The storms whipping across Britain this past week have caused serious damage in places, chaos and havoc in others, and anxiety all round.  As a small person, myself, on unsteady legs, being outside in the winds has been absolutely exhausting, a perpetual workout for ageing muscles as I strive to stay upright.  At recent funerals here, with people drawn outside who otherwise would have preferred to remain safely indoors, I’ve watched others struggling as well.  Yet there are some folk, like a lovely celebrant at yesterday’s event, who are sturdy enough to stand in a howling gale and seem entirely unaffected …  The same is true, of course, with our trees.

Before the storms arrived, we had spent an afternoon checking every wooden tree stake on all of our young trees.  While winds may snap twigs and slim new branches, if blown right over a sapling is unlikely to break, being still wonderfully flexible, but it isn’t ideal.  Protected by tree guards, the only way they’ll blow over is if the stake breaks or is completely dislodged in saturated soil.  Checking each one, replacing and stabilising where necessary, we were optimistic that we (or rather, they) would get through unscathed, and thankfully that has been so.

Oak in the Storm

Of course, saplings large enough to have some part above the top of the guard do crash about wildly within that protection.  However, like the tumbling of small children and mock fighting of cubs, this is much needed preparation for a growing tree: the roots need to be flexible within the soil, finding a secure footing yet able to bend with the wind as they gain height.

With regard to our larger trees, there was also no damage, for which we are particularly grateful.  Most of the mature ash within this landscape are affected by ash dieback disease: with regular surveys and very aware of our duty of care, we are gradually removing branches where necessary, and in time we anticipate most of the trees will have been felled, but a storm can find weaknesses we hadn’t identified.  Along the lanes hereabouts there were indeed plenty of ash branches down over the past week.

As for the oak, field maple, cherry and alder, the larger of these trees seemed simply to be enjoying the wind, moving with it but as untroubled as yesterday’s celebrant.  For myself, I’ll be very pleased when the air settles and I can stand easily again!

It is easy to remember frosty, snowy winters from childhood, so many decades ago.  And although I’m sure there were dreary grey days, they don’t so readily come to mind: they weren’t the days of crispy delight, with cold wet noses and frozen fingers, crunchy footsteps on ice, and silly games in the snow.  Climate change is bringing us milder, wetter and – more pertinently – greyer winters.  When there are so many grey days, one after another, it can be extremely hard to keep our spirits up, even at the best of times.  When we are stumbling through grief, that can be even harder.

Working at Sun Rising means I have to get out, almost every day, into the natural world of the nature reserve.  This winter, for many of us, finding beauty out there has been even more important.  And it is there: even before the first snowdrops push through.  There are biscuit-yellow catkins on the hazels, dancing in the wind.  There are the scarlet-red guelder rose berries, and crimson-red rose hips, amidst those darkening to burgundy and umber.  The first primroses are coming into flower: creamy-yellow, they look fresh even amidst the damp leaf mold.  The first of the alder catkins are now out, on trees with last year’s catkins.  There are sharp nutty little crab apples, not yet eaten by the birds.  And of the birds, of course the robins are evident, following us around, waiting for us to turn the soil with spade or boot, making it easier for them to find the little worms.

Fieldfare on Guelder Rose

But perhaps more than any, this year it is the fieldfare that has been inspired joy.  With their laughing chatter, these winter visitors are snaffling the rose hips and guelder rose berries around Sun Rising, where they hop about by themselves.  When they take to their wings, however, it is more than likely that others will join them, and you might see flocks of 20 or 30 flying over the meadow.  It’s an uplifting sight, even on a grey winter’s day.

There is a benefit to a mild October: we aren’t wrapped up in half a dozen layers, muddy boots, woolly hats and aching joints.  But when we recognise that such weather is another indication of climate change, that momentary personal benefit seems fairly small.  The sense of ‘being lucky’ to have another warm, dry day rightly falls away.

This year, October has not been the month of changing colours: most of the leaves are still green, albeit losing their vibrant sheen.  At the tops of the young maples and oaks, and on most of the cherry trees, the leaves are drying and, a dull and brittle brown, they are falling heavily within a day or so.  This is not as year of autumn colour.

October Trees Still Green

What makes the leaves of our deciduous trees so beautifully green is chlorophyll, that magical pigment which allows trees to convert sunlight, carbon dioxide and water into the sugars they need – and the oxygen we breathe.  Throughout the winter, with shorter days and less sunlight, the tree stops producing chlorophyll and prepares to ‘sleep’ through the darker months. Withdrawing nutrients from the leaf, it grows a layer of cells at the end of the leaf stem (the abscission) which helps the leaf to detach and fall.

The many hues of yellows and browns in autumn leaves are actually already present in the tree leaf: throughout the summer months, the green chlorophyll masks them. When the amount of chlorophyll reduces as the days grow shorter, those underlying colours simply show through.

