Month: February 2024

The seeds of friendship

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It’s hard to believe that one February can be so different to another. Twelve months ago, we were just emerging from a month-long drought, quite incredible in what is traditionally one of the wettest months of the year. This February, it has been almost impossible to find two dry days together and the ground is so saturated, I’m wondering if a pair of flippers would be more useful than wellies. We’ve had some high winds, too, which are a fairly rare occurrence here ~ no bad thing given the damage they can cause. One gust was so severe, it hurled a brick through the air which, in a matter of seconds, caused some very savage damage to our rainwater collection system. The flowers are taking a terrible bashing, too. The crocus are lying on the grass like soggy scraps of silk and the myrobalan blossom, which should have reached peak beauty this week, has been battered and mercilessly snatched from the trees. I’m hoping the couple of fine days we had when the bees were busy in the flowers were enough to set some fruit but to be honest, I’m not holding my breath where jars of deep ruby plum jam are concerned this year. Poor daffodils, they are having a terrible time of it: almost every bud has been nibbled by tiny slugs so that the flowers are opening in sad tatters and now the tallest ones and heavy-headed double varieties are flattened against the ground. Only the shorter single varieties more akin to their wild cousins are holding their own and I think there must be a lesson there.

False springs, blackthorn winters . . . none of this is new, of course, and being someone who firmly believes early March is still late winter then I’m content to accept this is what happens sometimes. It’s annoying when the mild weather has forced so many things on ahead of their time but with any luck, everything will balance itself out in due course: nature has a way of sorting itself out if left to its own devices. It’s odd to think we’ve been gardening in t-shirts and dining outside given the bitter wind currently blasting down from the north but that’s why I think it’s important to grab those moments when we can and make the most of them; after all, it could easily be late April before we do it again.

Despite the dismal gloomy weather there is still plenty to celebrate. It’s a good year for primroses and we’re delighted at how they have spread in the time we have been here and are now popping up in pretty pastel clumps around the patch. The sweet violets, too, have increased greatly in number and both are a favourite addition to our salads at the moment. It’s been interesting to note the changes at the bird feeding station, with a sudden influx of goldfinches and siskins joining the general frenzy. On one day only there were also three greenfinches and that filled me with hope as they are a species whose numbers have declined in recent years as a result of parasitic disease (they are on the UK conservation red list). These are the only ones I’ve seen all winter but the fact they are here at all is encouraging. There have been birds checking out all the nextboxes, even those that seem to be spoken for already, and I’m hoping the evident increase in squirrel activity means they’re thinking about raising their familes with us again, too. One of the biggest highlights of the week came straight from the potager, though . . . the first picking of purple sprouting broccoli, always a happy, happy event!

Since 1st January, it has been illegal for householders in France to throw food away and councils have been charged with putting strategies in place to support people in recycling their food waste. Several French NGOs monitoring the situation have recently reported that the infrastructure simply isn’t in place although it seems some cities are doing better than others. As for rural areas like ours, the expectation is that everyone will now make compost although with no collection system for food waste in place, I’m left wondering what exactly people without gardens are supposed to do. An obvious starting point would be to reduce the amount of food waste in the first place and I’d love to see more in the way of encouragement and education in this area. However, for now it’s all about composting.

Growing our own food teaches us much about food waste ~ or, at least, the lack of it. These end-of-season leeks are so small and scrappy, no supermarket would touch them with a barge pole and yet they still offer us a fresh, nutrient-rich and delicious veggie option from the garden.

I received an email inviting me to collect our new composting bin from a local village this week with the proviso that I attend an hour-long initiation session first to be taught how to use it. I contacted the lady in charge and asked whether, since we have been making compost for more than thirty years, the hour session was really necessary? I would never profess to being an expert in anything but this really did smack of teaching granny to suck eggs and was an hour I could spend on more useful things (like turning the compost heap, maybe?😆 ). The reply was that my ‘mastery wasn’t doubted’ but the session is obligatory as the Circular Economy officer has to be sure everyone has received the correct training. How typical of modern society, individuals not trusted to know what they are doing and councils ticking boxes to cover their backs! I can’t get excited or upset about this stuff so I politely acknowledged the council’s stance and then asked them to give our bin to someone else. We can manage without it perfectly well and we know how to make compost with our eyes shut. There are lots of people complaining that they will have to take time off work to attend these sessions and they have a valid point; surely the option of attending voluntarily would be a much better one, especially in terms of engendering a positive attitude within the community to the beauty that is homemade compost?

Our system might not be pretty but we manage to produce some decent compost all year round.

On the subject of food waste, we’ve done a bit of an inventory this week to check how our stored produce is doing. It is a complete waste to grow, harvest, process and preserve food then not eat it, and although we inevitably lose a few bits and pieces to the compost heap over winter, by and large we manage to eat our way through it before the new season’s harvest begins. I’ve been pleased at how well some of our experiments such as drying aubergines and various beans, freezing sliced peppers, preserving artichoke hearts and sundried cherry tomatoes in oil and bottling various types of tomato sauce have worked and also at just how much fruit we were able to store from last year. For my breakfast bowl, I still have the option of stewing up strawberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, blackberries, gooseberries, whimberries, cherries and apples and, looking at the strong fresh growth on some of the newer things we’ve planted, I reckon the list will be even longer this year.

