Early summer garden notes....

You may recall my referring to Gilbert White in a previous blog. The nature writer and diarist. A hero of mine. I wonder what he would have made of this late spring. An almost non-existent spring. Winter became summer. Finally, with not much in between. Pity really, there’s nothing quite like the warm spring sun in March waking the bees from their hibernation, but that didn’t seem to happen this year.  Now in the second week of May, the sudden burst of greenery announces summer’s arrival. There are, however, still elements which seem to reflect the effects of the long winter. Very few bees; one or two honey bees, one or two bumble bees. This may be simply a reflection of the lack of goodies on offer in my garden or more likely that it will take time for their numbers to build after the freezing weather that lasted long into March. As there aren’t maybe other insects flying around either, this would certainly seem to be the case. I did see a zebra spider today; I don’t know if that’s their name but that’s what I’ve called them since I was a kid. Small black and white spiders that jump about.

            Thankfully there are some good signs from the herbs. My thyme, chives and rosemary are in flower. And my parsley, although not in flower is in rude health, as they say.  Barely two months ago they were covered in snow.  I think amongst my favourite flowers are herb flowers. I’m not sure why? Maybe it’s the Quaker in me, the making the most of our talents principle. Or more likely it’s their subtle beauty, a simple beauty. Nothing too ornamental. Whatever it may be, the sight of an edible herb flowering is a soulful thing. Bees are very keen too. I’m hoping the imminent bounty of chive flowers coming to bloom will encourage them to visit.

In bird terms, things are relatively quiet, the birds are working hard preparing their nests, I suppose. One unusual visitor has given pleasure, however. A pair of greenfinches, easy enough to recognize as they’re green, the male more so than the female, with an unusual call; a kind of nasal ‘tsweeeee’. In my early birdwatching days in Glasgow, greenfinches were always around. I’ve rarely seen them here in two years. The only finches we have regularly are the goldfinches, which probably only come because I bribe with with nyger seeds.  Another welcome sight has been the odd swift. Swifts are the ultimate symbol of summer in the city and one of the last to manifest. Screeching through the air like fighter jets. Extraordinary birds,  they spend most of their life in the air. You’ll only see them if there’s plenty of insects, hence a sign of summer but for now, just the odd one.

The perennials are beginning to thrive too, after six months of winter torpor. The roses are almost in bloom, the anticipation growing. We’ve only had the roses for one year, but already I’m understanding the appeal. To me what was previously a romantic cliché for Valentine’s day losers has become one of my favourite plants. The jasmine foliage is looking healthy too which bodes well for its flowering this summer, for the first time, hopefully.  The buddleja is looking good too. Ironically our neighbour was getting rid of it as it was struggling and we weren’t that bothered as we had a very healthy one. A year later, ours is dead and the neighbour’s one is thriving.  Hmmmm...Buddleja are an odd one, you’ll see them on waste ground, next to train lines in great swathes, swaying in the wind. Thus places where they’re often left uncared for, they tend to invade but they’re great for the garden; bees and butterflies love them. Get yourself one, they come in all colours. One anomaly, is the lavenders. My attempt to prune them in order to encourage growth has had not had quite the required effect. They are budding well, like miniature purple Sideshow Bobs but aesthetically,  it's a shambles.  The lady of the house is not happy with my inadvertent sa

botage and has given them two weeks to sort themselves out. I hope they listen…

Fronton; terrible "eating-out" options but lovely wine...

Montauban, South-West France, Monday morning. The sun shines, the sky is blue, it’s still, it’s mild and there are cars everywhere but no people whatsoever. Feels odd, a bit like a scene from I Am Legend, the film set in New York where the only people left are Will Smith and some killer, nocturnal zombies. Except I’m not Will Smith, I’m just a slightly hungover Scotsman heading home after a weekend of lovely food and wine with my friends who live in the region. This is true wine country, Cahors to the north, Gaillac to the east and Fronton to the south. A lovely red wine triangle. Wines from South-West France are great. Not always subtle but full of colour and character, like the region. Richie was kindly driving me to Toulouse airport but with time to kill we decided to do the equivalent of a village pub crawl from here to the airport. So, first stop was Montauban, not much there except a lovely red square which would probably be rather pleasant in summer. Nice river too, the Tarn I believe. And thankfully no killer zombies.

