In England we haven't had much of a summer and not many holidaymakers could enjoy the seaside, even less the sea. As a sunny beach became more desirable with every week of August passing by, on a particularly rainy day I took myself off to London to at least get a taste of it at the exhibition, 'Impressionists by the Sea'.
The show at the Royal Academy – the blurb explains - explores "the development of the beach scene in the art of the Impressionists". Some of their predecessors – Isabey, Cazin, Dupre – painted the sort of marine scenes we've seen rather too much of lately - storms, fishermen fighting the elements, toiling peasants (do peasants toil anymore?) – while other artists concentrated on the coastline devoid of figures.
Then painters like American James McNeill Whistler and Frenchman Courbet began to focus on more restful views of the north coast of France: bays, the play of light on calm seas, a peasant asleep. These paintings were simpler, calmer, than the previous dramatic stormy scenes.
But around 1860 a few artists began painting fashionable tourists on the beaches of Normandy: Boudin pioneered the theme of holiday makers on the beach at Trouville, others followed and Deauville, Berck, Etretat and Sainte-Adresse feature in many paintings by such artists as Monet and Manet.
These holiday makers came down to the coast from Paris and the corresponding growth in hotels and villas along the sea front were incorporated in the paintings: there are scenes of figures strolling along the board walks in colourful fashionable clothes, sitting under the shade of their parasols, stepping out from their bathing tents.
Ah, this is my sort of seaside: sun, yellow sands, aquamarine seas, high bright blue skies, honest and upright locals, refined and elegant holidaymakers, not a piece of litter or a cart jam in sight.
Now, here's a theory: as adults we're drawn to the landscapes of our formative years. Born in rolling countryside but close to the coast, I like landscape paintings with hills, trees and meadows but I'm also drawn to the sunny beach scenes of the Impressionists.
Paintings of figures strolling on Trouville beach reminds me of Weymouth sands in summer, just as a South African may instantly think of Muizenberg, an Australian of the beach at St Kilda's. Happy memories: I can taste the salt, feel the warm sand trickling between my toes, see the boats sail gently to and fro on the bay.
But by the late 1870's the Impressionists, perhaps bored by the subject of holidaymakers, were concentrating more on landscape: figures were a minor feature. They created informal canvases showing the physical structure of cliffs or the effect of light on sea and sky. Brilliant.
Then by the late 1880's these scenes had become quite dramatic again: the artists portrayed dark rain clouds, massive cliffs, rock formations and the play of light on the sea. Fashionable figures – though not necessarily their resorts - were supplanted by fisher folk, their boats, the sea and cliffs.
Many of the Impressionists chose to paint Etretat where the cliff has been eroded by sea to form an opening. It might remind an American of the natural arch at Santa Cruz: it reminds me of Durdle Door in Dorset.
Suddenly I recall a less sunny seaside: scary cliff walks and stormy seas. I remember the wind stinging my legs when I come out of the water, the pain of pebbles under bare feet, sand in my sandwiches, grumbling locals and hordes of holidaymakers: different impressions by the sea.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Note: if as adults many of us are drawn to the landscapes of our formative years, some people – at particular times in their lives - are likewise attracted to alien landscapes: landscape as 'escape' perhaps.
For example, if we're hemmed in by the city we thirst for open spaces. When our life is controlled, we may seek wild spaces; if our lives or minds are out of control we may appreciate neat and tidy surroundings.
Certainly the cry – I just need to get away – is usually from the heart no matter where away is: an exhibition of painting might just do the trick.
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Sunday, 19 August 2007
Historical Fiction and Real Life
For some, 'historical fiction' is that set upto the 19th century but actually anything set over a hundred years ago - or now pre-1945 – comes within the genre. But whichever period a story is set in, one of the facets that a writer of historical fiction is concerned with is historical accuracy.
When a novel has a glowing write-up (like an excellent reviewer from Historical Novels Review gave A Little Blue Jacket this month!) the author is likely to be on cloud nine: but clouds are insubstantial things. It can be down to earth with a bump if a reviewer criticizes areas of the work that the writer thinks unfair.
Once an author has published a novel it's out there to have its bones picked over by anyone. Criticism of style or structure is a very subjective thing – one man's meat is another man's poison – but historical accuracy can be checked.
Most authors of historical fiction go to great lengths to ensure historical, geographical and social facts are researched but it is amazing how often the reader is surprised by either lifestyles or words currently in use at the time, altered locations or historical views.
Given the chance, most authors are able to explain the historical context and back up their facts (certainly in the large format of my novel A Little Blue Jacket I included extensive historical notes as even local South Africans told me they knew little of SA history after 1900 and before 1950) and so give the reader a chance to follow up research for themselves.
Many historical facts had to be cross-referenced for my novel as what appears obvious is not always the case. For example - the original Malay houses around Bo Kaap have not, contrary to popular belief, been repainted in their original pastel colours: they were originally white. After frenzied building a hundred years ago Victorian buildings in Cape Town outnumbered Cape Dutch ones and the architect 'darling' of the time, who was building in the vernacular style there, was in fact British: Herbert Baker, partner of Edwin Lutyens.
Fish Hoek is now a thriving small town but a hundred years ago was little more than a few fishing cottages: the Martello tower of Simon's Town is now little more than a ruin. On Muizenberg sands the tin hut of 1905 is long gone, replaced as it was by a grand pavilion in 1913, along with the charming stilted beach huts that are so well known today.
Similarly, the writer of historical fiction has to make sure of geographical facts that may send readers reaching for their street map or atlas. To demonstrate: in Cape Town, Roggebaai (present spelling) with its jetty is now reclaimed land – old street names bear testimony to its previous bounds - and many names of streets and squares have since been changed in tune with society.
Political and social facts too can be authenticated. Those living in Johannesburg today may find it difficult to believe that a hundred years ago Indians and Malays were allowed to buy properties in new residential districts of Cape Town: apartheid has so dominated South Africa in the recent past that many cannot believe that in the Western Cape a hundred years ago there was no apartheid and were no pass laws.
This is what was meant when those in the Western Cape were described as 'colour blind': today reference to this might be interpreted as a politically correct view but it is, indeed, a fact. Certainly among the British in the Western Cape, Malays were sought out as house servants and treated, on the whole, well: indeed many of the female servants became close confidantes of the mistress of the house.
History is written by people and of course can be re-written to suit, but there is much that cannot be disagreed with. A writer can point out historical facts to dissenters, and back up social facts with contemporaneous sources used, but little can be done to countermand ingrained prejudice or ignorance on the behalf of a reader or critic.
