Down to Earth

BEACHCOMBING with JO BELASCO BA Hons History of Architecture and Design

For a long time I have been hoping to extend my beachcombing collection of sea glass into semiprecious stones. It has been slow going, mostly I think, as I didn’t really believe I could find any. It seems as ridiculous as the old adage of money growing on trees – semi precious stones on the ground where you walk. I did a lot of research and came out of it with one really useful tip – just pick up what looks pretty and worry about the categorising later. Back in the spring I went through a red phase. I just kept imagining five red rings on my podgy digits. I bought three rings. The first was a carnelian stone. It looked more brown than red but the reputed seller reassured me it was as red as carnelian gets. In certain lights it looks red enough to understand where it got its name from – flesh. Then I got a bit twitchy. I began to wonder what would happen when I placed the fifth ring on my pinkie? Would this trigger a plague of frogs? Oh, why so negative Jo, maybe it would usher in a glorious new phase for humanity? Who am I kidding? It’s a plague of frogs! Anyway, I didn’t have to worry much longer as I mislaid the carnelian ring after recharging it under a full moon and didn’t buy another. Poring over semi-precious stones online became a vague memory as did hanging out at Earth Design at Broadwindsor, Crystals at Dorchester and Fossil Beach at Weymouth. Spending time at the seaside was cheaper and healthier after all. Smallmouth at Ferrybridge in Weymouth, was my beach of choice. This tiny bay is sandy and relatively protected from the elements with a sloping gradient. We used to kayak there and it’s a great place to build sandcastles but not a lot doing for a beachcomber. There are some lovely old coracle boats, shabby chic and perfect props for taking sea glass photos. Near one of the tiny boats I saw a pop of red. I picked it up and promptly forgot about it for a few weeks until I forced myself to organise the finds of the past month. Turns out it’s Carnelian – I didn’t know whether to jump for joy or run for the hills!

LOVELY SPOT: Smallmouth Bay in Weymouth and, below, a nice piece of green sea glass and, right, a Carnelian stone found on the beach Carnelian knowledge from the most unlikely of places

The West Dorset Magazine, December 2, 2022 49 Down to earth Robin in our pear tree is ideal Christmas decoration

Sally Cooke lives in Tolpuddle with her husband, two grown up sons and her spotty rescue dog. You can follow Sally on Instagram at Sparrows in a Puddle

As a child it seemed that absolutely everyone had their Christmas decorations up before us, but my mum insisted that the Saturday closest to Christmas Day was quite early enough. So, when my boys were small I was happy for Christmas to arrive in the house earlier, as long as December had begun. These days, the excitement isn’t quite the same but my sons enjoy using their woodworking skills to make reindeer and other decorations. When a delivery arrived on a bright-red painted pallet board, it was just asking to be made into hearts to decorate the pear tree in our front garden. Like many fruit trees in the village, our pear tree has had a good year. Covered briefly in beautiful white blossom in April as the new leaves unfurled and then burdened with a heavy crop of pears in the autumn, it is now completely bare. It’s time to put up its hearts and lights for the short days of December. Our pear tree attracts pollinators in the spring and butterflies come to the fallen fruit, but at this time of year it is a stage for birdsong. On cold December days I love to hear the robin sing in the garden. It has a few regular singing perches, at the top of the hedge and on the corner of the garden fence, but most pleasingly on the pear tree. When it sits among the hearts and fairy lights it unknowingly creates the perfect Christmas decoration. Most of our garden birds don’t sing in the winter, singing uses a lot of energy and in spring and summer is a way of attracting a mate or defending territory. In the winter it is enough for most birds to just focus on getting enough food during the day and then find somewhere warm and dry to roost at night. But, several hours after our nestbox camera has shown us a sparrow tucked up for the night, the beautiful winter song of the robin can still be heard out in the darkness. Robins will defend their feeding territories with song all through the winter, and unlike during the breeding season, females will sing as well as the males. ‘In the cold and wintry weather, still hear his song. “Someone must sing”, said Robin. “Or Winter will seem long.”’ (Anon)

An occasional nuisance, but ivy has a lot to offer

JOHN WRIGHT is a naturalist and forager who lives in rural West Dorset. He has written eight books, four of which were for River Cottage. He wrote the awardwinning Forager’s Calendar and in 2021 his Spotter’s Guide to Countryside Mysteries was published.