            Then to some other "deux cheval" town which apparently had an interesting engineering phenomenon based around a canal lock. We eventually found it. It seemed to be two trains that pulled boats, upstream, as it were, thus saving time by eliminating the need to fill the lock. No longer in use it felt a little bit sad, a lonely place, like all those planes parked in the Arizona desert. An engineering graveyard surrounded by trees blowing in the wind.

            So, we headed to Fronton, 40 km north of Toulouse. This was exciting. I like wines from Fronton. Passing through the vines on either side of the road, the excitement and anticipation soon evaporated. The town itself was non-descript, the French equivalent of Kidderminster (well, perhaps not that bad, let’s say Droitwich) but pretty dull, with no references to the surrounding appellation at all, which seemed a shame as they’re lovely wines. Unusual. Made from a grape called Negrette (min. 50 % of the blend, rest is Syrah or Malbec etc.) it gives them an interesting quality, that’s hard to define. Liquorice and spice but with plenty of dark fruits and big round tannins, though the weight on the palate and intensity can vary.

Lunch was an issue.  One particularly unwelcoming brasserie and a kebab shop were the only options. One last town on the route after this, one last shot before Toulouse but it was risky. France isn’t always the gourmet paradise one expects. We were heading into the unknown. Driving through pretty farmland we arrived at a nice town, on the river but again, nothing much happening. Plenty of cars. No people. Where are they? Thankfully there was a restaurant but only one. Lack of competition can breed complaisancy. The menu was limited but hunger and the strong desire to avoid airport food swayed us. Passing through a dark, slightly foreboding interior, past a couple of friendly French drunkards at the bar, the restaurant itself possessed a bright 80’s nightclub vibe without the music or the stupid haircuts. A couple of plump French workers having lunch was the only evidence that food was available.

 Lunch was goats cheese salad (always a winner) followed by entrecote steak (rarely a winner). As is usual for me in France, my entrecote was more gristle than meat but I knew the risks in advance. And I had a glass of red wine. I rarely do this at lunch but given my location and my imminent return to London I went for it. It was lovely. Soft and enticing.  Drinking wine in the region in which it’s made, is perhaps my favourite wine experience. It just feels right.  Just a small glass and it cost less than the Perrier water. That’s the way to do it.

Get yourself a bottle of Fronton, you’ll find it, if you look. And I hope your steak is better quality than mine was.  Richie assured me that his prawn risotto was excellent. Having lunch in this odd little place, in the middle of no-where, with my Buddy felt a privilege. Oh and did I mention the crè

me brulé…

Freezing my Tits off...

Apologies. Won't be winning a Pulitzer prize for the title. So the big freeze is here. The birds must be a bit miffed. Their inner body clocks would have noticed the increasing lights signifying that spring is around the corner. Time to find a mate and have some fun. Suddenly the wind comes in from Siberia and attention switches from thriving to surviving.  

            I have a peanut feeder, thankfully, squirrel proof and three dispensers of various seeds. One of which is exclusively for goldfinches. No-one else seems interested. The peanuts are almost exclusively taken by my friends, the tits; blue, great and coal. The occasional long tailed tits, as well, noisy and les regular visitors with as the name suggests extremely long tails. I say almost exclusively, as we’ve recently had an unusual visitor. A female blackcap. A female blackcap like a female blackbird is actually brown. Her cap that is.  Sexist? Very possibly but this isn’t the time to delve into the rights and wrongs of garden bird nomenclature. This isn’t the Guardian. Now the blackcap, with, as the name suggests, a black cap, is actually a summer visitor to the UK, but some do overwinter and I have seen the male a few times this winter too but not recently. Maybe the cold sent him south, like an ex-pat seeking warmer climes. Only the female has appeared, standing her ground against the aggressive great tits, these past few days.

            As for the sunflower seeds,  the great tits and coal tits favour them and the robin is the most regular visitor to the other seed dispenser. The cover of the packet promises all sorts of birds but it’s mostly the Robins that use it. They are, of course, the UK’s national bird and very popular but they’re actually very aggressive, bordering on psychotic, in their defense of territory and to a lesser extent, feeding sources. Then there’s the dunnock. Easily overlooked with their brown and grey plumage, I like them, they keep themselves to themselves mostly and will take seeds too, but are generally happier feeding off the ground. One of the commonest garden birds, there’s always a couple around. And in summer, a few more. Female dunnocks like to have two men on the go, in fact. And the males like to spread it around too, but that’s for another time.