But, when all's said and done, most authors of historical fiction are not historians: they are writers of fiction. And, like all fiction writers, they can invent characters and places. They can also manipulate actual events and dates to serve fictional purposes: they can choose to write their story in the spirit of the time or be exact in every detail.
Or writers can marry the two: for example, I made a choice when writing my novel not to make the speech as stilted as it may have been but to observe speech patterns and the odd words of regional dialect used at the time instead. This involved considerable research as words used today – or understood today – are not necessarily those of the period in which the book was set: it's a device that can give the book a sense of period as well as place.
And, for myself, some of the personal facts on which I based the story of A Little Blue Jacket no-one can dispute: my grandmother was born in the Cape and, orphaned, was brought up by her sister and her Malay nurse of whom she was very fond. Without 'giving away' the story (and it is fiction), the least likely and most dramatic events that happen in it are actually true: that old adage that real life is often more surprising than fiction.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
When a novel has a glowing write-up (like an excellent reviewer from Historical Novels Review gave A Little Blue Jacket this month!) the author is likely to be on cloud nine: but clouds are insubstantial things. It can be down to earth with a bump if a reviewer criticizes areas of the work that the writer thinks unfair.
Once an author has published a novel it's out there to have its bones picked over by anyone. Criticism of style or structure is a very subjective thing – one man's meat is another man's poison – but historical accuracy can be checked.
Most authors of historical fiction go to great lengths to ensure historical, geographical and social facts are researched but it is amazing how often the reader is surprised by either lifestyles or words currently in use at the time, altered locations or historical views.
Given the chance, most authors are able to explain the historical context and back up their facts (certainly in the large format of my novel A Little Blue Jacket I included extensive historical notes as even local South Africans told me they knew little of SA history after 1900 and before 1950) and so give the reader a chance to follow up research for themselves.
Many historical facts had to be cross-referenced for my novel as what appears obvious is not always the case. For example - the original Malay houses around Bo Kaap have not, contrary to popular belief, been repainted in their original pastel colours: they were originally white. After frenzied building a hundred years ago Victorian buildings in Cape Town outnumbered Cape Dutch ones and the architect 'darling' of the time, who was building in the vernacular style there, was in fact British: Herbert Baker, partner of Edwin Lutyens. Fish Hoek is now a thriving small town but a hundred years ago was little more than a few fishing cottages: the Martello tower of Simon's Town is now little more than a ruin. On Muizenberg sands the tin hut of 1905 is long gone, replaced as it was by a grand pavilion in 1913, along with the charming stilted beach huts that are so well known today.
Similarly, the writer of historical fiction has to make sure of geographical facts that may send readers reaching for their street map or atlas. To demonstrate: in Cape Town, Roggebaai (present spelling) with its jetty is now reclaimed land – old street names bear testimony to its previous bounds - and many names of streets and squares have since been changed in tune with society.
Political and social facts too can be authenticated. Those living in Johannesburg today may find it difficult to believe that a hundred years ago Indians and Malays were allowed to buy properties in new residential districts of Cape Town: apartheid has so dominated South Africa in the recent past that many cannot believe that in the Western Cape a hundred years ago there was no apartheid and were no pass laws.
This is what was meant when those in the Western Cape were described as 'colour blind': today reference to this might be interpreted as a politically correct view but it is, indeed, a fact. Certainly among the British in the Western Cape, Malays were sought out as house servants and treated, on the whole, well: indeed many of the female servants became close confidantes of the mistress of the house.
History is written by people and of course can be re-written to suit, but there is much that cannot be disagreed with. A writer can point out historical facts to dissenters, and back up social facts with contemporaneous sources used, but little can be done to countermand ingrained prejudice or ignorance on the behalf of a reader or critic.
But, when all's said and done, most authors of historical fiction are not historians: they are writers of fiction. And, like all fiction writers, they can invent characters and places. They can also manipulate actual events and dates to serve fictional purposes: they can choose to write their story in the spirit of the time or be exact in every detail.
Or writers can marry the two: for example, I made a choice when writing my novel not to make the speech as stilted as it may have been but to observe speech patterns and the odd words of regional dialect used at the time instead. This involved considerable research as words used today – or understood today – are not necessarily those of the period in which the book was set: it's a device that can give the book a sense of period as well as place.
And, for myself, some of the personal facts on which I based the story of A Little Blue Jacket no-one can dispute: my grandmother was born in the Cape and, orphaned, was brought up by her sister and her Malay nurse of whom she was very fond. Without 'giving away' the story (and it is fiction), the least likely and most dramatic events that happen in it are actually true: that old adage that real life is often more surprising than fiction.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Sunday, 12 August 2007
The moon, meteors and myths
The moon and meteors have long been the subject of myths: for thousands of years cultures have studied the stars and been ruled by their movement. Terrestrial travellers throughout the world used the stars and the moon to guide them, seafarers navigated by the constellations.
Historically farmers have grown crops according to the phases of the moon. Wheat was sown during the waxing of the moon and small holders planted their peas: all above ground crops. When the moon was waning however, it was the time to sow root crops and trees.
Now, when tending their vines, winemakers of the New World are considering the lunar activity that ancient viniculture abided by: full circle. They are harvesting their grapes as close to the full moon as possible in order that the fruit is full of moisture and flavour.
And it's not such a daft idea: after all, it's the gravitational interaction between the Earth and the moon that causes the tides to change and similarly the moon affects moisture in the soil. Depending on whether the moon is waxing or waning, so light is increasing or decreasing, affecting plant growth.
In the 20th century interest was renewed when Rudolph Steiner encouraged such biodynamic agricultural techniques as planting according to the moon's phases: it seems that seeds germinate more quickly if planted at full moon. But you ask any countryman about when to grow fruit and veg and he'll spout planting and gathering times based on the lunar calendar that were part of folklore long before Steiner gave it any scientific credentials.
The Romans were heavily into the lunar calendar as we all know and belief in the mythical powers of the planets and stars is still with us in the 21st century: so strong is it that we even organize our lives by consulting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac on a daily basis. What star sign are you? is one of the most popular openers for women (in particular) on speed dates and many have been know to reject a partner on the strength of his perceived personality: in some cultures a potential bride or groom can be rejected after consulting the stars for fear of an inauspicious match.
