Bog standard seemed a dubious title for this piece, and its very origins are murky, judging by the interesting blog “Not One-off Britishisms”, which suggests that it may have originated in Britain in the 1960s. Certainly, this September’s weather wasn’t bog standard, for these parts, judging by the Met Office’s summary which places September 2023 as the warmest in Wales, at 15.6 degrees C, in a record stretching back to 1884. Indeed the mean September temperature averaged across Wales was a whopping 2.5 degrees C higher than the 30-year running average for 1991-2020.

Frustratingly though, this hasn’t translated into record sunshine levels. Quite the reverse – these have been really poor. This has meant that despite the warmth, we’ve opted to fire our wood burner up once a day briefly to help dry the property out, internally – along with our protocol of running de-humidifiers intermittently. As anyone who owns such a thing will realise, these work much more efficiently drawing out moisture at higher temperatures, and it’s taken many years for me to work out that during the summer, when we use no heating, and humidity levels outside are nearly always high, the whole fabric of the property with its breathable materials absorbs a huge amount of moisture. It typically takes a couple of months from late summer to autumn to bring these down to “acceptable” levels of around 60%, when any occasional musty smells dissipate.

And so it was that I loaded a couple of bog oak logs onto our Morsø stove in recent weeks. And on each occasion was rewarded with a unique appearance in the firebox the following morning. Surrounded by the typical fine grey ash left from all the other burned material, the logs appeared to still be there in original form – but they’d undergone a glorious colour transformation to golden brown, with the sort of blocky crazing you find on timber affected by dry rot. They looked as though one could pick them up and lift them out. However, when I gently brushed these apparently solid forms with my finger, they disintegrated into ashy dust, like everything else.

Bog oak is a very rare and interesting material formed over hundreds or thousands of years after mature trees had fallen over in wet ground and gradually sunk beneath the surface. Their material structure was very slowly changed as minerals in the surrounding anoxic, acidic, wet, boggy soil interacted with the tannins and other cellular structures. The wood begins the similar process involved in the generation of coal, to become a sub-fossil material changing colour to a wonderful black with silvery grain lines. It’s long been valued as a special dark wood for made goods, but the challenges are finding pieces in the first place, then drying it out to avoid major splits, and finally, it’s so hard that it very quickly blunts woodworking tool edges.

The logs I was burning (sacrilege!), had been carefully saved by me for many years as potential wood-turning material, having been discovered in our lower wet peaty meadow areas years ago when we’d cleared some ditches. We recently found a new small section that has worked its way to the surface in a similar fashion. I found a couple of references to some high-end English cabinet makers who’ve considerable experience in processing large tree trunks extracted from the East Anglian fens and turning them into stunning pieces of furniture.

The best explanation of the process involved in bog oak’s development came from an Irish site, (Mill lane, Irish Bog Oak) in the YouTube above. They also reference the use of bog oak as a favoured material for the construction of bog oak mourning brooches in late Victorian times. Given current climate change evidence from around the world, it’s interesting to reflect how bog oak came into being – a change from warmer, drier times to a much wetter climate developing around 4,500 years ago which meant that the large trees which had colonised the valley bottoms, could no longer survive and collapsed into the much wetter surrounding ground.

I knew none of this when I turned these 2 wooden pots back in the noughties. They illustrate what a stunningly black wood it turns out to be with a suitable polish.

Sadly my wood-turning days finished years ago after I realised dust, damp air and lungs don’t co-exist well together. Matthew also made some lovely detailed hinge pins for our Thought Box, out of bog oak we’d passed on to him.

I can’t find any information on exactly why the bog oak retains its structure and changes colour as it does after burning in a stove. My guess is that it’s linked to the centuries of iron and silica infiltration of the wood fibres, which somehow creates a skeletal structure capable of surviving the high burning temperatures.

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I’m now going to include a mention of what I think is an excellent initiative to link honey bee fans from around the world who are keen on free living, or “wild” honeybees. The project is called Honey Bee Watch, and they now have several videos online from international speakers who describe different aspects of such “wild” honey bee activity. If you know of such a wild colony, perhaps in a tree, or a roof space, or indeed look after or observe a colony of honey bees with no treatments, feeding or frequent and regular interventions, then the project would be keen to hear from you. It’s easy to upload any information you have to the atlas and database they’re beginning to establish.