New growth on the Japanese wineberry we planted last year. Those red stems bring a welcome splash of colour to the soft fruit bed but the thorns are lethal!

I wouldn’t dream of buying unseasonal produce like strawberries and tomatoes at this time of year but when we can use our own from last year, still packed with the colours and flavours of summer, then I’m a happy bunny. I was also reminded of the benefit of drying so many jars of summer leaf and petal, most of which is used in herbal teas. I had a day last week where I felt distinctly under the weather which is very unlike me; tired, chilled and achy, it seemed I was going down with some sort of nasty bug so it was time to turn to the garden medicine chest. I brewed several large mugs of yarrow, peppermint and elderflower tea during the day and also took a few spoons of fire cider; I wished I’d been able to dry some echinacea last year, too, but I didn’t feel the plants were big enough to harvest in their first year. No matter, by the next morning I was feeling as right as rain and very grateful to have such simple but effective healing at hand. I will certainly be drying plenty more this year and the hint of abundant new growth on the echinacea plants suggest that it will definitely be in the mix this time.

Peacock butterfly on an echinacea flower last summer: I’m hoping for plenty of both beauties this year.

I’ve finished my Open University course and have been awarded my digital badge, nothing to get excited about but it’s a bit of fun, I suppose! I’m now feeling very ready to embark on further citizen science projects and more rigorous and disciplined species identification, furnished as I am with a wealth of support and useful resources. I’ve even managed to help with a few identifications on iSpot which has helped boost my confidence. I’m also submitting regular observations to the Oiseaux des Jardins site, just a quick ten minute count of the birds in the garden as well as frogs, toads, hedgehogs and red squirrels if they’re about. As a regular contributor, I now have access to all the observations being logged in Mayenne and Sarthe which makes for interesting local comparisons. I’m also hoping that my own observations will serve as a useful personal record for the year as I shall make sure that, for example, my very first sightings (or soundings!) of summer migrants are logged.

When fellow blogger Debra shared a link to an EU citizen science project run by Increase, which stands for (deep breath) Intelligent Collections of Food Legumes Genetic Resources for European Agrofood Systems, I was very keen to register. The idea of being sent a package of beans to grow, charting their progress along the way, harvesting, cooking, saving and then sharing saved seeds with others next spring appealed to me greatly. It’s just the sort of project I believe we should be undertaking for the future of food security, one which explores and supports genetic diversity in seed and the suitability of species to the growing conditions in different localities within the EU. This is right up my street, citizen science and global diversity . . . I have the badge, for goodness’ sake! Bring it on, where do I sign? Well, the sad reality is I don’t because anyone taking part is obliged to download an app to a handheld device which, of course, I don’t have. This kind of thing frustrates the heck out of me because a scheme like this ought to be inclusive; I have a laptop, fast broadband connection and a good camera, so why on earth can’t there be an option for desktop software, too? After all, I’ve managed to participate in every other project so far without a smartphone, including the Europe-wide eBMS butterfly survey. The INCREASE team welcome feedback and kindly supply the email addresses of four of the key personnel involved in the ‘Share the bean’ project, so on 4th February I wrote to all of them politely stating the case for all those people like myself who would love to participate but are excluded. I’ve yet to receive a reply.

Beautiful beans! Clockwise from top: Majorcan pea bean, ‘Yin Yang’ orca bean and borlotti ‘Lingua di Fuoco’.

Ah well, life’s too short to feel sad about such things so I shall simply continue to grow my own beans and share seed whenever I can. In that vein, I’ve been doing some wonderful seed swaps in the last few weeks with other gardeners in several countries across Europe, many of them good friends I’ve made through blogging. Personally, I think a few seeds is one of the greatest gifts we can offer another human being, they hold such potential and promise; often insignificant or dull-looking little things, they are packed with energy and vitality and come brimming with the delicious possibility of food and flowers for the future. What better way to grow a friendship than through sharing a little bit of gardening love? As individual gardeners, it’s easy to feel like what we do is fairly insignificant but by sharing and comparing experiences ~ whether with a close neighbour or across thousands of miles ~ we have an important part to play in the preservation and expansion of seed diversity whilst developing a shared resilience and adaptability in the face of change. It’s such a satisfying, rewarding, life-affirming thing to do, generating optimism and building camaraderie. Send some seeds, spread some smiles. No app required. 😉

Some of the varieties of aubergine we grew last year were gifts. We weren’t the only ones to appreciate them.

I spot . . .

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My goodness, what a strange week it’s been. Minimum and maximum temperatures have been as much as 8°C above the expected, the rain stopped, the sun appeared and I have been gardening stripped down to a t-shirt. We have enjoyed morning coffee, lunch and an evening glass of wine sitting outside, serenaded by tumultuous birdsong and surrounded by drifts of spring flowers, all sweet and pretty in purple and yellow. It feels, sounds and smells like April and therein lies the worry . . . it’s only mid-February and this is far from normal. It could, of course, just be ‘one of those things’, an anomaly typical of fluctuating climate patterns, a spin-off from the exploits of El Niño or whatever. The 17°C we reached on 15th February was a degree cooler than the record high in Mayenne for the time of year so it’s been warmer in the past; three years ago, the February weather was bitterly cold and this time last year we were in the middle of a drought. Who’s to say whether this is a mere blip or a taste of things to come? I worry greatly that it’s the latter and wonder yet again what more we can do to try and turn things round but in the meantime, true to character, I am drawn outside to immerse myself in the beauty of the natural world.