For more down-to-earth types however, tonight, Sunday, after midnight, there will be a spectacular shower of shooting stars through the British skies: the Perseid meteor shower occurs every year around the time of the St Lawrence's feast day on 10th August (Romans again). The show has already begun but will peak tonight. A new moon – a darker sky – should help us see the spectacle more clearly: that and the absence of light pollution.
Killjoy, I hear you groan, why mention pollution. Why can't you just celebrate this wonderful astronomical phenomenon without recourse to green issues: quite simply, because light pollution of our night skies may stop us seeing this colourful cabaret.
Light pollution is the adverse affect of artificial light on the night sky: in many cities throughout the world only the brightest of the planets and the moon are now visible. In our village we boast of having a clear night sky: there are no street lights or large illuminated signs so astronomers travel miles to study the stars on the elevated Common. But in the distance there can be seen sky glow from the nearby town and it's creeping ever nearer.
So what? Well, light pollution affects us all, star gazer or not. Lighting burns money and it uses up our natural energy resources: it harms nocturnal wildlife and it destroys our night skies which is a crying shame. There is nothing like walking home from the pub on a chilly evening under a starry, starry night: nothing more wonderful that going out into the garden after a warm day, when there's not a cloud in the sky, and seeing above you a canopy of stars. It's apt to stir mystical or philosophical (or romantic!) thoughts depending on character (or company).
Down in Devon this spring, my sister-in-law brought out her telescope. She said that it was an excellent evening to see the rings round Saturn and the mountains on the moon: sensational and spooky both. They too live in a village with an unpolluted night sky and the clarity of the images was extraordinary.
If only every night sky was as clear: it actually takes very little – and costs next to nothing - to cut light pollution in residential areas and so increase visibility. When some town dwellers move to the countryside they feel insecure without street lights, but country dwellers know that a torch is all that's necessary to find your way. And lights on gateways or porches have simply to be changed to lower wattage, put on a time switch and, most importantly, designed with a narrow beam angled downwards to minimise the affect of pollution.
The stars and the moon and the sky: we can make or mar magic.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: books on mythology abound and it’s a fascinating subject. Two of the books I used when researching myths for my novel were The Myths of Greece and Rome by H A Guerber - because it was published in 1907 and therefore reflected the presentation of them at that time - and African Mythology by Geoffrey Parrinder because it included myths that linked the coming of death with the waxing and waning of the moon (go to www.nmm.ac.uk for more South African myths)
In the same Paul Hamlyn series are books about Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Oceanic and American Indian mythology and I can bet there are myths about the moon and the stars in all of them.
Historically farmers have grown crops according to the phases of the moon. Wheat was sown during the waxing of the moon and small holders planted their peas: all above ground crops. When the moon was waning however, it was the time to sow root crops and trees.
Now, when tending their vines, winemakers of the New World are considering the lunar activity that ancient viniculture abided by: full circle. They are harvesting their grapes as close to the full moon as possible in order that the fruit is full of moisture and flavour.
And it's not such a daft idea: after all, it's the gravitational interaction between the Earth and the moon that causes the tides to change and similarly the moon affects moisture in the soil. Depending on whether the moon is waxing or waning, so light is increasing or decreasing, affecting plant growth.
In the 20th century interest was renewed when Rudolph Steiner encouraged such biodynamic agricultural techniques as planting according to the moon's phases: it seems that seeds germinate more quickly if planted at full moon. But you ask any countryman about when to grow fruit and veg and he'll spout planting and gathering times based on the lunar calendar that were part of folklore long before Steiner gave it any scientific credentials.
The Romans were heavily into the lunar calendar as we all know and belief in the mythical powers of the planets and stars is still with us in the 21st century: so strong is it that we even organize our lives by consulting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac on a daily basis. What star sign are you? is one of the most popular openers for women (in particular) on speed dates and many have been know to reject a partner on the strength of his perceived personality: in some cultures a potential bride or groom can be rejected after consulting the stars for fear of an inauspicious match.
For more down-to-earth types however, tonight, Sunday, after midnight, there will be a spectacular shower of shooting stars through the British skies: the Perseid meteor shower occurs every year around the time of the St Lawrence's feast day on 10th August (Romans again). The show has already begun but will peak tonight. A new moon – a darker sky – should help us see the spectacle more clearly: that and the absence of light pollution.
Killjoy, I hear you groan, why mention pollution. Why can't you just celebrate this wonderful astronomical phenomenon without recourse to green issues: quite simply, because light pollution of our night skies may stop us seeing this colourful cabaret.
Light pollution is the adverse affect of artificial light on the night sky: in many cities throughout the world only the brightest of the planets and the moon are now visible. In our village we boast of having a clear night sky: there are no street lights or large illuminated signs so astronomers travel miles to study the stars on the elevated Common. But in the distance there can be seen sky glow from the nearby town and it's creeping ever nearer.
So what? Well, light pollution affects us all, star gazer or not. Lighting burns money and it uses up our natural energy resources: it harms nocturnal wildlife and it destroys our night skies which is a crying shame. There is nothing like walking home from the pub on a chilly evening under a starry, starry night: nothing more wonderful that going out into the garden after a warm day, when there's not a cloud in the sky, and seeing above you a canopy of stars. It's apt to stir mystical or philosophical (or romantic!) thoughts depending on character (or company).
Down in Devon this spring, my sister-in-law brought out her telescope. She said that it was an excellent evening to see the rings round Saturn and the mountains on the moon: sensational and spooky both. They too live in a village with an unpolluted night sky and the clarity of the images was extraordinary.
If only every night sky was as clear: it actually takes very little – and costs next to nothing - to cut light pollution in residential areas and so increase visibility. When some town dwellers move to the countryside they feel insecure without street lights, but country dwellers know that a torch is all that's necessary to find your way. And lights on gateways or porches have simply to be changed to lower wattage, put on a time switch and, most importantly, designed with a narrow beam angled downwards to minimise the affect of pollution.
The stars and the moon and the sky: we can make or mar magic.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: books on mythology abound and it’s a fascinating subject. Two of the books I used when researching myths for my novel were The Myths of Greece and Rome by H A Guerber - because it was published in 1907 and therefore reflected the presentation of them at that time - and African Mythology by Geoffrey Parrinder because it included myths that linked the coming of death with the waxing and waning of the moon (go to www.nmm.ac.uk for more South African myths)
In the same Paul Hamlyn series are books about Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Oceanic and American Indian mythology and I can bet there are myths about the moon and the stars in all of them.