As October has continued with September’s generally warm, grey and damp theme, we have at least enjoyed a few sunnier warm days and some wonderful misty sunrises.

 

, Some fabulous, lingering autumn colour is developing, the Saxifrage fortunei are magical in the slanting light, having recovered from their early summer drought induced collapse. They delight the honey bees with nectar and rich red pollen in the late afternoon, as the sinking sun pierces and warms this part of the copse.

We even had 2 late visits by a Hummingbird hawk-moth, Macroglossum stellatarum, onto the terrace garden to sip nectar from our last few hybrid Salvia hyans – a wonderful long flowering perennial with us which is bone hardy growing in the very poor substrate of our terrace. At last, I’ve collected decent seeds and should have some young plants next year.

Some of our seasonal sheep tasks are complete – late weaning of lambs, the annual goodbye to ewes too old, and ram lamb too young, and the arrival of a splendidly horned yearling who after raddling with margarine and yellow powder pigment swiftly got to work.

The other necessity is double ear tagging those sheep who’ve lost their microchip tags. Ideally, I’d do this, but given Fiona’s dodgy knees, the sheep catching and holding falls to me for this task, so she has to do the deed and clip the tags through the sheep’s ears – one on each side, such is the fussy requirement. This really isn’t a nice job, given that our sheep are benign and not used to any form of herding or aggression from us. I sympathise, since any trauma inflicted on animals isn’t an easy thing for anyone, yet as in many scenarios, it’s one where speed and confidence are the order of the day.

I remembered this when at last I seized the moment to take off supers from the 2 honey bee hives which are designed to allow me to do this. This is very late in the year to do such a thing, but my choice of warm, dry days with little wind and time distanced from a full moon, have been few and far between this autumn. The bees are still left with an extra box, but since I only open the hive to add the additional super box in April, and then remove it later, the bees had made a very good job of sticking everything together in the interim, using propolis – a complex compound they craft from gathered plant resins.

Although I now know what I need to do, it’s a curiously special moment. I’m in awe of the bees’ ability to thrive in our wet climate, but still find myself psyching up to get on and do it. I’ve been having a go at writing a piece to try to capture this experience, although words or images are a very poor substitute for actually standing, suited, beside me and quietly taking it all in.

 

The Theft

 

You couldn’t (wouldn’t?) stand beside me.

 

These words lie. Flat, upon this page

Can’t capture angst, anticipated rage.

For when, at last, October’s lowering sun,

dropped wind and quartered, waxing moon

conspired to make a perfect time.

Prepared and planned, geared up –

a thief in the day, set for stealing, I’m ready.

 

The double gloves, the beige veiled suit

implausible deceits of confidence.

Within, expectant mood and teatime warmth

prevail, spill sweat-spoiled scented fear.

Calm. Quiet. Care. My mantra as I

knife-edge crack, each corner gently forced.

Gently, merest seal-slit breach – that smell,

that rapid rising bzzzzz, seeps out.

 

 

Familiar hints – how will they bee?

 

Slow-work the stainless blade, lever raise

each cedar side, resin-glued, stuck fast.

First sense that weight. Unseen labours flown,

beyond mere work – a half-year’s captured bounty.

This bee town’s toil and craft and skill.

 

Arms held flexed, I grip diagonal corners,

push-pull and gently turn – the box rotates.

I feel the hidden trauma, tears.

Now deep breath lift, scene-scan as

popped black bees fizz fast, up, out.

No time to stand and stare – the dripping

liquid gold, the ragged, sheared brace comb.

 

Moria’s horde begins to spill,

soon silence-spoiled, clean air.

Set down with super-human strain

cracked safe askew, on milkcrate rim

beside the ruptured hive. My readied eke,

a clearing board, crushed jagged oozing wax.

Lift super back. Replace the lid. Retreat.

 

Cool-cruel dawn awaits. The thief returns,

less stressed, expectant, prizes super’s lid.