            Another of my favourite, the tiny and endearing wren, struggles in this weather, as they don’t take from the feeders. They have to work very hard and will cover every nook and cranny to find (presumably frozen?) enough insects to eat.

            A treat for the blackbirds with the ground frozen is some chopped apple. They will be on them within half an hour, guaranteed. If not the squirrel will nab them.

            So far, so normal. Nothing too unusual, the black (brown) cap aside. A chaffinch comes from time to time, again feeding from the seeds that have dropped to the floor. When I was young, chaffinches were very common but here at least it is the aforementioned goldfinches which are most prevalent. Likewise, greenfinches which came to my feeder every winter in Glasgow, are rarely seen. 

And the other rare visitor is the striking greater spotted woodpecker. He comes to the suet feeder. Resplendent in black red and white, his presence never fails to thrill and he seems to be the only one interested in the fat. Interestingly enough, it isn’t entirely unheard of. They are known to come to gardens feeders, what is amazing is the fact that he doesn’t live near here. They live in woodland with mature trees, the nearest of which to is about a mile away. So how did he know? Do they just fly around on the off-chance? We call him Dan. Seems to suit him. Extraordinary thing, nature. Anyway bon appetit aux oiseaux…

The Boys in Blue no longer have the blues...

Being Scottish and a rugby fan equates to much pain, much of the time, so when good things happen they’re all the sweeter.

So, we beat England for the first time in ten years. That’s a long time; England have ten times as many players as we have, ten times as much money, so it’s no surprise really.  And in a neat way, we beat them, on average, every ten years. And normally we beat them in a scrap to the end. Winning ugly and desperately. And we don't beat the Welsh or the Irish much either. But this Scotland team is different from most of the Scotland teams of the last twenty years. They do all the hard work, those warrior forwards. Whatever changes, rugby remains a game that is won or lost in the forwards. But, in this team there is beauty too. And personality. And panache.  Epitomised by Finn Russell. He makes passes that few other players in the world could even contemplate, let alone execute. It doesn’t always go right but when it does the rugby this team plays is arguably the most spectacular around.  His long, looping pass to Huw Jones who took the ball at pace and ran to the other end of the pitch, leading to Maitland’s try, was wondrous. This is a rather new feeling. Up until a year or two ago, we didn’t really score tries like that. In that surreal first half we scored more tries against England than we have in the last five matches at Murrayfield. For too long we’ve accepted mediocrity but the good work started by Vern Cotter and continued by Gregor Townsend makes this victory feels a little different. Vern gave us balls, toughness and a better winning mentality. Gregor, of course, has added the sprinkling of flair and pace which had been developing these last couple of years. If that combination can be maintained, we may finally begin to gain some respect internationally and feel proud to be Scottish (in Rugby terms). Perhaps a false dawn but I have a feeling it’s a new dawn. We’ll see in two weeks in Dublin.

More Nature Notes...Feeding the Birds....

            I remember the first time I fed wild birds. It was the summer of 1987. In the cupboard of our kitchen was a jar of chopped nuts that had remained untouched for about 2 years. I think they might have been bought for Christmas and subsequently ignored. I put them on the window ledge of my bedroom and they were gone within days devoured by blue tits, greenfinches, chaffinches and so on. I would look in wonder at these colourful little creatures from behind my curtain and I was hooked. Sometime later in the year, a plan was needed, however. Pigeons had discovered the food source and that was the end of that. Luckily, technology was on my side and every winter I would fix a plastic feeder - inaccessible to larger birds - to my window and wait. They always came and it was always the blue tits, first. You'd hear them before you saw them. I'll never forget the feeling of being in my bedroom and hearing their high-pitched call. They remain amongst my favourite birds.

            All these years later, moving to a flat with a large garden, the time was right to resume my support of my feathered friends and I have been doing so for the last two years. Feeding wild birds is slightly Machiavellian, in a way. Altruistic yet manipulative and self-serving. It costs time and money and goes beyond simply doing a good deed. It procures great pleasure and becomes almost an obsession. But a magnificent obsession, I’d say. There is, perhaps, a fine line between helping them out and making them dependant on you, but it’s probably too late. “You can check out any time you like but you can never leave”. As I say, its more than simply doing a good deed. It’s a relationship. A thirty-year relationship.