What beauty, too! Cycling home from the dairy farm shop, I revelled in the intricacies of bewitching fair-weather cloud formations and the exuberant songs of skylarks, spiralling ever higher into the sky, their fluid crystalline notes cascading back to earth. Suddenly, there is a brilliant and lush greenness to the landscape, the combination of wet and warmth being just what grass and winter grain love; there’s a soft and subtle haze to some trees, too, as leaf buds stretch and swell. On the lawn, purple and yellow crocus open their vibrant cups to reveal deep saffron stamens, primroses and violets ~ those sweetest of spring flowers ~ are scattered in random scented patches and celandines offer precious forage to early insects in brilliant yellow starbursts. The myrobalans, dusted with dainty blossoms like sugared almonds and confetti, hum with the happy attentions of honeybees high in the fretwork of their branches.

Spending my days outside has meant I haven’t quite managed to finish the Open University ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ course; I’m halfway through the final unit of work and with the wet weather back again, I should get it done this week, although I’ve chosen to squeeze in a blog post first! I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed studying anything so much and I’ve learnt a great deal that I hope will help me to be a better amateur naturalist. For starters, I’ve been working hard on identification and I realise that I need to be more rigorous when it comes to pinning down specific species, rather than settling for a ‘best fit’ because I can’t be bothered don’t have time to do further research. As a bit of a self-assessment, I started with the magnificent owl I saw last August; I’ve never been comfortable with my identification of it, having been thrown by its huge ‘ears’ and the fact that I couldn’t find a matching image anywhere. Starting from scratch, I worked through several resources in a more disciplined fashion and I am now confident that what I saw was an Eurasian Scops owl (Otus scops). The owl is a summer migrant and makes a repetitive whistling noise very similar to a Midwife toad; we often hear the latter on summer nights and I’m now wondering if on some occasions it was actually owl rather than amphibian. The ‘otus’ part of its Latin name refers to ears, those feathery tufts that completely confused me since in many images of the species, they aren’t obvious. Apparently, it’s usual for them to be raised when the owl is alert or stressed and seeing as we definitely made each other jump at the time, that would explain it. Maybe my ears did the same! 😂

If someone were to ask me how I feel about artificial intelligence, I would have to say that I have grave reservations and I find some of the implications a bit scary to say the least. However, I would qualify that response with an acknowledgement that there are aspects and applications (in the field of medicine, for example) which are beneficial and I will also admit to quite enjoying exploring the Pl@ntNet website this week. The idea is that you can upload an image or several of a plant that needs to be identified and the computer will match it as closely as possible using the database of images; what’s more, you can then add your own image to help improve the strength of future identifications. As an example, I uploaded an old photo of what I already knew to be an Early purple orchid (Orchis mascula), a beauty that adorns our grass verges in April, often woven through with bluebells and stitchwort.

This is the response I received, with an almost 44% rate of confidence. Is that enough to be certain? In the case of a plant I wasn’t familiar with, I would definitely want to study the comparative photos more closely and explore a wider range of resources in order to be sure. It’s a bit of fun, though, and is definitely a useful starting point in plant identification. I’m very pleased that I’ve managed to gather a good list of various resources to help me with identifying local flora and fauna with greater accuracy this year, including a field checklist for birds in Mayenne which should stop me from wrongly identifying any species as something that isn’t here.

It’s unusual for us to be able to spend so much time working in the garden at this time of year and, although the ground is still very soggy, we’ve been able to accomplish a good deal this week. Roger has been shifting a mountain of compost made from turfs, grass clippings and dead leaves which have been breaking down over the last two years; it’s wonderful black stuff, alive with earthworms and the perfect addition to all our planting areas. Part way through the pile, he uncovered a startlingly bright green caterpillar which I thought might be an Angles Shade moth but couldn’t be certain. This was the perfect opportunity to try out my new account on iSpot so, having abandoned my gardening post to take a photo (and so it begins . . . 😆), I uploaded my first official observation. Within hours, I had confirmation of my identification from a lovely lady who welcomed me to the site and gave me some very helpful tips. I’ve never seen adult Angle Shades here which isn’t surprising as they look like withered dead leaves and are supremely camouflaged but it’s good to know they are here, and as they are a day-flying moth species I am on a mission to look out for them this year. Paying careful attention to everything else that has caught my eye, I’ve also identified Square-spot Rustic moth caterpillars and Nursery Web spiders in the tunnel and probably far too many Cabbage moth caterpillars outside . . . but they are part of the garden ecosystem and as we are never short of vegetables plus other creatures feast on the little fat munchers, I’m happy to live and let live.

