Spring

by Melissa Harrison

  Yet while it lasts, and however the weather may turn and change, from snow to sunlight or frost to rain, it seems to me to hold as much of the heart of spring as the almond and the daffodil. The south-west rain may smash and tear the crocuses like so many inside-out umbrellas to a ruin of gold and purple and white, but the rain profits the dark copses of birch and hazel and sweet chestnut so that they take on fresh beauty and life. The trees are liquid with colour. They stand drenched in wine-red or mauve or olive rain, the buds colouring the drops and the rain in turn richening the colour of the buds, so that the whole woodside gleams with the liquid passionate glow of multitudinous rain-drenched branches. And if the sun breaks out the rain against the buds is like still silver, or like blown beads of silver if the wind springs up. Whatever happens the buds, washed and slightly more rounded and swollen by the fresh rain, become glorified. Unlike the crocus or the daffodils or even the almonds, neither rain nor wind nor frost desolates them. They are fragile but strong. The buds of beech are like slender varnished chrysalises lying in light but secure sleep along the grey twigs. The buds of oak are like fat hard knobs of leather. The first buds of elm are little fluffy French knots of dark pink wool securely sewn on the jagged branches. The grey-black buds of the ash are like arrow heads of iron. They all have the common virtues of strength and delicacy. They all share a kind of delicate and subdued beauty. Individually they are no more than charming miniature shapes in dim pink or olive or mauve or grey or sepia. But collectively, in still or sunlit or wind-tossed multitudes, they transform the tree itself into a single colossal swaying and shining bud, an immense burning emblem of spring half-wakened.

  And if this is very true of the larger trees and of the trees that grow naturally in great groups of one or many kinds, oaks and elms and beeches and sweet chestnut and birches, it is perhaps even truer of the lesser and rarer trees, sycamores and willows and alders and wild-cherries and beams and maples, whose buds have also the virtue of a greater individual loveliness. The buds of the sycamore are full silk shapes of creamy pink when young; there is something sweet and milky and virginal about them. And the maple buds, though so very like them, are smaller and less pink and silky. The wild cherry buds are gathered in little knots like brown beans at the tip of the smooth satin stems and on the hedges the buds of hawthorn and blackthorn, earliest to break, are like little beads of wine and cream. And in gardens and orchards the buds of peach and apple and pear are like taut nipples of pink-dove colour and white, full of the milk of the coming flower.

  And loveliest of all, the young alder. Cut down, the alder shoots up again, like the sallow and the ash and the sweet-chesnut, with new long wands of sombre purple. The wood is too young to flower, but the leafbuds themselves have the shapely loveliness and enchantment of flowers just breaking, unfurling out of the bare stem like petals of smoky mauve, a strange rare colour, un-brilliant but rich, quiet but burning, that resembles the colour of sun-faded violets. There is a kind of bloom over the buds of the young alder, a soft cloudiness, which no other tree-buds ever seem to possess, but which is something peculiar to flowers of mauve and purple and lilac. There is the same mistiness of lovely bloom on the petals of summer irises, on the silky silver cups of pasque flowers, on clematis and campanulas and mauve geraniums and the dark unopened buds of lilac itself. It is the bloom of the plum and the grape and the wild sloe. There is something autumnal about it. So that the buds of the alder, so dark and soft and rich, seem to belong to another world, to be almost out of place among the pale colours and half-colours and gentle light and nakedness of first spring. They burn with the smoky darkness of some autumn fire.

  And at the beginning of March, at the height of their beauty, it is suddenly as though their lilac smoke is spirited through all the wood and copses. The million buds of birch and hazel and chestnut and oak are suddenly on fire. The smoke is dark and still under cloud and rain, and then tawny in the sunlight and then still tawnier and richer and warmer as the days go past, until finally the sunlight starts it into an immense gold and emerald flame that spreads and intensifies until every bud on every tree is a green candle against the April sky.

  And as the flame burns more fiercely and wonderfully the buds are consumed. The polished brown husks of the beeches fall down like ashes on the copper lawn of dead husks and leaves. The elm drops warm soft showers of fluffy fire. Ash and oak break into a flowering of mahogany and yellow, the wild cherry stands transfigured in white. The willows are turned to balloons of emerald, the horse-chestnut is glorious with pale brown flower-buds like those of Victorian wool, and Zaccheus could hide again in the sycamore. And the alder, once so splendid with purple fire, stands utterly insignificant, the purple gone, the tawny catkins withered, a little dark widow of a tree along the watersides, and buds everywhere are gone and forgotten as though they had never been.

  H. E. Bates, Through the Woods: The English Woodland – April to April, 1936

  That’s an interesting sight. A crow-like bird with a long tail carried a big twig in its beak. Its head and back, coloured black; belly white and the wings a deep blue. I didn’t know its name, so I asked the woman nearby; she said it was a magpie. I felt a little stupid for asking, because I had seen the bird enough times. The bird jumped onto the platform, then down to the tracks. Why didn’t it just fly? Then I realised that the twig was too heavy.