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Butterflies and Coppicing
Britain's biggest butterfly conservation project started a couple of weeks ago: it seems that many traditional species are in decline due to the lack of ancient woodland management.
In my village there is an ancient wood: now in your imagination this wood might be full of enormous gnarled old oak trees, but not so. It's full of spindly chestnut and hazel trees that have been coppiced for hundreds of years.
Many of our high forests are the result of woodland management - such as coppicing – no longer being carried out. The canopy of these trees eventually cast deep shade but ancient semi-natural woodland that's coppiced is made up of multi-stemmed trees that only cast a dappled shade in which many species thrive.
Ancient or semi-ancient woodland is defined by the number of 'indicator' species: generally this is the number native flowering plants - ferns, lichens and native conifers -that are present on a particular site. The greater the number of these species present the more likely it is that the wood is ancient but, obviously, these species differ depending on the area.
In Kent there are, amongst many, primroses, wood violets and sorrels growing in the woodlands; lichens, fungi and insects live on the dead wood and nightingales and dormice are resident. If the wood is too dark these species won't survive and eventually the woodland floor will become dense scrub: coppicing prevents this.
Coppicing – the word comes from the French word couper, to cut - is an ancient art that can be traced back to 4000 BC: it involves the cutting of trees and shrubs back to ground level on a regular basis to give a sustainable supply of timber.
When the trees are cut back they are known as stools: stooling results in vigorous re-growth that produces multi-stems known as poles. These poles are then harvested on a regular basis – anything between 6 and 25 years - depending on the species and the product required.
However, some wood is removed on an annual basis: if the trees have been planted close together they'll grow tall and straight and the wood used for bean poles (hazel) and the brush for 'dead' hedges. Coppiced ash was traditionally used for tool handles, oak and chestnut for fencing. And the wood not suitable for products would be used in winter as firewood or in summertime burnt in kilns in the wood for charcoal.
Charcoal burners are as old as the hills, without them there would have been no Iron Age: charcoal burns at a higher temperature than wood and so was used for smelting. But when we started using coal – and now gas, oil and electricity - for fuel as opposed to wood, coppicing declined as a form of woodland management.
Although the art is not totally forgotten: when we cut back our garden dogwoods (Cornus alba) and willows (Salix alba) to produce fresh new stems, or our Eucalyptus gunnii to produce vigorous juvenile growth, we are, in effect, coppicing. And we're coppicing when we cut back overgrown hornbeam or yew to produce fresh new growth.
As is so often the case in nature, one thing goes hand in hand with another. If woodland is coppiced it affords a wide range of habitats but if this lapses then the species it supports falls off. Coppiced woodland has sunny clearings in which flora and therefore butterflies thrive: without management the wood becomes the dark place of fairy tales and many species of butterfly decline.
Orange and woodland fritillaries are nearly extinct in the south east of England and if woodland isn't coppiced for over 5 years then the pearl-bordered fritillary will not survive. The South East Woodland Project is hoping that rare and endangered species of butterflies like these - along with moths and insects - will make a comeback if the woods are properly managed once more.
They are therefore encouraging landowners to coppice their woodland again: the charity is holding demonstrations throughout the SE of England for landowners but also for any Tom, Dick or Harriet who would like to learn the art of coppicing.
To get you started on saving butterflies, vote for your favourite one (either painted lady, peacock, red admiral, brimstone, comma or holly blue) by going onto the website www.butterfly-conservation.org.
And you can do your bit in your own back yard: go gentle on the weeding, leave the corners to take care of themselves. A tree, some native wild flowers and a clump of nettles and you've created a little butterfly heaven.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: when I'm out and about and want to identify wildlife, I prefer a pocket-sized book. Butterflies in Collins gem series is a perfect example: it is a very small paperback with one butterfly or moth to the page. A clear photograph and a short description means that you can look up a butterfly when on the hoof before it darts away (with luck). It covers the butterflies of Europe but for some strange reason it's for sale in Canada: is this because the same butterflies live there?
Most enthusiasts would probably like a more detailed tome for their bookshelves: mine is an illustrated book of insects. Looking for it just now a yellowed sheet of paper fell out - Butterfly Conservation campaign 1994 - bemoaning the loss of butterfly habitats. So, if this is a trend, I should be able to recycle this blog circa 2020.
In my village there is an ancient wood: now in your imagination this wood might be full of enormous gnarled old oak trees, but not so. It's full of spindly chestnut and hazel trees that have been coppiced for hundreds of years.
Many of our high forests are the result of woodland management - such as coppicing – no longer being carried out. The canopy of these trees eventually cast deep shade but ancient semi-natural woodland that's coppiced is made up of multi-stemmed trees that only cast a dappled shade in which many species thrive.
Ancient or semi-ancient woodland is defined by the number of 'indicator' species: generally this is the number native flowering plants - ferns, lichens and native conifers -that are present on a particular site. The greater the number of these species present the more likely it is that the wood is ancient but, obviously, these species differ depending on the area.
In Kent there are, amongst many, primroses, wood violets and sorrels growing in the woodlands; lichens, fungi and insects live on the dead wood and nightingales and dormice are resident. If the wood is too dark these species won't survive and eventually the woodland floor will become dense scrub: coppicing prevents this.
Coppicing – the word comes from the French word couper, to cut - is an ancient art that can be traced back to 4000 BC: it involves the cutting of trees and shrubs back to ground level on a regular basis to give a sustainable supply of timber.
When the trees are cut back they are known as stools: stooling results in vigorous re-growth that produces multi-stems known as poles. These poles are then harvested on a regular basis – anything between 6 and 25 years - depending on the species and the product required.
However, some wood is removed on an annual basis: if the trees have been planted close together they'll grow tall and straight and the wood used for bean poles (hazel) and the brush for 'dead' hedges. Coppiced ash was traditionally used for tool handles, oak and chestnut for fencing. And the wood not suitable for products would be used in winter as firewood or in summertime burnt in kilns in the wood for charcoal.
Charcoal burners are as old as the hills, without them there would have been no Iron Age: charcoal burns at a higher temperature than wood and so was used for smelting. But when we started using coal – and now gas, oil and electricity - for fuel as opposed to wood, coppicing declined as a form of woodland management.
Although the art is not totally forgotten: when we cut back our garden dogwoods (Cornus alba) and willows (Salix alba) to produce fresh new stems, or our Eucalyptus gunnii to produce vigorous juvenile growth, we are, in effect, coppicing. And we're coppicing when we cut back overgrown hornbeam or yew to produce fresh new growth.