Angle Shades moth caterpillar

A week of busyness and the garden is looking pretty much ready for the new growing season. We’ve been redefining the edges of our planting areas as one of the big drawbacks of not using raised beds is that the grass has a tendency to encroach and over time the planting spaces are reduced. I’ve also extended a bed to give us a bit of extra room, first laying down cardboard then topping it with a thick layer of the yummy black compost followed by twiggy sticks, dead leaves and sawdust, donkey dung and a topping of grass from the first clip. I will continue to add amendments like coffee grounds, comfrey and ‘liquid gold’ between now and May, then plant the space with sweetcorn. The potager looks relatively empty at this time of year as the supply of fresh food dwindles; we’ve eaten the last of the celeriac, black radish and Savoy cabbage and are down to the smallest leeks. There’s still kale, of course, with plenty of Jerusalem artichokes, and I was chuffed to see the first purple florets forming on the broccoli. Empty it might be, but there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the beds free of perennial weeds, fed, mulched and ready for planting: let the new season begin!

In some ways, it already has. Herbs like chives and mint are already on the menu, and there is strong new growth and the first leaf burst on all the soft fruit bushes. The rose garlic I planted a couple of weeks ago is through the ground, the autumn-planted white garlic is romping away and new pink stalks and frilled leaves of rhubarb are pushing through the hay mulch, a sight to gladden my heart. I’m still very happy tucking into bowls of our summer berry fruits and apple compote from the freezer but there is nothing like the first helping of rhubarb to bring smiles to my breakfast bowl.

The autumn-fruiting raspberries are sending up lots of healthy new growth.
I gave the goji berry a severe pruning in early winter . . . it seems to have done it a world of good and we might even get some berries this year.

The tunnel has been seriously balmy this week and with our Persephone period over, plants have responded to the temperature and increased light level by growing at an alarming speed: I’ve almost been able to stand and watch the potatoes bursting through the soil and broad beans bombing up by the hour. The hardworking winter salad crops, which have looked a bit jaded of late, have found another gear and lifted their heads once again so that we still have weeks of pickable leaves to come. Some like the rocket and komatsuna have started to flower but that’s fine, they’re a great source of food for early insects and I like some to set seed for next year. I’ve sown a tray of mixed lettuce seed but only as an insurance policy, I scattered dry seed heads all over the garden at the end of last summer in an experiment to see if volunteers will appear this spring. Certainly, they are popping up all over the tunnel along with coriander and calendula, so we will be very sorted for colourful, tasty salads without having lifted a finger.

It’s already very clear that my laissez-faire attitude to things in the garden is going to be essential this year if I insist on downing tools and chasing things with my camera every few minutes. I’m determined to keep better notes this year, especially appertaining to the first time I see species emerge, so this week has seen me ridiculously excited as several little beauties have appeared. On February 15th, the warmest day we’ve had, I saw the first Brimstone, Peacock and Small Tortoiseshell butterflies; interestingly, I recorded none of the latter on my transect walks last year (which I didn’t start until June) so I’m wondering if they are an early season species here. There have been honeybees and Buff-tailed bumblebee queens around on milder days for several weeks now, but the 15th was the first time I’d seen them collecting pollen: this means the honeybee queens are obviously laying and the bumbles are provisioning their nests. On the same day, I also saw three different kinds of solitary bee. Oh, happy me!

I knew from my first tottering steps into the world of wild bees last year that a foxy-furred bee on the snowdrops was probably an Andrena or Mining bee, possibly a Red-tailed or Early Mining bee (Andrena haemorrhoa) male but I was far from certain. Back to iSpot, where I connected with a wonderful entomologist who is being not only helpful with identification but also incredibly patient and kind with my fumbling attempts. If it were in the UK, he said, it would almost certainly be Andrena thoracica, the Cliff Mining bee, but he reminded me that there are hundreds more species of solitary bees in France so it would take a local expert to be sure. I’m not setting out to name and recognise them all ~ far from it, in fact ~ but I’ll feel like I’ve made some progress if I can at least hit on the right family to start with and go from there. Encouraged by such a friendly and supportive network of nature enthusiasts and experts, I had a stab at identifying the smaller bee in the photo at the top of this post as a Furrow bee, possibly a Common Furrow bee (Lasioglossum calceatum), and was delighted when that was tentatively confirmed, although there are so many lasioglossum species in France that I will again be content simply to identify the family, unless I happen to hit on a highly individual and recognisable species. Speaking of which, Roger saw the first Violet Carpenter bee (Xylocopa violacea) yesterday (17th) so I dashed off to look for it; I didn’t see it, but instead found a small bumblebee feeding on rosemary flowers by the front door. It was a fraction of the size of those huge Buff-tailed queens, very furry with a fairly subdued reddish tail and almost too quick around the flowers to catch with the camera. I know this one: it’s an Early bumblebee (Bombus pratorum), a queen I think, and the first of its kind I’ve seen this year. What a wonderful start to the season . . . and it’s still only February.