The quality of red, however, is quite different.  This is a pigment (called anthocyanin) which the tree has to create afresh each autumn.  Exactly why trees decide to do so or not is an area still being researched.  It is clear that when the weather is cold, crisp and bright, with plenty of sunlight, ideally with overnight temperatures heading for zero, we are likely to see those rich tones of red that make such beautiful autumn canopies.

Some scientists are suggesting that the red is a sunscreen, protecting the leaves from bright sunlight during their last weeks, so the tree can safely withdraw nutrients into its wood and roots; however, the cold temperature is also necessary.  Some have observed that trees on poor soils are more likely to produce the anthocyanin than on rich fertile soils: red leaves remain longer on the trees, allowing the last of the nutrients to be used.

Whatever the reason, as we move through a mild October, it may be that this is not a year for splendid autumn colours.  While the British climate continues to warm, it may be that such colours become a memory.  I sincerely hope not.

After a cold wet May, and a variable June, we have now landed in the midst of a very warm few weeks.  With temperatures in the late twenties and early thirties, many are staying indoors in the cool.  Not so the butterflies!  After such a slow start, there are now abundant butterflies here at Sun Rising.  Not all the usual species are evident, but it’s wonderful to see those that are.

In particular, the Ringlets and Meadow Browns are flying in good numbers now: you can see these two species feeding companionably here on Creeping Thistle, amidst the seeding grass wonderfully called Yorkshire Fog.  There are also plenty of Marbled Whites, a striking black and white butterfly which has been doing well at Sun Rising for a couple of years.  The various orange skippers are also flying now, Small Tortoiseshells, the first of the Gatekeepers and 6-Spot Burnet moths.  There are a few Painted Ladies and Common Blues in the new wildflower meadow too.

Ringlet and Meadow Brown on Creeping Thistle

The wildflowers of the meadow are quickly changing in the heat: flowers of early summer, the Oxeye Daisies and vetches, are now going to seed, while the late summer flowers are baking in the sunshine, tickled by butterflies, hoverflies and bees.  The pale lilac of the Field Scabious and the deep pinks of knapweeds contrast with the rich yellow Lady’s Bedstraw.  Strands of pure yellow Agrimony stand straight amidst the grasses, now drying and shedding seed.

In the fields around, the tractors are out, cutting and baling the grass for hay.  It won’t be long before the combine harvesters are rolling through the arable, bringing in the cereal crops.  For our forebears these were busy days of working from dawn until dusk, scything, turning, rowing and stacking.  Feeling this hot, it’s hard to imagine that kind of physical toil.

In this intense heat, if we have the luxury and/or the discipline to do so, these are days to take life not just slowly but with a deep inner calm.  To do so while watching the almost constant activity of the butterflies and bees is pure delight …

Don’t forget Butterfly Conservation’s Big Butterfly Count too, running this year from 16 July to 8 August.  What a lovely reason to get out and see what butterflies are about, not just in our gardens, but local parks, woods and meadows.  Of course, you’re welcome to do your count at Sun Rising.

Many years ago, standing in the middle of an intricate corn circle, I was asked if I felt the ‘magical’ energy of the place. I did, I felt myself filled with a glorious sparkling exuberance, but leaving the mysteriously-made circle and walking into the adjacent field, with the summer breeze, the birdsong and sunshine, I felt just the same sense of vibrancy and wonder. It wasn’t the corn circle, it was the English countryside that was magical. Looking out over Sun Rising, with the meadow grasses now 4 or 5 foot tall in the grassland, moving in the wind like water, I am equally filled with life.

In our areas of wildflowers, the vegetation – both grasses and flowers – seems almost twice as thick and tall as it was last year.  It’s been a fairly chilly summer, with cloud hiding the sun all too often, but the regular rain has encouraged a great deal of growth.  In places the flowers have been slower to come through than the grasses, but as July opens out they are catching up well.  In this photograph you can see Hedge Bedstraw, Birdsfoot Trefoil, Common Knapweed, and an oxeye daisy proudly in the thick of it all.

Wildflowers at Sun Rising

When the rain holds off and the sun starts to shine, the butterflies are coming out too.  Some are in low numbers this year, notably the blues and whites, but we’ve had good numbers of Meadow Browns, various skippers, Marbled Whites, Small Tortoiseshells, and there are Painted Ladies, Brown Argus and Ringlets.  You may see some day-flying moths as well, including the Six-spot Burnet, the Shaded Broad-bar and Yellow Shell.  With such thick growth in the meadow, you’ll sometimes see them deep in amidst the vetchlings and knapweeds, lifting out into the sunshine when the clouds move along.

This effects of this year’s cold wet May are still very evident.  Sometimes a difficult period suddenly disappears, as nature appears to catch up with itself, but sometimes the effects are longer lasting.  Looking out over the wildflower meadows at Sun Rising, it feels to me as if we are about two weeks later than we would otherwise expect – but at last the flowers are now coming into bloom.  The mass of buttercups has, for a little while, been here-and-there splashed with the pale pink of ragged robin, or the deeper pink of red campion, but now the oxeye daisies are starting to open.  Brilliant pink grass vetchling, rich red-to-yellow birdsfoot trefoil, and now the first of the field scabious.