As is so often the case in nature, one thing goes hand in hand with another. If woodland is coppiced it affords a wide range of habitats but if this lapses then the species it supports falls off. Coppiced woodland has sunny clearings in which flora and therefore butterflies thrive: without management the wood becomes the dark place of fairy tales and many species of butterfly decline.
Orange and woodland fritillaries are nearly extinct in the south east of England and if woodland isn't coppiced for over 5 years then the pearl-bordered fritillary will not survive. The South East Woodland Project is hoping that rare and endangered species of butterflies like these - along with moths and insects - will make a comeback if the woods are properly managed once more.
They are therefore encouraging landowners to coppice their woodland again: the charity is holding demonstrations throughout the SE of England for landowners but also for any Tom, Dick or Harriet who would like to learn the art of coppicing.
To get you started on saving butterflies, vote for your favourite one (either painted lady, peacock, red admiral, brimstone, comma or holly blue) by going onto the website www.butterfly-conservation.org.
And you can do your bit in your own back yard: go gentle on the weeding, leave the corners to take care of themselves. A tree, some native wild flowers and a clump of nettles and you've created a little butterfly heaven.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: when I'm out and about and want to identify wildlife, I prefer a pocket-sized book. Butterflies in Collins gem series is a perfect example: it is a very small paperback with one butterfly or moth to the page. A clear photograph and a short description means that you can look up a butterfly when on the hoof before it darts away (with luck). It covers the butterflies of Europe but for some strange reason it's for sale in Canada: is this because the same butterflies live there?
Most enthusiasts would probably like a more detailed tome for their bookshelves: mine is an illustrated book of insects. Looking for it just now a yellowed sheet of paper fell out - Butterfly Conservation campaign 1994 - bemoaning the loss of butterfly habitats. So, if this is a trend, I should be able to recycle this blog circa 2020.
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Flanders Fields: wheat and poppies
A field of ripening wheat is a beautiful sight: jade green stalks around the edges of the fields enclose the sea of wheat, a soft dun colour. When there is a slight breeze the ears sway in unison like dancers on a ballroom floor.
When it's not raining (which it's doing a lot lately) one of my favourite walks with Freddie is along a footpath that cuts right through the middle of a large wheat field. But first I have to negotiate the kissing gate without Freddie noticing either the hens or the giant pet rabbit asleep in the adjoining garden. That accomplished I can relax.
From the top of the field there's a 300 degree panoramic view: the land falls away to hedges and trees, a stream at one edge. I never fail to stop awhile and admire the wide open landscape, the large sky – a perfect scene - and marvel at how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful, peaceful place.
When the sun shines the wheat takes on a golden glow, the green of the hedges and trees in deeper contrast, the blue of the sky an excellent foil for the wheat: opposite sides of the colour spectrum. In years gone by, before fields were sprayed, the bright contrast of poppies was a lovely and common sight among the corn but now such annuals are an undesirable contaminate.
Freddie is less impressed with aesthetics. When he first enters the field his eyes scan the horizon: he's looking for prey. I pull him on and he adapts to nice smells mode. When I stop to admire the view he's happy to stay still for a minute and immediately adjusts to micro hunter: eyes to the ground, he's motionless, waiting for some movement among the stalks.
As we approach the farm we surprise the geese, lying in the shade of an elder. The downy yellow goslings of a few weeks ago have turned into handsome snowy white geese, small feathers on their necks still those of an adolescent.
They have not yet learned the art of the guard dog, either that or my dog and I have burglar's tread. Freddie shows no interest in the geese: it's possible that he's been on the receiving end of a goose's beak. It's a long time since we kept geese and I still miss the eggs but not the gander's battle cry.
Wild flowers, in muted shades, fill the verges of the road we follow: tall stems of meadowsweet wave fluffy heads of rich cream, pale pink bristles and spiky thistle leaves overshadow the small yellow flowers of rattle and buttercup in the grass.
But, ahead, one stab of searing colour. Where a car went over the hedge just opposite my house a stray poppy – bright scarlet – has appeared: some escapee seed from a neighbour's wildflower bank. The spinning car wheels did the job of the plough.
Poppy seed can lie dormant for years and years just waiting for a lucky break. I have gravel paths in the garden and this constantly disturbed surface is the perfect medium for poppies. I leave them wherever they appear, never knowing where they will come up next year. There are soft red poppies and mauve ones and various ones in shades of pink from cross fertilization. Some are frilly doubles, others simple singles.
I dry the heads of the poppies I like and plan to scatter the seeds immediately. Unfortunately, I often forget and find them the next year. Nevertheless I throw them onto roughed up bits of ground, if they come up it's a bonus, if they don't it didn't cost anything.
They look particularly good growing next to tall grasses – it's that old combination poppies and wheat. When the wheat field is ploughed it brings the poppy seed to the surface and allows it to germinate: tanks did the same on the Fields of Flanders.
July 31st is the anniversary of the main battle of Passendale (3rd battle of Ypres, 1917). Shelling, tanks and unseasonal heavy rain – very similar to the rain here this year - made the battle ground into a mud bath which was horrific and caused the death of many.
One of Siegfried Sassoon's poems sums it up, "I died in Hell – They called it Passchendaele". Not peaceful fields of wheat but Flanders fields of poppies must be on the minds of many: such a moving sight. Life and death: wheat and poppies.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: the poetry of those who died in the First World War, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, and those that survived it, Robert Graves, A.E.Houseman, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon, quite changed the language of poetry: romanticism was replaced with reality.
The darkness crumbles away -
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps in my hand -
A queer sardonic rat -
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
'Break of Day in the Trenches' Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The American civil war and then the Boer war had exposed the reality of modern warfare but it wasn't until the Great War that the true horror of it was so movingly expressed in poetry. And the poems of these soldier-boy poets, which convey the horror of war so graphically, still have resonance today.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) is one of the best known of the British war poets. His six volume autobiography is a semi-fictional account of his life, the first three volumes entitled The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. There are at least five biographies of Sassoon and, for those good at 'googling', there is a wealth of information out there about him.
When it's not raining (which it's doing a lot lately) one of my favourite walks with Freddie is along a footpath that cuts right through the middle of a large wheat field. But first I have to negotiate the kissing gate without Freddie noticing either the hens or the giant pet rabbit asleep in the adjoining garden. That accomplished I can relax.