Back to work, and one of the tasks for this week has been lifting the Jerusalem artichokes and selecting the best (big and straight with the least knobbles) for replanting. Last year, I failed to do this properly so we’ve ended up with two patches to tackle now; they’re a wonderful staple winter vegetable but let a few tiny tubers stay in the ground and you have a forest next year. In truth, I’d happily grow them just for the flowers but there are limits to how much good growing space I’m prepared to sacrifice. I’m also planning to grow fewer this year (ditto squash yet again) as we haven’t come close to eating our way through them. It’s been bit of a mucky job with the soil being so wet and I’ve been careful to shake the clinging mud full of worms back onto the soil as I go along. You’d have thought I might be able to settle down and concentrate on the job but no, my attention has been seriously grabbed by an array of scurrying ground beetles in different colours and sizes. These are ground-dwelling predators that are hugely beneficial to an ecological garden as they prey on creatures like slugs, snails, aphids and moth larvae that can be destructive towards crops; unfortunately, they do eat some beneficial species, too, but that’s nature for you. I found several larvae as well as adults but prize for the most beautiful has to go to a Golden ground beetle (Carabus auratus) whose metallic green and gold body is quite something to behold. I saw this one several times over a couple of days, recognising it because it seemed to have a bit of a dent in its carapace over the right wing. Recognising individual ground beetles now? Honestly, what has become of me? Maybe I should think about getting out more . . . 😉

Citizen science

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Isn’t it funny how sometimes you set out on one path only to end up somewhere completely different and unexpected? With the weather having deteriorated in recent days to heavy blustery showers and little to be done in the garden apart from mixing more buckets of compost, celebrating the germination of peas in the tunnel and enjoying the first daffies in flower, I decided to spend a bit of time getting myself organised with resources to help me identify wildlife with better accuracy this year. I know that once the growing season starts in earnest, I will have even less desire than usual to be staring at a screen thus it makes sense to bookmark useful websites now so they are there when I need them. In this way, I came across iSpot which promises to be a very helpful site where I can ask for opinions from experts rather than relying solely on having to match my observations to whatever photos or information I can find. Although there is a large overlap of species between Mayenne and southern England, it is possible to seek advice on global observations so if I happen to come across something that doesn’t occur on the other side of the English Channel, help will still be at hand. It was whilst investigating the site that I noticed a link to a free online Open University course with the title ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ and within seconds I was signed up and hooked . . .

I am an Open University alumnus and I have a real soft spot and a lot of respect for this educational institution that offers the opportunity for people to study part-time at home rather than having to attend a conventional university. It allowed me to study for both an honours degree and Post Graduate Certificate in Education (my teaching qualification) whilst being a full-time mum and homemaker and although it was tough at times and very hard work, it taught me many things beyond the academic including time management, personal organisation, independence, efficient study skills and the power of self-belief. Distance learning isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but it suits me just fine; the free OpenLearn courses aren’t tutor-supported but are very user-friendly with no pressure or time limits, and I’m happy with assessment being based on simple quizzes rather than full-blown written assessments. There is a huge range of courses on offer from one to one hundred hours of study, well worth a look for anyone who fancies dipping a toe into a bit of faculty fun. The ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ course requires about 24 hours of study over an eight-week period but I’m enjoying it so much (plus it’s still raining) that I’m motoring through it, despite heading off at tangents whenever something catches my imagination.

Citizen science is something I’ve been involved in for many years, both at home and as part of classroom projects; it’s by no means a new concept but one which has grown in popularity since the 1990s and continues to do so, offering non-professionals the opportunity to participate in a wide range of projects covering many different areas of science. Needless to say, it’s the biology- and ecology-based projects that have always appealed to me, whether a simple case of counting birds for an hour in the garden or charting the growth and yield of different varieties of potato over several months. I think it’s a very positive thing for several reasons, perhaps one of the most salient being the chance it affords ‘ordinary’ folk such as myself to engage in valuable scientific study which brings meaning to otherwise two-dimensional concepts. Where the natural world is concerned, I believe this is essential; it’s easy enough to read headlines about declining species and the like but what real meaning do they hold for us if we’ve never connected with those species or nature in general? Connection leads to awareness, learning and concern, all of which are more likely to encourage us to truly engage with the issues and perhaps adopt life-changing ~ or at least, habit-changing ~ actions. I think involvement in such projects also brings home the ‘connectedness’ of things so that even if the study lies within a very specific field, it’s impossible to ignore the wider web of relationships. For instance, when I had narrowed the name of a tiny blue butterfly I’d seen on one of my transect walks last year down to the possibility of two virtually indistinguishable species, it was only through researching food plants and ecosystems favoured by the adult insects that I was able to make a secure identification. From entomology to ecology to botany . . . what a glorious scientific adventure.

Something else I love about participating in citizen science projects is that I can carry the inspiration, curiosity and sense of wonder over into my ordinary wanderings and ask my own questions which spark more research, learning and a deeper understanding of the local environment. One of my walks this week was a typical example of how this happens. It was a cooler day of late with the temperature hovering around normal (9°C) but there was a chilling dampness to the air and the drizzly sky was of the oppressive grey kind, that low lid of murky cloud that threatens to squeeze any joy out of the day. I wrapped up warmly for my walk and wondered how those Buff-tailed bumblebee queens I had been watching feeding on the heather a few days previously were faring now. Honeybees, I know, will go back into a cluster if the temperatures drop but can a bumblebee queen return to her diapause den after feeding briefly and sit out the cooler weather or, once emerged, is she committed to building and provisioning a nest? Trying to find a definitive answer to my question was like tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole as I went from one article to another in search of information; I’m not sure I ever found a clear answer but I learnt a lot of interesting stuff along the way. Despite there being a species called Early bumblebee, it seems the Buff-tailed are generally the first to show themselves and in fact, studies have shown that some colonies continue to be active over winter, in urban locations such as parts of London where the microclimate tends towards relative warmth, and gardens and parks are planted with non-native species such as mahonia that provide an essential source of food. I haven’t seen any evidence of bumblebee activity over winter so I’m pretty sure ‘my’ queens are newly-emerged, and once again, I was reminded of the importance of making appropriate planting choices with them in mind as well as encouraging the earliest wild flowers to bloom in abundance all around the garden.

