Tag: The Lizard

Bewildered again. Back in Kynance

The view through the window of the marvellous cafe at Kynance Cove

Years ago we were on the Roseland peninsula, skulking along the coast path when we spotted a botanist. We knew she was a botanist because she was in the classic field botanist’s question mark pose – head bent over, walking very slowly and scanning from side to side like a faulty photocopier. “What are you looking for?” I asked. I should admit immediately that I’m quite deaf because I clearly heard her say “squirrels”. A conversation of stacking non sequiturs concerning little furry animals followed for a while when it finally dawned on me that she was looking for Spring Squills – Scilla verna – for the serious, and I was able to purge my imagination of the possibility of a colony of Red Squirrels living under the radar in Cornwall. However it was worth the embarrassment because I’d never seen a Spring Squill and then suddenly we knew where to find them. Now, of course, I wave a languid arm at them and say in my best Martin Jarvis/ Just William voice – “Oh them’s Spring Squirrels” whilst inwardly plotting terrible revenge on Violet Elizabeth Bott. If you’re interested, they grow profusely behind the coastguard lookout east of Portscatho and – what’s more – all the way around the Lizard coastline.

Anyway, the Spring Squill was the cause of even more confusion today, because we set out to find not just any old pond, but the precise pond in which I had come to believe I’d failed to identify a pretty rare plant last January. Needless to say I was wrong in every respect because once we got back with grid references and photographs and then defrosted our hands I waded through my pile of books and found that my hoped-for rarity had never been found anywhere near the Lizard but that there was another proper rarity growing down here that I also thought we had seen today.

It wasn’t the best day for a minute examination of the local flora. The gunmetal grey sky and a nominal temperature of 4C hardly describe the reality when you factor in the 20 mph east windchill. We were heads down all the way, and even with my new heavyweight oiled Welsh wool polo neck, two hats and a down jacket, we were very cold. Thank goodness for the cafe at the bottom which was open and selling tea and toasted buns.

Anyway, it turns out that Land Quillwort which does grow here is all but indistinguishable, at this time of year, from guess what? ……. Spring Squill- oh bother!! Now the Quillwort is so rare that you can’t just go uprooting bits of it, so the only way to see what it is would be to revisit in March and see what’s come up. This is how we amateurs go completely bonkers and land up with gimlet eyes and strange personal habits. I could cite the authorities I’ve consulted but this isn’t meant to be a student essay as much as a cri de coeur from a bewildered man.

But why’s this so much fun? Well you’d have to talk to a psychotherapist I’m afraid, but sitting here surrounded by photos, grid references and field guides I feel completely at home and in my happy place. No peculiar tics any more, I’ve been pretty successful at hiding them. Tomorrow there’s a possibility of snow which, in this part of Cornwall is a rarity. If I could offer just one suggestion as to why this is so rewarding, maybe it’s this. When you get to a certain age you become invisible. Even your children begin to see signs of senescence everywhere and turn away offers of advice or help, occasionally rather rudely. But then, as it happened today, emails arrive from older friends and younger people with real heft asking you to do something; a bit of proofreading maybe. Plans are laid for field trips which will go ahead because we – The Three Musketeers – will go out on a recce and we can make them happen; and you can ask questions of world class experts and get them answered and you feel useful. And if you should think that this is all nonsense then ponder this. The 202o UK and Ireland BSBI Plant Atlas is the result of as many as 170,000 volunteer days of recording. If you read anything in the newspapers that refers to plants and their current state in the midst of a climate catastrophe it will almost certainly come from this data. We oldies still have our uses!

Hm

Bah humbug! Madame saves the day

Christmas is done. The dread gap between the Winter Solstice and New Year has not been fractured (yet) by family disputes, old rivalries or half-buried resentments. No tremendous hangovers; no mountains of leftover food – which was all boxed up and distributed to those who couldn’t eat it on the day and no incriminating photos posted online. Let’s call it a tremendous success which always comes at the price of relentlessly patrolling the ramparts. Like wartime firewatchers we attempt to locate the incendiary remarks before they ignite, and we lob them over the wall avoiding my sherry trifle whose pendulum had swung to the deadly end of the spectrum. Everything except the gammon stock was good but unfortunately I forgot to turn the heat down whilst reducing it and didn’t notice until three fire alarms went off. The resulting charred mess took three days to remove but the pan is now gleaming. So – as my old boss used to say – when he had no idea what to say – well there we are.

I suppose I should mention that our celebrations were compromised by the fact that we were both recovering from COVID. Second time this year and ameliorated if not prevented by our jabs. So there was a good deal of coughing and spluttering going on although we were not – according to the test – actually infectious. A bit snippy maybe!

Christmas – I think we’re supposed to say – is a family time; a time of celebration. Well yes, but it’s still exhausting and emotionally draining. Most of the time we don’t waste that much energy on expecting the best of everyone, we just accept that things will probably be a bit shit but we’ll muddle through like we always do. Sharing loos and showers; negotiating the choice of TV programmes and getting the washing up done are the banana skins of family life. You can’t wish a personality change on another human being and even middle aged ‘boys’ seem to revert to an early teen mindset. Last night after the last wave of the last hand with rictus damaged smiles we fell into bed only for me to wake again an hour later with battery acid reflux. It was dark, overcast and raining by morning and even the trees outside were wrapped in a coat of shining slime. Something had to be done.

Thanks to the global climate catastrophe – the named storms are coming three at a time and the high temperature record was once again being broken over the festival season and the weather feels ugly and depressing. The allotment, being at the bottom of a hilly site with a stream running underground through our apple trees, is all but inaccessible. There are daylight, temperature and weather processes that are essential to the wellbeing of perennial plants like apples; but disrupted as they are, the growing of crops is becoming more like a lottery.

So while I cleaned the oven and descaled the steam function; then put the dishwasher on a cleaning cycle and made strong coffee; Madame went back to bed and worked silently on her tablet for half an hour while I cleaned up the crime scene. When she eventually shouted “Come here” in her most imperious voice I responded immediately and she said “the cottage in Cadgwith is free” – (but still not cheap, I thought), while my heart leapt for joy and my soul sang in their hearty and soulful fashion. With £150 discount it still wasn’t really cheap but it was below the inexcusably extravagant line, so after ten seconds deliberation we booked it for a week. Photos from the kitchen door at the top of this post.

Our most extravagant moment almost escaped our attention entirely. One of the boys brought a bottle of wine and I could tell it was a good one just by looking at the label. I said it looked good and he said “It should be at that price!” All unknowing I opened it and took a sip and it was wonderful – I mean symphonic. Madame was having a dry night so I managed to drink about three quarters of the bottle before caution and generosity compelled me to stop. Only then, after I had a sneaky look online did I discover just how good it was. Oh and expensive too. It may well turn out to be the most expensive wine I’ll ever drink. Madame finished it up the next day and agreed that it was very good. I’m glad I didn’t know its value before I tried it. I’ve often wondered whether the whole wine connoisseur thing was a snobbish affectation but on the basis of a blind tasting there was no doubt.

And so, back to my favourite place on earth to look for plants and ferns and especially a Quillwort that I managed to walk past without recognising last year. It will be a tremendous place for a bit of spiritual renewal – it always is!