From the top of the field there's a 300 degree panoramic view: the land falls away to hedges and trees, a stream at one edge. I never fail to stop awhile and admire the wide open landscape, the large sky – a perfect scene - and marvel at how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful, peaceful place. When the sun shines the wheat takes on a golden glow, the green of the hedges and trees in deeper contrast, the blue of the sky an excellent foil for the wheat: opposite sides of the colour spectrum. In years gone by, before fields were sprayed, the bright contrast of poppies was a lovely and common sight among the corn but now such annuals are an undesirable contaminate.
Freddie is less impressed with aesthetics. When he first enters the field his eyes scan the horizon: he's looking for prey. I pull him on and he adapts to nice smells mode. When I stop to admire the view he's happy to stay still for a minute and immediately adjusts to micro hunter: eyes to the ground, he's motionless, waiting for some movement among the stalks.
As we approach the farm we surprise the geese, lying in the shade of an elder. The downy yellow goslings of a few weeks ago have turned into handsome snowy white geese, small feathers on their necks still those of an adolescent.
They have not yet learned the art of the guard dog, either that or my dog and I have burglar's tread. Freddie shows no interest in the geese: it's possible that he's been on the receiving end of a goose's beak. It's a long time since we kept geese and I still miss the eggs but not the gander's battle cry.
Wild flowers, in muted shades, fill the verges of the road we follow: tall stems of meadowsweet wave fluffy heads of rich cream, pale pink bristles and spiky thistle leaves overshadow the small yellow flowers of rattle and buttercup in the grass.
But, ahead, one stab of searing colour. Where a car went over the hedge just opposite my house a stray poppy – bright scarlet – has appeared: some escapee seed from a neighbour's wildflower bank. The spinning car wheels did the job of the plough. Poppy seed can lie dormant for years and years just waiting for a lucky break. I have gravel paths in the garden and this constantly disturbed surface is the perfect medium for poppies. I leave them wherever they appear, never knowing where they will come up next year. There are soft red poppies and mauve ones and various ones in shades of pink from cross fertilization. Some are frilly doubles, others simple singles.
I dry the heads of the poppies I like and plan to scatter the seeds immediately. Unfortunately, I often forget and find them the next year. Nevertheless I throw them onto roughed up bits of ground, if they come up it's a bonus, if they don't it didn't cost anything.
They look particularly good growing next to tall grasses – it's that old combination poppies and wheat. When the wheat field is ploughed it brings the poppy seed to the surface and allows it to germinate: tanks did the same on the Fields of Flanders.
July 31st is the anniversary of the main battle of Passendale (3rd battle of Ypres, 1917). Shelling, tanks and unseasonal heavy rain – very similar to the rain here this year - made the battle ground into a mud bath which was horrific and caused the death of many.
One of Siegfried Sassoon's poems sums it up, "I died in Hell – They called it Passchendaele". Not peaceful fields of wheat but Flanders fields of poppies must be on the minds of many: such a moving sight. Life and death: wheat and poppies.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Book Note: the poetry of those who died in the First World War, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, and those that survived it, Robert Graves, A.E.Houseman, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon, quite changed the language of poetry: romanticism was replaced with reality.
The darkness crumbles away -
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps in my hand -
A queer sardonic rat -
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
'Break of Day in the Trenches' Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
The American civil war and then the Boer war had exposed the reality of modern warfare but it wasn't until the Great War that the true horror of it was so movingly expressed in poetry. And the poems of these soldier-boy poets, which convey the horror of war so graphically, still have resonance today.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) is one of the best known of the British war poets. His six volume autobiography is a semi-fictional account of his life, the first three volumes entitled The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. There are at least five biographies of Sassoon and, for those good at 'googling', there is a wealth of information out there about him.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Findings by Kathleen Jamie
In a further quest for something other than a novel, our Scots groupie suggested a 'sort of book' for our July book group choice: Findings, by the award-winning Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie.
Jamie obviously loves the Scottish landscape and wildlife and this book is a series of 'essays' that investigate different themes. Whether they were essays or not was a subject for discussion: all agreed they probably were although not of the 'school essay' type. So, fond of getting it right in my head, I looked up the word in the trusty OED
essay: noun 1. a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2. formal an attempt or effort
essayist noun 1. a person who writes essays, especially as a literary genre
On a simplistic level I thought the essays were about the landscape and nature but Jamie says Findings 'is a book about being human, conscious, implicated.' She doesn't recognise the idea of 'the outdoors' or of 'nature' because she contends that we are nature, and are not – or should not be - divorced from it.
Well, of course she's right but most readers will probably enjoy her being at one. This comes across in her writing when she feels it imperative to be part of her surroundings, to interact, to get closer, whether moving along on her bike or sitting still up close on a bank.
But whether Jamie is cycling along a lane, on an island, in a boat or by a river bank she is listening as much as watching. We hear the mewing of a buzzard, waves sucking on rocks, the wind sloughing and so the reader is given a very complete picture.
She is a curious, keen and close observer and one who loves to use her binoculars to magnify, her telescope as an eye that can sweep in close. Like a camera. And I found her 'seeing' quite detached: unemotional. Like a scientist. Perhaps that's why she can put her observations into words so clearly.
Although, now and then, we are allowed odd glimpses of Jamie's personal life and views – her husband ill, her daughter's accident, her ageing grandmother: her politics, relationship with her mother.
Jamie doesn't do God, but she has a beneficent view of the natural world and a very philosophical one at that. When her husband was seriously ill she didn't pray to God to save him but concentrated instead on the minutiae of life - cobwebs and the play of sunlight – and wondered if 'noticing', paying heed to small things, was a kind of prayer.
It takes a bit of getting used to, this Kathleen Jamie view of life: she waited for hours to see a corncrake and when she finally did, one expected her to be delighted but she merely remarks 'That's that. I do not punch the air'. However, when an unexceptional man visiting the corncrake field described the small, modest birds as 'little gods of the field' she says she felt like punching the air, obviously delighted with his appreciation of the small things upon which all of nature is reliant.
Reading the book one can understand why Jamie's a lecturer in creative writing: her descriptions of the natural world are sharp and fresh, her similes humorous and original. Corncrakes don't like bad weather and are described as 'the kind of bird who'd want to be excused games'. Brilliant.
Her ability to pare down her writing – which must be part of a poet's art – is impressive in prose and the way in which she leaves her readers to draw their own conclusions shows amazing restraint.