Celandines are an important early-flowering ‘weed’ in our garden . . .
. . . and so too is read deadnettle.

It was an interesting activity to walk the lane stretch of my butterfly monitoring transect route with a focus on the plant life, everything looks so different now compared to the lush growth that will come later in the season. One of the problems I have trying to take close-up photos of small insects or flowers is that between the roadside verge and hedge bottom there is a deep water-filled ditch; this is why floods are so rare, the run-off from torrential rain has somewhere to go. In places, the ditch is almost impossible to traverse and I often end up doing some strange kind of yoga stretch with a foot balanced precariously on either side of the drop, wondering how on earth I’ll manage to right myself once the snap has been taken. Anyone who has ever played the game ‘Twister’ will understand . . . it’s a good job the lane is so quiet and I’m usually spared an audience!

A smattering of snowdrops between hedge bottom and ditch.

Although there’s not a lot to see at this time of year, I can at least study the winter branches and stems along with the soft new growth without the need for gymnastics and it’s satisfying to connect with my familiar route in this way. There is barely anything flowering; in fact, all I saw was hazel and gorse in the hedges and nothing in the verges except one scattered patch of snowdrops and a small clutch of celandines. What a difference to the flower-rich pageant that summer will bring.

A verge along my transact walk full of orchids in May: there’s a deep ditch in there somewhere . . .
The verge in April
The verge in May

Not a lot of forage for insects, then, but what I did notice is that the hedges are still full of rosehips along with plentiful holly and ivy berries. This is a tad surprising given how we have healthy populations locally of the kinds of birds who generally tuck into these winter foods so I’m wondering if perhaps it was a good year for wild fruits and they are so abundant that there is more than enough to go round. Also, as the cold weather (so far) came in a short snap rather than a prolonged spell, maybe the birds simply haven’t needed to strip the hedgerows bare. It also occurred to me that there are far fewer fieldfares and redwings around now; both winter migrants, they were here in their droves when they first arrived from more northerly lands, clearing up the windfall apples from beneath our trees but the landscape is eerily quiet where their flapping flight and chattering calls are concerned apart from the occasional small flock passing through. In a similar vein, I haven’t seen a single brambling this winter and that is unusual, too. They normally travel in large flocks mixed with chaffinches (their French name translates as ‘northern chaffinch’) and a couple of years ago, there were literally hundreds of them at a time in the garden. Have weather conditions been milder further north this year so that these colourful little visitors haven’t needed to travel this far south?

I took this photo a couple of weeks ago on a sunnier day but those holly berries are still every bit as abundant.

One bird we are certainly not short of locally is the common kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) or faucon crécerelle in French. A small and pretty falcon, it is perhaps the most easily recognised bird of prey where it occurs because of its hovering flight (its old English name was ‘wind-hover’); it is also well-adapted to living in urban areas and can often be seen hunting along the sides of motorways. They regularly patrol our garden where an abundant vole population is undoubtedly a big attraction and I am pretty much guaranteed to see at least one when out and about on a walk or my bike. This walk was no exception and I stood for several minutes watching as a kestrel left its tree perch to course a field, then hovered above a potential meal with wings spread and tail fanned like a rudder to keep it virtually motionless in the air despite a stiff wind. Although it was some distance away, I knew it was a male on account of the clear distinction between its slate-grey head and bright russet back; the female’s plumage is not quite so bright and is more uniform in colour. As the bird steadily dropped to a lower level before making its final swift descent to capture the unsuspecting prey, I made a mental note to check its conservation status when I got home. The IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) ranks it at the level of ‘least concern’ which suggests population figures are healthy and the birds face no specific or immediate threat. However, in France, the citizen science network STO-EPS showed through monitoring a decline of 19% over the period 2001-2018 whilst in the UK, the decline has been measured as 40% between 1995 and 2020 and the kestrel is consequently on the amber list. The possible reasons behind such declines are numerous and complex but I feel sad that one day this beautiful bird might no longer be a common sight. All the more reason for stopping and spending time with them when I can.

Back to the garden, and my flowering plant count was noticeably higher: viburnum tinus, winter-flowering pansies, snowdrops, primroses, hazel, sweet violet, dyer’s chamomile, daisies, heather, rosemary, wild strawberry, crocus, celandines, periwinkle and witch hazel. There’s nothing like the 70+ species I counted in early November but once again, I was reminded of the importance of gardens as habitats and food sources for all manner of wildlife; we might not have much in the way of nectar and pollen on offer at the moment but there is a much greater abundance both of species and flower numbers than I saw in half a mile of hedges and verges. When the sun finally decides to shine again and the weather is more amenable to flying insects, there is at least some reliable forage for them within our boundaries. A few days after my walk, when the rain eased a little and there was even a slight rumour of sunshine (very short-lived, as it turned out), I went to the car to fetch a lighter waterproof for walking and suddenly realised there was a deep and familiar buzzing coming from the heather. Not one bumblebee but five, huge velvety Buff-tailed queens working rapidly through the bell-shaped flowers with their short tongues. I was so happy to see them back and ~ walk temporarily abandoned ~ I spent some minutes watching them closely. When I downloaded the photo below, I was puzzled by the little cream blobs on the bee’s neck but on zooming in, discovered they were some kind of mite clinging to her hair. A little frantic research told me that they are quite normal, in fact most bumblebees carry them, and they are only a problem if the mites become too numerous and prevent the bee from flying. Well, there’s something else I’ve learned this week. I just love where nature takes me! 😊

Bee-musing

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Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could see more, hear more, and understand more about the wildlife on our back doorsteps?