            So, more of the birds. The following are my regulars; blue tit, coal tit, great tit, robin, goldfinch, dunnock, woodpigeon, blackbird – the female is brown -, magpie. I see these birds every day. There are many others that I see less often, but one thing at a time. I have several feeders, all designed to feed birds and not squirrels. My pathological hatred of squirrels is of course, slightly irrational, but not entirely so. It’s not their fault, they’re just following their instinct, but they are a menace. I admire their athletic ability but I don’t like them. I feel the same way about modern footballers.

            My favourite feeder is perhaps the one that locks the minute the squirrel climbs onto it due to the weight of the animal. Ingenious. And there’s a nice democratic system in place. The smaller birds only can access the feeders, but the mess they make picking out the seeds, drops to the ground giving the collared doves, woodpigeons and blackbirds their fair share too. 

            Goldfinches are amongst the commonest visitors, certainly the most colourful and possibly the noisiest. Now, for me, as a teenager, a goldfinch was an exotic and distant bird. It was a bird of the country, not the west end of Glasgow. They are much commoner in the city these days, certainly, in London, almost certainly due to humans feeding them. That said, places like Hampstead Heath that I’m not too far from, will have the vegetation to support Goldfinches. Their favourite natural food is thistle seeds but some bright spark discovered that they will eat Nyger seeds. I’d never heard of Nyger seeds but on the packet it claimed they would attract goldfinches and this was too exciting a possibility to ignore. There was even a special feeder that allows the goldfinches’ beak to access the seed. Who discovered this? They must have had time on their hands. Anyway I was doubtful but literally within a couple of days they’d arrived and have never left. Extraordinary thing, Nature. How did they know?  Very beautiful birds but perhaps not the brightest. Constantly fighting with each other over the food source when there’s plenty to go round.

            For sheer personality, the award has to go to the Blue Tit. Pretty colours themselves but not exotic like a goldfinch. Cheeky, acrobatic and lively, they particularly like peanuts but also sunflower seeds and suet. Varying your food supply, of course, adds to your number and variety of visitors. And occasionally you might get a more unusual visitor or two. More of that and my other regulars next time. They all have a story worth telling…

Winter Thrushes in North London inspired by Gilbert White

Welcome,

Sorry about the title.

Have any of you heard of Gilbert White? Probably not and that's a pity. He was a late 18th century man of letters. A reverend, a poet and also a blogger, of a sort. But unlike most bloggers, he came up with something useful.

His main work, The Nature and Antiquities of Selbourne is, in essence, a nature diary, through letters and observations of nature's cycle that remains the definitive example of a nature notebook, par excellence. I discovered him, as a teenager through reading the monthly nature report in the BBC wildlife magazine. It was an article which spoke of the things likely to happen that month in the world of nature and often used quotations by White, printed in wistful prose, on the page, very much in the writing style of the period in which he lived. I've often been very grateful of the sanctuary that a love of nature and wildlife has given me and it's partly thanks to Mr. White. Even today, centuries later, his text and prose has a vibrant yet gentle effect on the soul, if nature and it's ever changing moods is of interest to you, at least. If it's not maybe you should give it a go. The world he describes feels near yet distant at the same time.

Modern ecological, charitable and environmental movements owe much to Gilbert White.

I've long fancied doing my own little nature diary and until now those thoughts have remained in my head, which is a shame, for me at least, but wandering through Alexandra park the other day, a sight drew me in, as it surely would have my spiritual friend, Gilbert White. So what was it? It was Redwings. What are Redwings, you may ask? They're a bird, of course. A thrush actually, that visit these shores in winter. A smallish thrush that travels in flocks, it doesn't really have a red wing, more red under its wing and it's usually the creamy stripe above its eye that you're likely to notice. As I walked along I spotted a couple feeding on the ground, under a tree, looking for worms, no doubt, then another then another. I'd guess there were around 30 or so, which was nice to see. They have visited my garden from time to time this winter, though in fewer numbers and I've always liked them. They represent the seasons changing; they can be heard in late autumn, at night, their high-pitched call on still clear evenings revealing their arrival from the continent and indicating winter's imminent arrival and they'll be gone again in a couple of months from now, indicating spring and summers' inevitable if not imminent arrival. They have a gentle vibe. Not all thrushes can claim this.