  The bird carried the twig across the tracks with its chest out. It hurried as a train approached and jumped onto the other platform as it rushed past. A cool blast of wind followed behind the train but it wasn’t as cold as the previous week. There had been a change; I felt it on my face, a little warmer and not so harsh.

  The bird continued with its struggle, paused near the bottom of a wooden fence, then, with an effort, flew to the top. It perched, looking around, before flying high into the tree where it was making its nest.

  Sunshine fell over the station. Mist evaporated off the fence, and everywhere little green shoots were visible on the trees. Frost no longer covered the hills in the distance and today I didn’t blow into my hands every few minutes. The long British winter had ended. Even on this cold station not far from the city centre, I felt the change. How much nicer it must feel in the countryside. But that was the problem: I never went.

  I was always struggling under the weight of work, and never seemed to have the time. The changes in the countryside must be more pronounced. Seasons change, trees and flowers bloom, but for a city dweller these beautiful moments can be lost.

  Not today; the magpie had shown on this beautiful spring morning that problems could be overcome by attempting them in small stages and with determination. I smiled at this simple truth.

  High in the tree, the bird had already made half of its nest. In a few weeks it would be complete, hidden by the leaves. The bird would probably then find a mate. What did I know about magpies and nature anyway? How did magpies actually find a mate?

  I had been to parks before but that was the extent of my wildlife exploration. And that was pretty dismal; I had never seen a nature reserve, gone camping in the hills, or hiked for a day or two. It all seemed like too much effort. Maybe it was time I made some effort.

  This year I would try to see natural beauty and feel the peace of the hills. That’s where many white folks spent their weekends, wearing boots and carrying rucksacks, looking weather-worn and fit, and heading out for long walks. I had seen them on the other side of the platform, sometimes in groups, heading in the opposite direction to the city. This get-up-and-go attitude in all kinds of weather was admirable.

  Maybe that was the thing: I had to catch the train in the opposite direction. I had been going in the same direction for too long. Another resolution. Everything seems possible when the weather is warm; then work kicks in and another year passes and the resolution forgotten.

  As I waited for the train, I thought there were so many lessons one could learn from wildlife; yet most people fail to see, or to learn. Nature can pass people by their
whole life; they remain stuck in the concrete jungles and stresses of the modern city. Well, I wasn’t going to be one of those people any more.

  Vijay Medtia, 2016

  It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not known before what pleasures she had to lose in passing March and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot, in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt’s garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle’s plantations, and the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the conviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be useful to those who were wanting her!

  Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814

  It’s late March, and arriving at College Lake on the border of Buckinghamshire and Hertfordshire I’m immediately struck by the spectacular views. The sound of whistling ducks fills the air and children’s laughter drifts up from the education centre. The sun is shining as I head down the path towards the hide closest to the visitor centre and stop at a patch of willows in flower alongside the water. Here the air is not full of the sound of birds, but an orchestra of insects.

  Each spring I make a special pilgrimage to this old chalk quarry. Owned and managed by my local Wildlife Trust, it’s been reclaimed by wildlife, and through careful management has become a haven especially prized for its water birds and chalk grassland plants. But today I’m not here to see either of those things. I’m here to seek out my favourite group of animals: bees!

  Each bee plays its part in creating the distinctive sound which, to me, heralds spring after a long winter sadly lacking in insect life. Yet most visitors don’t even notice the sound of the bees as they rush to get to the bird hides, scopes resting on their shoulders.

  Most of the bees that I see on the sallow blossom are solitary. These often overlooked insects have spent the winter underground waiting to emerge on a sunny day and seek out mates and nest sites. The evidence of these nests is all around me, tiny holes visible everywhere from the side of the chalk banks to the middle of the footpaths.

  There’s one bee species I’m always keen to search out each spring in the short period of time that it is active. The vivid, buff colours of Andrena praecox are always a joy to see. It collects pollen almost exclusively from willows and because of that emerges and nests very early in the year, dying off before many other bee species appear. This time of year is therefore very rushed for these bees, the males hyped up, zigzagging around nest sites and flowers looking for females with which to mate, and mated females hurrying about collecting pollen on the undersides of their abdomens. This pollen is moistened and, with nectar, placed in a tunnel which the female has dug herself before she carefully lays an egg, sealing it away with a saliva-like secretion before repeating the process again. Sadly, she never sees her offspring.

  Queen bumblebees overwinter as adults and provide the real bass to this orchestra of bees. These enormous creatures have mated at the end of the previous summer and come out of their slumber with a great thirst for nectar. They also collect pollen with which to provision the first few workers of their colonies before becoming nest-bound and instructing their workers to collect pollen for them. There’s something about the sound of a bumbling bumblebee in spring that always fills me with a warm feeling, even on the coldest of days. It gives me hope that soon the air around me will be thick with insects.

