, which is why London now has hive densities as high as 220 colonies per km2 and honey yields are down 78% on last year. It's well-meaning, but it's misguided.

Grass vetchling

I had an email from a client recently for whom I carried out a habitat survey; she's lucky enough to own what turned out to be quite a nice meadow. Maybe not SSSI standard, but certainly a meadow, with more Grass vetchling than I've ever seen in one place before. Her email was inviting me to a tree-planting event on the site. I replied asking her to think very carefully before she went ahead; the site is in a heavily wooded area, whereas good meadows are like hen's teeth. She reassured me that it was okay - the tree planting would only be around the edges.

I can't help but think that that's what Elzéard Bouffier probably said...

I doubt anything I say here will make any difference - people will always want to be seen to be doing something. But sometimes I wonder what the state of the UK would be if every penny that has been spent on tree planting had instead been spent on some other form of conservation action - appropriate management of our existing prime wildlife sites, or the joining together of such sites through land acquisition or management agreements, as the Wildlife Trusts are attempting though their Living Landscapes programme. But I don't speculate for too long; that way madness lies...

Bee Collective

I was lucky enough to be invited to the launch of an excellent project this week - the Bee Collective. Based a stone's throw from Victoria Station and sponsored by the Victoria Business Improvement District, the project is the brainchild of Caroline Birchall, who works at Natural England on landscape ecology in the capital.

Caroline Birchall introduces the project

At the heart of the project is a cooperative honey extraction facility. Honey extraction is a messy business and requires a large and expensive piece of kit, so many bee keepers struggle to extract their own honey at home. The Bee Collective facility allows London beekeepers to extract the golden stuff in return for a share of the honey, or money if they prefer.

The extraction facility

And here's the best bit - in collaboration with Capital Bee, the project aims to promote the creation of areas of bee forage in the capital. So when you extract your honey, you know you are supporting additional habitat for your bees.

Home on the Range

 

Thanks to the wonder of Twitter, we heard about a place called Sussex Prairies, near Henfield. It sounded like just the kind of place we enjoy, so on Sunday we headed out there. And we weren't disappointed! 

The sight that greeted us

Only planted in May 2008 by owners Paul and Pauline McBride, the site comprises 6 acres of borders and sculptures surrounded by mature trees, with glimpses of the South Downs beyond.

We've always been fans of this informal, naturalistic style of planting, but one thing we wanted to check out was - just how good are these plants for bees?

A sea of Rudbeckia

 Turns out they're fantastic! Some of the plants we saw were absolutely dripping with pollinators; the Veronicastrums were almost a health hazard, there were so many honey bees.

Pale Echinaceas with a splash of pink

Now this I love! Kniphofia and fennel - what a colour combination

 Anybody looking to work out the best plants for bees could do an awful lot worse than spending an hour wandering around Sussex Prairies with a notebook. A truly inspiring garden.

Drifts of Lythrum salicaria and Verbena bonariensis

Just stunning...