Mistle Thrushes, large and quite noisy, for example, are capable of psychotic behavior. I first time I saw this was thirty years ago, on a snowy day, from my bedroom window watching a pair of them repeatedly dive bomb a magpie. I watched the same thrush, another time, dive bombing a cat which, terrorized, came running through the close at about fifty miles an hour and dashed into the street. I still laugh about that one, cruel as that is.  Anyway, back to winter and thrushes; even more exciting, was a couple of fieldfares in our garden, the following day to my seeing the redwings. So what? Well, a fieldfare is also a thrush. Also a winter visitor. A large and beautiful bird, a grey head, reddish back and beautifully speckled breast, they are more imposing than a redwing and less common so a sight is always a thrill. There has been one who has visited the garden, I first saw him around Christmas gorging on next door's apple tree's one remaining apple. Seeing those two the other day, was a welcome surprise and seemed to serve as a reminder that winter is not over and indeed since then it has become much colder.

Winter itself has been relatively benign, in London, at least but feeding the birds as I do, ensures plenty of feathered visitors, especially when it is cold.

More of them in my next blog.

Hope you enjoyed this, if not, I won't be offended, my late friend, Daniel Kirkpatrick, my only birder friend, would, I'm sure have appreciated it and if you do fancy the real thing, there's always Gilbert White.

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Let's talk about Barolo, The King Of Wines....

Let’s start the new year looking back shall we? To Hogmanay that is, that’s right, New Year’s Eve as the rest of the world calls it. We had a Scottish Italian fusion to celebrate European cooperation. Haggis, neeps and tatties with a wonderful Barolo from the Villadoria estate, 2011 Riserva! Simple yet wonderful winter food meets sophisticated wine. It was tremendous.

            What do you actually know about Barolo I must ask? Here’s the basics; it is grown  - almost exclusively, more of that later – in Piemonte, north–west Italy, near a town called Alba. Wonderful region, literally as the name suggests, at the foot of the mountains, the Italian Alps, snow-capped and spectacular. The main city is Turin, Torino, fantastic place, home of Juventus, once my favourite European football team, when I used to like football. Home of Nutella which used to be and still is one of my favourite things, though I’m currently “aff it” as they say in Glasgow as one spoon is never enough.

 Anyway, back to the wine. I first discovered Barolo when I worked in a wine shop in Glasgow and I liked the fact that it is called the wine of kings and the king of wines, that appealed to me, for some reason? I didn’t learn much about it till a lot later – didn’t sell much of it, well any of it, in that particular shop where Tennant's Lager was the main seller. Luckily, when I did discover it, it turned out to be amongst my favourite wines. Almost certainly top three. However, this is an issue. Like all so-called “great wines” it ain’t cheap. But let’s not worry about that in the meantime.

            More facts for the geeks amongst you; the grape, Nebbiolo, as I said is grown mostly in this region. As always, the terroir, in its physical appearance adds to the pleasure experience. The grapes thrive on the beautiful hillsides where autumnal mists cover the vines whilst pigs search for truffles. Unlike, those other great “B’s” of the wine world, Bordeaux and Burgundy whose grapes have been high jacked by the rest of the wine world, Nebbiolo remains exclusively of the region. Maybe unlike Italian food, it just doesn’t travel well. Who knows but it remains that bit more special, I think, for being uniquely Piemontese...

Like it’s glamourous cousin Pinot Noir from Burgundy it has a light colour, think red-brick but this delicate hue in no way reflects the wine. It’s big, rich and bold, yet elegant and restrained too. Riserva status, like Gran Reserva in Spain, indicates 5 years ageing, including three years in oak, before release. Mine with six years subsequent years development drank perfectly, the tannins subtle though there was still a lot of fruit so it could have waited another five easily. I couldn’t wait. Some people believe that all Barolo needs years before it can be drunk. This isn’t always the case. Generally, the communes to the west, La Morra and Barolo itself are more approachable when young. Soils differences to the east tend to create more complex reds that a need a bit of time. Mine produced in Serralunga D’Alba fits this category. In any case, at best; elegance, finesse and power defines this wine. There is a price to pay, but for special occasions you can’t go wrong and it's nice to feel like a king every so often!

            And as a tip, Barolo’s little sister, Barbaresco, a little more delicate but very appealing nevertheless is also made in the region with Nebbiolo and you won’t have to pay nearly as much. More about that next time. And good luck with dry January...