  A huge queen buff-tailed bumblebee, Bombus terrestris, lands on the blossom in front of me. Cascades of pollen fall to the ground like snow showers coating her and everything around her. She meticulously collects the pollen on her back legs before flying off to the next flower. Closer to the ground, coltsfoot is in full bloom. This plant, which to me looks rather like a delicate version of a dandelion, flowers long before any of its leaves appear, making it quite an usual sight. However, it is beautiful in its own right, along with dandelions, and has an important role in providing nectar and pollen for a variety of more generalist bee species. One of my favourite solitary bees that often starts to appear in late March is the tawny mining bee, Andrena fulva. The females, as the name suggests, are black, coated with the most exquisite red/brown hairs, providing an injection of colour into the landscape.

  Alongside this bee I notice Andrena haemorrhoa, one of my favourite springtime bees due to the vibrancy of the females’ colour: they are on average a little smaller than a honey bee and are very distinctive, with a neat pile of bright red hairs on top of the thorax and a blood-red tip to the abdomen, strongly contrasting with the rest of their slate-grey bodies and yellow hind legs.

  Not all solitary bees are colourful, but that doesn’t make them any less important or less joyful to see. As the cloud cover starts to increase, I bend down to peer into some dandelion flowers and see the tiny heads of some all-black solitary bees peering back at me. Sheltering in the flower heads, these bees are little more than five millimetres long, yet go around carrying pollen on their hind legs between a great variety of flowers, pollinating both our wildflowers and crops.

  The rain starts to fall and I head back to the car. In the few hours that I’ve been here I have barely made it more than a hundred metres from the visitor centre but have glimpsed into the lives of fifteen or so bee species and photographed them as they go about their busy lives, pollinating all manner of flowers, barely noticed by us. I love spring, but it will soon be over, replaced by summer and the abundance of life that it brings.

  Ryan Clark, 2016

  II

  Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

  Is hung with bloom along the bough,

  And stands about the woodland ride

  Wearing white for Eastertide.

  Now, of my threescore years and ten,

  Twenty will not come again,

  And take from seventy springs a score,

  It only leaves me fifty more.

  And since to look at things in bloom

  Fifty springs are little room,

  About the woodlands I will go

  To see the cherry hung with snow.

  A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad, 1896

  What are the first signs of spring? Ask most people on the street and you’ll typically get daffodils, lambs, and Easter eggs. The naturalist might go into a bit more detail, describing perhaps the first budding hazel, the first cuckoo or the reappearance of butterflies. But for me, the first real sign of spring is something most people are unaware of. For it is with the coming of spring that dragons awaken from their slumber.

  Windmill Farm is a Cornwall Wildlife Trust reserve almost at the heart of the Lizard peninsula, a vast flat landscape of pasture and heathland. Its few trees and exposure to gusts racing straight from the Atlantic make it feel somehow gothic even on this fine, near-cloudless day, and the remains of the ancient windmill that gives the site its name loom over my car like a huge and ancient guardsman. A pair of ravens soar overhead, cronking and gronking as though Edgar Allan Poe might be just around the corner.

  I set off down the hedgerow-hugging footpath with the standard naturalist gear of binoculars and camera, but instead of walking boots I’m wearing trainers, for if I am to find these dragons they’re the perfect ally. Keeping a couple of yards to one side of the hedge, I roll each foot carefully on the soft ground. My binoculars are trained several feet away from me up the hedge, keeping a particular eye on the sunny spots close to dense clumps of vegetation.

  It isn’t long before this strategy is rewarded with my first dragon – although ‘dragon’ is a term that actually doesn’t do these
reptiles justice. The adder basking on the bank is exquisite, her caramel-coloured scales mixed with the classic black zigzag stripe like an organic jewel in a landscape only just beginning to turn green again. She is highly sensitive to the blundering footfalls of humans, sensing us coming through the ground like clumsy earthquakes, and the fall of my shadow over her resting spot would have sent her darting for cover at a speed remarkable for an animal with no legs. It’s partly for these reasons that adders haven’t been placed within the pantheon of familiar harbingers of the season, and why I’ve had to practice such delicate fieldcraft to see them.

  But tread carefully on a warm March morning in the right sort of place and you’ll hopefully be adding up lots of adders indeed – after my first sighting, I managed to see four more. Early in the day is best for seeing adders and other British reptiles, as they bask in the open, warming up for the day ahead. But as they emerge from their hibernation in spring, deep in a log pile or old rabbit warren perhaps, they’re so sluggish they may as well be hungover, giving the respectful naturalist a sighting they’ll remember for life.

  Sleeker and slightly smaller than the females, at this time of year males can be found gliding lithely across the bracken and heather like streaks of silver cord, flicking their forked tongue in and out while on an enthusiastic trail for females ready to mate. It’s with these fellas that the extremely lucky naturalist might come across the adder’s dance; a misnamed activity given the two participants, twisting and coiling between each other’s bodies in a mesmerising, perfectly coordinated order of rhythmic knots, are not actually a potential couple sealing their eternal bond but two blokes seeing who’s more worthy of the ladies and trying to pummel each other to the ground. Less Dirty Dancing, more brawling drunkards outside a nightclub.