Even at Christmas, I suspect that most of us have an ambiguous view of ivy (Hedera helix). Its leaves are an aesthetically helpful permanent, waxy green, its flowers are pretty, if understated, and it bears attractive berries until spring that are high in fat, attracting wood pigeons, thrushes, blackbirds and other birds to our gardens. On the down side, it is sufficiently vigorous to make an occasional nuisance of itself, being accused of overwhelming trees when they get above themselves (and sometimes above the tree), similarly with walls. In fact, it seldom takes over a tree completely unless it is already dead. The second, however, is certainly true as I know from bitter and long experience. A wall of brick or stone and tough mortar will likely go unharmed, but the aging lime mortar of so many Dorset houses, mine included, is severely affected by this plant. Although easy to remove, the aerial rootlets always bring with them some mortar, and any point of weakness will be exploited, the roots going deep. I once had to remove then rebuild the unstable top half of my garden wall – it had ivy roots growing to its very heart. Having finally solved my Ivy problem, I take a more benign view of this architecturally appealing plant, happy to admire it in other people’s gardens and to tell them how lucky they are. The flowers serve pollen and nectar to moths, butterflies, bees, common wasps and hoverflies, providing a late autumnal feast for the bees in particular. An apiarist friend once gave me a tiny pot of ivy honey. I love strong honeys, so the flavour of sweetened Dettol went down very nicely. Having been in Britain a very long time, ivy sports no fewer than 26 species fungi. Some of these display their host-dependence in their names, such as Nectria hederae, (a relative of Coral Spot fungus). It is also the summer food plant of the Holly Blue. Disappointingly, ivy has only one gall, Dasineura kiefferi, the eggs of this midge commandeering the buds for their larvae. Having been a furniture maker for 30 years, I view any woody species with a practical eye. While you may not think that ivy ever reaches sufficient size to produce anything, I found an ivy stem ten inches in diameter. I think there is just enough to make a chair, maybe with ivy leaves carved in relief.

PAGAN VIEWS by JO BELASCO

When it’s raining cats and dogs, going to a garden centre Christmas grotto is a wonderful thing to do. It’s really like a magical wood, but permanently warm and dry. Nothing is quite so magical though, and – as one of my sons says –‘cosy scary’ as going to a real, ancient wood. There is a Pagan saying that the forest is our version of a cathedral. Extending the metaphor then the second half of the 20th century was a Pagan’s version of the Christian Reformation. They had their monasteries torn down and we had more than 50% of ancient woodland felled. Good news is that more trees are being planted, but to regain that ecological alchemy will take 600 years. Recently I have become aware of the wonder of fungi and how they can brighten up the woods like Santa’s grotto – but naturally. Okay, it’s a bit of a hunt for those ephemeral baubles but we love treasure hunts. Now I use the word baubles rather flippantly as some British mushrooms can give you permanent brain damage or kill you. They have scary names like Funeral Bell and Destroying Angel – but as fungi don’t have labels it makes sense to avoid eating any unless you are an expert. So taste is out but the rest of our five senses are more than enough. With a background of lichen and moss, which is more like damp velvet and green lace, it’s a visual feast. I think I found ‘chicken of the woods’ yesterday and gingerly gave it a perfunctory sniff – that was more than enough for me. One fungus I found looks like orange jelly. I ingeniously and possibly rather disgustingly used a fresh dog poo bag wrapped around my hand to see if it felt like jelly too. Yes, squidgy jelly – not the most scientific experiment but fun. Yesterday on my wild woodland walk the dominant sound was of rushing water. Paths had been turned into streams by the unusually wet weather so I slightly lost my way. Not worryingly, deeply lost but just a bit lost – I wish there was a word for it. To be honest I really rather like the feeling of being lost. It’s like you have an instant allencompassing mission. You have to use your brain and senses to find a landmark or get yourself back to a place you recognise. Or you get to test your sixth sense.

DOWN TO THE WOODS TODAY: Misty Thorncombe woods and, below, possibly chicken of the woods fungi, the beautiful but dangerous fly agaric and, right, the orange fungi near Chapel Coppice at Ashley Chase