One of my favourite chapters was Darkness and Light, describing her visit to the Neolithic tomb of Maes Howe, Orkney. Quite apart from the wonderful descriptions of the natural landscape – sky, birds, light, wind – she also explains how five thousand years ago the Stone Age builders were so skilled they lined-up a narrow passage so that on a few mid-winter days, at solstice, a beam of sunlight fell directly along that passage and illuminated the tomb. In those days darkness – black - was not associated with death as it is now. She wishes it was still so.
In The Braan Salmon the descriptions of the salmon leaping and the water they are leaping about in is superb. The river Braan is not a natural salmon river: tourists watch the salmon and admire their brio as they try to get back upriver to spawn. Is it survival of the fittest, is a conundrum Jamie raises. Few know that, try as they might, the salmon will never achieve it. It is impossible for them to clear the falls. The fittest fish die in the attempt and those that survive are those that give up and spawn where they can.
Jamie also likes to introduce us to a wider vocabularly: there are the Scottish words, of course, which pepper the text but never exclude the reader but there were also a few words that were new to me. Which perhaps indicates her love of finding out, pushing boundaries: knowing.
Findings was thoroughly enjoyed by the whole book group: 'beautifully presented book', 'an easy read', 'a gem', 'worth re-reading', were some general remarks. More specifically it was described as: informative, clever, with a wonderful sense of place. And every one understood when one groupie remarked that she had been 'transported by the descriptions'.
So, "Beam me up, Scottie", this sort of book is a real find.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Jamie obviously loves the Scottish landscape and wildlife and this book is a series of 'essays' that investigate different themes. Whether they were essays or not was a subject for discussion: all agreed they probably were although not of the 'school essay' type. So, fond of getting it right in my head, I looked up the word in the trusty OED
essay: noun 1. a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2. formal an attempt or effort
essayist noun 1. a person who writes essays, especially as a literary genre
On a simplistic level I thought the essays were about the landscape and nature but Jamie says Findings 'is a book about being human, conscious, implicated.' She doesn't recognise the idea of 'the outdoors' or of 'nature' because she contends that we are nature, and are not – or should not be - divorced from it.
Well, of course she's right but most readers will probably enjoy her being at one. This comes across in her writing when she feels it imperative to be part of her surroundings, to interact, to get closer, whether moving along on her bike or sitting still up close on a bank.
But whether Jamie is cycling along a lane, on an island, in a boat or by a river bank she is listening as much as watching. We hear the mewing of a buzzard, waves sucking on rocks, the wind sloughing and so the reader is given a very complete picture.
She is a curious, keen and close observer and one who loves to use her binoculars to magnify, her telescope as an eye that can sweep in close. Like a camera. And I found her 'seeing' quite detached: unemotional. Like a scientist. Perhaps that's why she can put her observations into words so clearly.
Although, now and then, we are allowed odd glimpses of Jamie's personal life and views – her husband ill, her daughter's accident, her ageing grandmother: her politics, relationship with her mother.
Jamie doesn't do God, but she has a beneficent view of the natural world and a very philosophical one at that. When her husband was seriously ill she didn't pray to God to save him but concentrated instead on the minutiae of life - cobwebs and the play of sunlight – and wondered if 'noticing', paying heed to small things, was a kind of prayer.
It takes a bit of getting used to, this Kathleen Jamie view of life: she waited for hours to see a corncrake and when she finally did, one expected her to be delighted but she merely remarks 'That's that. I do not punch the air'. However, when an unexceptional man visiting the corncrake field described the small, modest birds as 'little gods of the field' she says she felt like punching the air, obviously delighted with his appreciation of the small things upon which all of nature is reliant.
Reading the book one can understand why Jamie's a lecturer in creative writing: her descriptions of the natural world are sharp and fresh, her similes humorous and original. Corncrakes don't like bad weather and are described as 'the kind of bird who'd want to be excused games'. Brilliant.
Her ability to pare down her writing – which must be part of a poet's art – is impressive in prose and the way in which she leaves her readers to draw their own conclusions shows amazing restraint.
One of my favourite chapters was Darkness and Light, describing her visit to the Neolithic tomb of Maes Howe, Orkney. Quite apart from the wonderful descriptions of the natural landscape – sky, birds, light, wind – she also explains how five thousand years ago the Stone Age builders were so skilled they lined-up a narrow passage so that on a few mid-winter days, at solstice, a beam of sunlight fell directly along that passage and illuminated the tomb. In those days darkness – black - was not associated with death as it is now. She wishes it was still so.
In The Braan Salmon the descriptions of the salmon leaping and the water they are leaping about in is superb. The river Braan is not a natural salmon river: tourists watch the salmon and admire their brio as they try to get back upriver to spawn. Is it survival of the fittest, is a conundrum Jamie raises. Few know that, try as they might, the salmon will never achieve it. It is impossible for them to clear the falls. The fittest fish die in the attempt and those that survive are those that give up and spawn where they can.
Jamie also likes to introduce us to a wider vocabularly: there are the Scottish words, of course, which pepper the text but never exclude the reader but there were also a few words that were new to me. Which perhaps indicates her love of finding out, pushing boundaries: knowing.
Findings was thoroughly enjoyed by the whole book group: 'beautifully presented book', 'an easy read', 'a gem', 'worth re-reading', were some general remarks. More specifically it was described as: informative, clever, with a wonderful sense of place. And every one understood when one groupie remarked that she had been 'transported by the descriptions'.
So, "Beam me up, Scottie", this sort of book is a real find.
Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
Sunday, 15 July 2007
Kirstenbosch - Botanical Excellence
When the weather is wet and gloomy here and I can't out into the garden my thoughts immediately turn to South Africa, sunshine and the glorious landscape. One place I always visit there is Kirstenbosch, the country's premier botanical garden.
When Cecil Rhodes died in 1902 he left his farm - part of his Groot Schuur estate - to the nation. In 1913 the site became the first South African botanical garden devoted to indigenous plants: set on the eastern slopes of Table Mountain, the garden is in an incomparable position and is open an impressive 375 days a year.
Locals tend to use the garden as a park either for hiking up the eastern face of the mountain or for outdoor summer concerts and picnics. But all visitors enjoy the art exhibited by local artists and the sculptures in the garden and I believe bird-watching is quite a popular pastime.
