Wild Hares and Hummingbirds (3 page)

As well as what it tells us about the human history of the parish, the churchyard also has a crucial role to play in its natural history. In the British countryside, where almost every scrap of land has been ploughed, planted with crops, or sprayed with pesticides, churchyards are among the few places that remain largely untouched by progress.

In a world of rapid and unpredictable change, the
churchyard
has become a precious haven for plants and animals. The notion of ‘sanctuary’ may have lost much of its original meaning, but for the wildlife of a country parish like this, churchyards do offer a refuge hard to find elsewhere.

In the middle of January, though, the casual observer may be forgiven for wondering where all this natural life has gone. But frost is not the only thing covering the graves. For here, surrounded by eternal reminders of death, is a particularly tenacious form of life: lichens. In this churchyard, as in churchyards all over Britain, they are everywhere: on the surface of the gravestones, covering the trunks and branches of the trees, and smothering the walls of the building itself, especially on the damp, shady side.

Although we often think of lichens as lower forms of plant life, they are the outward form of a complex symbiotic relationship between a fungus and an alga. They may have humble origins, but are nevertheless extraordinarily successful. Paradoxically, it is their very ubiquity which renders lichens invisible to the casual viewer. They are an integral part of the living landscape, almost seeming to infect the brick, wood and stone surfaces they grow on. But when I pull off my glove and run my hand across the cold surface of an ancient gravestone, the lichens flake off, leaving a greenish-grey stain on my palm.

Like these gravestones, and the church itself, lichens go way back in time. Some of those here today may have already been in existence when the newly crowned King James II defeated his rival the Duke of Monmouth,
down
the road at Sedgemoor, in 1685. Others could be even older: for one lichen-covered stone, now weathered beyond readability, predates the current sixteenth-century building. The surface of this huge, flat slab is home to dozens of different lichen colonies of varying hues, from mustard-yellow, through moss-green, to a clean, icy grey. Together they create that pleasingly soft-edged effect familiar to all country churchyards.

What a contrast with the polished, black marble headstones in the new cemetery just along the road, where the village’s more recently departed souls lie in rest.

A
NOTHER ANCIENT FEATURE
of the parish churchyard is equally easy to overlook. As I walk around the gravestones, I pass beneath compact, bushy trees with dense, bottle-green foliage. Come the autumn, these will be dotted with bright, plastic-looking, orange-red berries, much beloved of the local thrushes and blackbirds.

These are yews; along with juniper and Scots pine, one of only three conifer species native to Britain. Yews are also our most ancient living thing, with some specimens, such as the Fortingall Yew in a Perthshire churchyard, well over two thousand years old. And of all Britain’s native trees, the yew is the one most closely associated with churchyards.

The reasons for this connection are buried deep in
our
distant past. The yew’s legendary longevity meant that it was often planted by our pre-Christian ancestors, as a symbol of long life. Many parish churches – probably including this one – were built on existing pagan sites. We know from the eighteenth-century historian John Collinson that ‘a fine old yew tree in a decaying state’ was still growing here in 1791, and would have dated back much earlier.

There is another reason why yews are often found in churchyards. Their leaves, bark and seeds are poisonous to livestock (and indeed to humans), so they may have been deliberately planted to discourage farmers from letting their animals graze in the church grounds. The yew also owes its survival to the flexible qualities of its wood, which made it especially suitable for making the weapon of choice in early medieval England: the longbow.

A
S
I
WALK
past the churchyard, I hear a distinctive sound coming from the dense, dark foliage of the yew trees. A high-pitched, rhythmic snatch of birdsong, almost childlike in its tone and pattern – ‘diddly-diddly-diddly-diddly-deeee’. This is the sound of the smallest bird in the parish, and indeed the smallest in Britain: the goldcrest. Tiny, plump, and decked in pastel shades of green, the goldcrest can sometimes be glimpsed as it flits around the outer foliage of the yews, before plunging back into the dark interior.

This creature is a true featherweight, tipping the scales
at
just one-fifth of on ounce: about the same as a twenty-pence coin, or a single sheet of A4 paper. Small size is bad news if you want to survive during long spells of cold weather. The smaller you are, the higher your ratio of surface area to volume; which means that a bird the size of a goldcrest loses heat very rapidly indeed. So like other small birds, it must feed constantly through the short winter days, to get enough energy to keep it alive through the long, cold nights.