Brigit Strawbridge Howard in ‘Dancing with Bees’

Roger and I are both avid readers so we are looking forward to the charity shop re-opening this week after the winter break; we have a huge pile of books to return and we need to replenish our stock with some new titles. Roger reads far more books than I do, partly because his day is much longer than mine (he’s up at 5am, I’m not!) and also because I’m more likely to pick up handicrafts than books during quiet times so I only tend to read in bed. Added to that, I enjoy reading good books several times over and keep a shelf of such cherished treasures for when I feel like diving back into them. Last year, I stumbled by chance on Dancing with Bees by Brigit Strawbridge Howard, a book I instantly loved ~ not only because it is beautifully crafted but also because it inspired me to spend the year studying the wild bees in our garden, looking into the centres of flowers more closely and, as a complete offshoot, taking part in the eBMS weekly butterfly count. With the first bumblebees of the season out and about, feeding up on what early flowers they can find before the nesting season begins, I felt it was time to treat myself to another reading of Brigit’s book. Far from being boring or predictable, I often find a second or subsequent reading of any book highlights things I missed the first time round and this is no exception as I find myself once again immersed in the fascinating world of wild bees. A single lifetime just isn’t long enough to absorb so much incredible information!

Buff-tailed bumblebee queen feeding on heather this week.

I’ve been pretty virtuous so far this year in keeping garden planting notes in the free lunar calendar (let’s face it, it’s early days yet 😆 ) although I’ve noted with a wry smile that, so far, I’ve only managed to sow the recommended plant on one day and actually had my busiest time on an apogee day when apparently I should have downed tools and stayed indoors making preserves from our produce instead. If I’m honest, following the restrictions of this ~ or indeed, any ~ calendar would drive me nuts; I’d far rather use my instinct and senses and be guided by what nature is actually doing in terms of aspects like weather and soil temperature. However, putting that aside, I’m determined this year to also be more committed to keeping a few simple notes about the wild bees, if only to jot down the date I first see them. This will also mean getting back to some serious effort when it comes to identification because sorting out the most common of bumblebees in all thee castes can be tricky enough without the myriad solitary species joining the party. A bit like learning new languages, I can’t help but feel this must be a good workout for the brain. The body, too, for that matter, given how quickly even the biggest of bumbles can move when they put their mind to it; trying to follow their flight paths last year, camera in hand, proved to be quite a workout on occasions.

Carpenter bees are easy to spot but often very active and not the easiest to catch with the camera.

I’m going to try and remember to make a note of which flowers different species are feeding on, too, as this is the best way of increasing appropriate forage for them in the future. I checked a quick guide of planting suggestions last year and we didn’t seem to be doing too badly as we have most of the plants listed in the garden already. It’s easy enough to collect seed or propagate from roots and stems, whilst in some cases ~ such as bugle ~ we can increase the number of plants through our selective mowing regimen. Certainly, I’m happy to spread comfrey around the patch as it’s my number one organic garden plant and it was without doubt one of the most visited plants last year. We’ve been taking advantage of the mild, dry weather this week in sorting out all the planting beds, lifting any perennial weeds that are invasive (grass and creeping buttercups mostly) but leaving anything, whether intentionally planted or not, that will be beneficial to insect visitors. Planting and ‘managing’ the garden for the needs of wildlife as well as our own is, like planting trees each winter, a way of life for us; there are so many species in need of help and often, it’s the simplest gestures that bring the greatest benefits. However, it doesn’t do to assume that everything we do, no matter how well-intentioned, is helpful as the cautionary tale below illustrates.

Common Carder bees were the most numerous species of bumblebee in the garden last year; this one was feeding on bird’s-foot trefoil, a native plant growing in one of our wilder patches.

Last year, we put up a solitary bee hotel for the first time. We’d had it for many years and I have no idea where it came from and even less of a clue as to why, despite carting it around on several house moves, we had never mounted it anywhere. It was a bit cobwebby but had never been inhabited and I was thrilled that within a very short time, Red Mason bees had found it and were busy making their nests in the tubes. I spent many happy moments watching their activities in complete fascination, first packing the tube with yellow clay followed by pollen, then reversing in to lay an egg before repeating the entire process. It was mesmerising and utterly magical. The photo below was taken in mid-April and within a matter of weeks, almost every tube was filled to the front. It felt like a wonderful thing . . .