Early Summer Flowers in Michael’s Meadow

The more established areas of meadow have a greater ratio of grasses, while the newer meadows have more flowers.  In the photograph here, you can see the fat seedheads of meadow foxtail, tall in the foreground, a grass species that was barely seen in that area of meadow last summer.

A meadow is always changing, with a slightly different balance of plants making the most of the conditions of that particular year, finding root space in the soil, responding to sunlight and warmth.  It’s a balance that we are always aware of: the flowers may be more beautiful, but the grasses draw up more water from the soil, giving it a better overall structure.  We can alter it with harrowing and re-seeding, or weeding out specific species (such as thistles), but on the whole we just need to wait and watch.

Some may be aware of the very low number of butterflies around this year.  The same is true for moths.  Despite the ongoing decline in numbers, 2020 was a fairly good year – you’ll remember that we had a very warm dry spring and early summer.  This year, the reverse is true.  With a cold wet May, butterflies are only now starting to get going, and for some it will simply be too late.  With the meadow coming into flower, we hope very much that the butterflies will also start emerging, together with all the other invertebrates who are not only dependent on such places, but add another layer to nature’s precious and wonder-full beauty.

Last year, by the middle of May, there had been so little rain that we were beginning to fear for our youngest trees.  The ground was dusty and cracked, seeds slow to germinate or drying up in the hot sunshine.  In lockdown, many human beings were happy to soak up the sunshine in the warmth in their own gardens, but the natural world was parched.  This year, however, after a dry April, spring has been dissolving into a rather wet summer.  The colours of nature – the cowslip yellows, the bluebells blues and all the many greens of a new season’s growth – are really rather damp and muted.

The good news is that the trees are very much happier than they were last year.  With roots in moist soil, and with lengthening days and sufficient sunshine, they are growing gently, perhaps even contentedly.  It’s not fast growth: the nights have been cold, temperatures generally low.  A few young saplings had their first leaves burnt by frost early in the month, and after losing leaves they can be cautious about pouring energy into leafing again.  And if there is much more rain, the soil at Sun Rising will start to become saturated.  But so far the trees are quite at peace with the rain.

Wildlife Pond Overflowing with May Rains

And the pond is just wonderful!  We can cap the inflow, stopping the water rising if we needed to, but at the moment it is only beneficial.  As the water flows in, the ground all around the western bank is overflowing, as it is designed to do.  Toads, newts and other amphibians will be joyfully exploring the wider reaches of their temporarily extended habitat.  I’m imagining the nymphs of dozens of dragonflies and damselflies, swimming along new watery channels through the grass and buttercups, feeding on all kinds of little creatures they wouldn’t find in the pond itself – and when summer comes, and the water temperature rises, I’m hoping they’ll transform into their magical winged forms and stay to dance over the pond’s glittering sun-blessed surface.

I suspect most are yearning for some warmth and sunshine.  But perhaps, as we wait, we can acknowledge and appreciate those who love and need these watery days.

I may be biased but, in this spring sunshine, Sun Rising is simply wonder-full.  Yesterday, we paused for quite some time, crouched down, taking in the beauty of little pools of clear white Wood Anemones (Anemone nemorosa) now flowering in an area of woodland where the trees are 10 – 12 years old.  These aren’t easy to grow: the little plants can take many years sorting our their roots in the soil before flowering.  They tend not to spread by seed, but instead their little roots grow underground, so small patches very slowly extend.  You can see them out in the open, but they are happier in areas where tree roots are breaking up the earth and there is dappled spring shade.

With the wild cherries now in full blossom, and the meadow bright with thousands of cowslips, the dark red hoods of the snakeshead fritillaries so captivating, it took me a moment’s consideration to decide which photograph to share on this blog.  My choice is the field maple (Acer campestre).

Field Maple Leaf Buds

Naturally when thinking of the maple, we think of its autumnal leaf colours, and on a good year, with the right balance of rain, light and cold, our native Field Maple can be glorious.  The leaves can be a thousand hues of gold, bronze and copper, but also rich siennas, umber, all the way to burgundy.

Yet in spring, the maple is one of the most beautiful trees.  Its grey winter leaf buds suddenly break into soft reds, the bright green leaves at first almost fluffy as they open out into the spring sunshine.

Our English maples are an important tree at this time.  At Sun Rising, they appear to be coping with the changing climate better than any other – managing both drought and saturated soil.  They support a huge number of creatures, including many hoverflies, ladybirds and caterpillars.  In fact, I am quite sure they are a favourite of the Long-tailed Tits: it’s not unusual to see groups of these little birds land on the maples and, hopping about, pick off aphids and other tiny insects, chattering to each other all the while.

If you visit Sun Rising you’re eyes will be drawn to the cowslips and snakeshead fritillaries, the blackthorn and cherry blossom, even the last of the daffodils, but do pause at the wonderful Field Maple too.