Most insect-eating birds don’t even try to survive the British winter; instead they head south to warmer climes, where food is easier to find. But the goldcrest has a secret weapon: its association with evergreens such as the yew. Because these trees don’t shed their leaves in winter, their dense foliage is home to thousands of tiny insects. The goldcrest is the only bird small enough to survive on these minuscule creatures, and will spend the coldest months of the year inside our churchyard yews; feeding by day, and huddled up for warmth by night.

On bright, sunny days, even in the middle of winter, I occasionally see the male goldcrest puffing up his chest, momentarily flashing his golden crown like a shaft of sunlight piercing through a winter sky, and issuing a burst of song. It is a curiously optimistic sound for this time of year, and a reminder that however cold the weather may still be, spring will eventually arrive.

B
UT NOT QUITE
yet. Overnight, an unexpected, silent visitor has come to the village. Powering southwards down the length of England, across the Cotswold and Mendip Hills, it reached here in the early hours. As dawn breaks, we open our curtains to a landscape transformed into a sea of white. Our village, the county and the whole country have come to a standstill, in the worst winter weather for thirty years.

The village children can hardly believe their luck. A cheery local radio announcer confirms what they all hope to hear: school has been cancelled. And every child, in every home, has undergone a miraculous transformation. Clothes have been pulled on, breakfasts eaten up, and coats, boots and gloves donned with joyful enthusiasm. They can hardly wait to get out of the door – not for their lessons, but to play with an unfamiliar and exciting substance: snow.

With the snow still falling, all is silent. Apart from the occasional sparrow’s chirp from the hedgerow along the lane, I hear nothing. The birds are far too busy to think of anything other than finding something to eat. If they fail to do so, they will die – and soon. Cold weather on its own will not kill birds, but snow does: for it covers up their food supplies. So the arrival of this white blanket from the north is very bad news indeed.

Which is why, since first light, the bird-feeders outside my kitchen window have been chock-f of birds. As well as the usual great tits and goldfinches there are greenfinches,
chaffinches
– even a pied wagtail, grimly clinging on to the feeder as he pecks at the life-giving seeds within.

The snow acts like a photographer’s reflector, making the birds glow with unexpected clarity. Familiar species appear, quite literally, in a new light: the olive-green of the greenfinch, orange-red of the robin, and brick-coloured breast of the chaffinch all enhanced by this natural uplighter.

Livestock means warmth, and in Mill Batch farmyard a morose-looking herd of dairy cows has attracted a flock of starlings. Some birds are perched on the telegraph wires above, but most are sitting on the backs of the cattle, enjoying the benefit of warmth from the weighty bodies of these huge beasts, as they munch on a fresh supply of hay. For one brief moment the starlings remind me of oxpeckers perched on big game, in the heat-haze of the African savannah.

Out in the fields, where the wind blows the falling snow almost horizontally across the flat land, nothing stirs. All wild creatures have sought shelter. Even the sheep have forsaken their usual feeding places, and are huddled together in a corner of the apple orchard; where the dirty yellow of their wool presents a stark contrast with the all-new whiteness of their surroundings.

F
OR THE BUZZARD
perched on top of an ash tree by Perry Farm, peering down upon a landscape of white and
grey
, life goes on, though rather more slowly than usual. Buzzards, like all large birds of prey, take a lot of effort to get airborne; so during the winter they conserve their energy by staying put for most of the day.

As I approach, his piercing yellow eyes stare intently at this intruder into his space. He lifts his tail, and empties his bowels in preparation for flight. A moment later, he spreads his broad wings and launches himself into the air, every flap a major effort. He is joined by his mate, and they gradually gain height in the chilly air, attracting the attention of a lone crow feeding in the nearby field. The crow may be about half the weight of a buzzard, but he is still prepared to have a go at his larger rivals. As often happens, the smaller bird wins the skirmish, and the buzzards head off.

I move on too, down the icy lane, enjoying the clear blue sky and windless conditions. A farmer has put out a bale of straw for his sheep, and they line up patiently to feed, shuffling slowly forward like pensioners waiting to board a bus. Turning westwards, I head along the broad, straight track between Binham Moor and Kingsway. Like many of the paths criss-crossing this and other local parishes, this is a ‘drove’ – a vital means of moving livestock from one place to another, across this watery landscape.