. . . so imagine my shock to wander past this week and notice that every seal has been broken and, as far as I can tell without fetching a ladder, most of the tubes are empty. Now, I am still very much near the bottom of the learning curve when it comes to wild bee behaviour, but I suspected this just isn’t right and everything I’ve read since tells me the young bees (males first) do not emerge until March at the earliest. Even given the current mild weather, they should still be safely tucked up in their nests so I can only assume they’ve been predated and the most obvious candidates are birds, possibly woodpeckers. That said, it’s a bit surprising given that the box is located under the outdoor shelter which, being home to this winter’s log stack and en route to the utility cabin and garden, sees a lot of footfall in daylight hours. I certainly haven’t seen any evidence of bird activity in the area but of course that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened in my absence. We left the box in situ as it is dry and sheltered from the weather, but on reflection it would have been better to take it down and store it safely in the barn over winter. Ah well, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

A sad sight this week.

The more I’ve been reading this week, the more I realise these bee hotels are quite controversial and there is much lively debate around whether they are actually a good idea at all. One of the biggest problems is that they can encourage pests, non-native species, parasites and mites, none of which have the bees’ best interests at heart. Changing the tubes annually can help to mitigate against pathogens and some enthusiasts also advocate emptying the tubes each autumn and putting the cocoons in a safe place until spring but neither is possible with our box as it seems the tubes have been glued in place ~ just one of the many design faults that seem to exist. On balance, I’m wondering if removing the box altogether might be the best way forward; after all, the old mortar in our barn was packed with bee nests last year and none of those appears to have been disturbed. I feel very sad that whilst trying to do something to help nature, I might unwittingly have caused unnecessary damage but common sense should have told me that tubes packed with pollen and larvae were always going to be a tempting protein-rich picnic for something over winter. It’s been a humbling lesson but I think focusing on other ways to help our wild bees is what we now need to do; let’s leave them to choose their own nesting sites this year.

This enterprising lady built her nest in a hole in the barn door last year; much safer than the bee hotel, it seems.

On a similar theme, Roger found a mass of tiny eggs on one of our young fruit trees this week, clustered under a dead leaf which appears to have been intentionally curled around them and stuck in place to provide a shelter. Loving any excuse to dig out my botanist’s loupe and look at natural wonders in detail, I decided they reminded me a bit of curling stones, being the same chunky shape and cream in colour with a brown band around their middle. I have absolutely no idea what laid them, shield bug eggs seem to be the closest match I can find but I’m not convinced about that one. I’m also puzzled about the timing since I don’t know of any insect that overwinters in egg form (which isn’t to say they don’t exist) and it’s surely far too early for this season’s egg-laying to have started? Perhaps they’re eggs that were laid last summer but never hatched? It’s a bit of a puzzle and certainly something I shall be keeping a close eye on in the coming days and weeks but if any reader can shed light on what they are, I’d be very grateful.

It’s been interesting to watch the increase in bird activity this week and on several mornings, I’ve opened the door to enjoy the dawn chorus while my morning mug of tea brewed. Already, a song thrush is making its presence very much heard above the other voices, sitting high up in a poplar tree across the lane and belting out his repeated phrases for all it’s worth. Last weekend’s official bird count was an absorbing activity but in many ways it’s quite a limiting exercise in bird study and, following the LPO guidelines to watch just one small area of the garden (namely, the feeding station), I could have predicted the outcome fairly accurately. Not that there’s anything wrong with blue tits and house sparrows, it just meant that the less obvious species such as goldcrest and green woodpecker that I had seen whilst walking round the garden on the same morning weren’t included in my record.

A nuthatch inspecting offerings on the bird table.

Perhaps the most ‘exotic’ visitors to the feeders were marsh tits (mésange nonnette in French) who visit daily through winter and I know that at least one pair nested in the garden last summer. Looking at the results of a 10-year analysis of French garden bird counts, the marsh tit is not a particularly common species so it’s wonderful to have them here clearing the bird table of sunflower seeds in expert fashion. They are notoriously difficult to distinguish visually from willow tits and the only reason I can be sure of my identification is that I was reliably informed by the local LPO that willow tits don’t occur in Mayenne. Apparently, the best way to tell them apart is to listen to their calls ~ not that either is a particularly vocal species ~ and this had me wondering. I’ve been watching marsh tits visit the bird table every day for months now, but could I recognise their song with the same certainty of, say, that song thrush? Well, no was the simple answer, at least until I spent some time on the internet informing myself and playing plenty of examples. I now know I’m listening out for an explosive call that starts with a “pitchou” sound rather like a sneeze and I have been tuning my outdoor ears in accordingly.

Seeing this long-eared owl sitting close to the garden last summer was one of the most exciting bird moments of my life!

This activity has brought it home to me just how easy it is to take so much that goes on around me for granted; my knowledge and recognition of birds are far greater than that of wild bees and yet there is still so much I don’t know. A French friend who lives nearby has a phone app that recognises and identifies birdsong and tells her what she is listening to in her garden; it’s clever stuff, but not being a smartphone person myself (I wouldn’t even know how to switch one on 😂 ), I need to do things differently. It might be a bit old-fashioned and time-consuming to listen, absorb, remember then research but I quite enjoy the challenge of such detective work and I can’t help feeling it’s better to use my own intelligence rather than the artificial kind. As the garden and surrounding landscape wake, stretch and unfurl in the lengthening days and journey towards spring, I am committed to being much more aware this year, to being truly awake to the vibrant life around me, to nurture a childlike curiosity then make the effort to read, research and learn. I know without a doubt that I am going to revel in this; after all, what could be more wonderful than truly connecting with a little sneezing bird? 😊