Because of the wealth of the vegetation birds are everywhere in the gardens: guinea fowl and geese are always there and I've seen sugarbirds and sunbirds, bulbuls and even kestrels and kites. To find out from a real bird expert that's been to Kirstenbosch visit www.charliesbirdblog.com
But it's the planting that is the real star: there are 89 acres under cultivation and plants are grouped together according to type, all of them indigenous. This is not the norm for many botanical gardens, some of which choose to grow unusual plants from different countries and continents. So the ethos of Kirstenbosch - indigenous sustainable planting - was far ahead of its time.
Water from natural mountain springs feed the garden, several of which meet in the first area to be cleared: a small pond was built there and the surroundings were planted with, among other things, tree ferns and a collection of yellowwood trees.
One of the Western Cape's most famous group of plants are the native fine bush - fynbos - which are hard, small leaved shrubs that can withstand wind and even fire and these feature widely in the gardens.
Other species are grown according to habitat: by the main pond cycads grow, a fossil of the plant world; succulents that prosper in the Karoo are in the rockery. The medicinal garden has herbs and healing plants used throughout the Cape; a braille trail is planted with fragrant plants and the upper slopes show off the country's national flowers, proteas.
If you visit the website http://www.sanbi.org you can find out about all the species grown there and see the wonderful scenery for yourself. Although the website pictures beautiful scenes it is a fact that many indigenous plants are not showy - except the short lived carpets of one species - so don't expect to see the colourful, overflowing perennial and annual borders of western Europe at Kirstenbosch.
But what you will see are the individual species that make up a large proportion of our herbaceous beds: these are such a large part of our gardening heritage now that we quite overlook that so many come from South Africa.
Gladioli, asters, ericas and many members of the lily family hail from South Africa: red-hot poker, agapanthus, freesias, anemone blanda, pelargoniums, amaryllis and many, many more are all plants we associate with European or American gardens yet this flora is indigenous to the Cape.
In the West we are being introduced to those plants that have for centuries been valued and used by South Africans as herbal remedies and infusions. The most famous is probably a native fynbos, rooibos: redbush tea is caffeine free and has various medicianl benefits. Another is hoodia, a native plant that is now grown commercially as a drug.
So perhaps this is an example where we can learn from South Africa. From its inception Kirstenbosch has championed sustainable planting, been involved in research that develops beneficial products and many children regularly benefit from the educational programmes there: botanical excellence.
Lucy
http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
PS To see a photo of Rhodes farm circa 1900 visit www.alittlebluejacket.com, on The Story page scroll down to Excerpts and find it there.
Book Note: a small niche-market publishing company in Cape Town - Fernwood Press - produces some beautiful reference books on southern Africa's culture and natural history. There are wonderfully illustrated books about landscape and ecology (including, surprise, one entitled Kirstenbosch), the animal world, African art and artists and various memoirs.
Mailships of the Union-Castle Line is one of their publications that I should like to read because my family sailed regularly between Durban and Cape Town -and sometimes to England - on Union-Castle ships.
Visit http://www.fernwoodpress.co.za to find out about their other publications.
When Cecil Rhodes died in 1902 he left his farm - part of his Groot Schuur estate - to the nation. In 1913 the site became the first South African botanical garden devoted to indigenous plants: set on the eastern slopes of Table Mountain, the garden is in an incomparable position and is open an impressive 375 days a year.
Locals tend to use the garden as a park either for hiking up the eastern face of the mountain or for outdoor summer concerts and picnics. But all visitors enjoy the art exhibited by local artists and the sculptures in the garden and I believe bird-watching is quite a popular pastime.
Because of the wealth of the vegetation birds are everywhere in the gardens: guinea fowl and geese are always there and I've seen sugarbirds and sunbirds, bulbuls and even kestrels and kites. To find out from a real bird expert that's been to Kirstenbosch visit www.charliesbirdblog.com
But it's the planting that is the real star: there are 89 acres under cultivation and plants are grouped together according to type, all of them indigenous. This is not the norm for many botanical gardens, some of which choose to grow unusual plants from different countries and continents. So the ethos of Kirstenbosch - indigenous sustainable planting - was far ahead of its time.
Water from natural mountain springs feed the garden, several of which meet in the first area to be cleared: a small pond was built there and the surroundings were planted with, among other things, tree ferns and a collection of yellowwood trees.
One of the Western Cape's most famous group of plants are the native fine bush - fynbos - which are hard, small leaved shrubs that can withstand wind and even fire and these feature widely in the gardens.
Other species are grown according to habitat: by the main pond cycads grow, a fossil of the plant world; succulents that prosper in the Karoo are in the rockery. The medicinal garden has herbs and healing plants used throughout the Cape; a braille trail is planted with fragrant plants and the upper slopes show off the country's national flowers, proteas.
If you visit the website http://www.sanbi.org you can find out about all the species grown there and see the wonderful scenery for yourself. Although the website pictures beautiful scenes it is a fact that many indigenous plants are not showy - except the short lived carpets of one species - so don't expect to see the colourful, overflowing perennial and annual borders of western Europe at Kirstenbosch.
But what you will see are the individual species that make up a large proportion of our herbaceous beds: these are such a large part of our gardening heritage now that we quite overlook that so many come from South Africa.
Gladioli, asters, ericas and many members of the lily family hail from South Africa: red-hot poker, agapanthus, freesias, anemone blanda, pelargoniums, amaryllis and many, many more are all plants we associate with European or American gardens yet this flora is indigenous to the Cape.In the West we are being introduced to those plants that have for centuries been valued and used by South Africans as herbal remedies and infusions. The most famous is probably a native fynbos, rooibos: redbush tea is caffeine free and has various medicianl benefits. Another is hoodia, a native plant that is now grown commercially as a drug.
So perhaps this is an example where we can learn from South Africa. From its inception Kirstenbosch has championed sustainable planting, been involved in research that develops beneficial products and many children regularly benefit from the educational programmes there: botanical excellence.
Lucy
http://lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
PS To see a photo of Rhodes farm circa 1900 visit www.alittlebluejacket.com, on The Story page scroll down to Excerpts and find it there.
Book Note: a small niche-market publishing company in Cape Town - Fernwood Press - produces some beautiful reference books on southern Africa's culture and natural history. There are wonderfully illustrated books about landscape and ecology (including, surprise, one entitled Kirstenbosch), the animal world, African art and artists and various memoirs.
Mailships of the Union-Castle Line is one of their publications that I should like to read because my family sailed regularly between Durban and Cape Town -and sometimes to England - on Union-Castle ships.
Visit http://www.fernwoodpress.co.za to find out about their other publications.
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