Glimpses, fast, nine capped-full frames.

now clear and free of female forms.

They’ve traced her scent, followed, down through

rough-drilled hole, and rhomboid trap

to join their queen. I close the hive and,

lug the dripping super, storws bound.

Scout-safe, secure – a resting space.

 

Another dawn, one final trip,

the eke’s removed and left encrusted,

propped beside the hive. Bee gaggle clings,

intent on salvage restoration.

Ignores the thief, the board is cleaned –

by night no lick of honey’s left.

The colony can calm once more.

 

No smoke, no fire, no apiarist’s flair.

A raid, a speedy smash and grab.

Worth it? Fair? Honeyed wax, not just reward,

Not just reward. Thrice daily, teaspoon prompt:

my lowly status in this special place.

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Sometimes inconsequential circumstances lead to spur-of-the-moment decisions, with unexpected results. Well after dark on another day of persistent gloom and light rain, Fiona remembered we hadn’t put the weekly recycling collection “out”. For us, “out” means a half mile down the track to the road through the village. Since I’ve been having a blitz to gradually reduce the number of water-filled bottles, we’d kept, as a crisis backup supply no longer needed with our IBC containers, I knew there would be at least 3 bags full. Not heavy to carry, but a little awkward. So I togged up in waterproof gear, decided against our big beam torch, and opted for the brilliant LED-incorporating beanie hat head torch. For anyone unfamiliar with these, they have a hundred different use scenarios. With 3 power levels, the tiny incorporated battery recharges from a standard USB charger, and the battery easily flips out so the beanie can be washed. It gives you focal light where your eyes need it in awkward dark places, but on this occasion, the fact that I had hands-free light was what I wanted.

I switched the light for its lowest power rating, not wanting to be literally left in the dark, halfway through my walk, but in any event, slipped the LED from a spare beanie into my pocket as backup. And off I set. It was a completely dark and quiet damp night. No wind, and I noticed our neighbour’s gate was open. I made a mental note to watch out for spooked dogs on the way back, if they’d been let out.

Reaching the village with a few stops to adjust my grip on the bulky bags, I noticed the council had just installed additional new 20mph signs past the end of our track, so our very small village now has twin, different speed zones within it, to keep any motorists on their toes. In the morning our lovely Tesco delivery driver told us he’d noted the actual travel time from Ammanford to us, his first drop – a distance of 21 miles. It had taken 6 minutes longer than the time allocated on his in-vehicle travel planning gizmo. He had 7 more drops to do. Anyone can figure out the financial impacts of the new Welsh 20 mph residential speed limits, on business costs. And who will end up paying for this?

Turning round for the walk back, I’d taken out the spare light to hold in my hand just in case – it really was that dark, and I became even more alert as I reached the track junction with our neighbours, Then, with all still quiet, I turned up our steep section. That’s when it happened:

 

Brief Encounter                                                                             

You freeze.  I stare.

 

For five long seconds,

fixed and focused, warm

Welsh mizzle drift-damps

our brief encounter.

 

Twin silver dollar lights,

flash-linked. Alert minds whirr.

Diode-dim reflections.

I move, you’re gone. This spell

 

snuffed silent, quietly shifts.

Track crossed, imagined head

askance, you’re there once more.

Impossible creature.

 

There are no other clues –

no sounds, no scents, no form.

Just nothingness of night

devoid of stars and moon.

 

Your forever memories?

Clumsy four-lensed Cyclops.

(Can you count? No matter.)

Bright-banded biped legs.

 

Imprinted tail-less haunting tale.

Tapetal-bright lucidity.

One beast, one man, one silent space.

Still life, tonight, at nine-thirty.

 

With nods to Noel Coward, and Katherine Rundell, whose brilliant first of a trilogy of children’s books, Impossible Creatures, I’ve just read, and hugely enjoyed. For anyone with grandchildren, or even fogies like me with intact imaginations, watch the amazingly expressive Ms. Blundell in action, in this interview – she writes with as much vividness and clarity as she speaks:

By way of musical finale, the obvious choice would be a snippet from the very well-known Piano Concerto No.2 by Rachmaninov, which was used as the title track to the classic 1945 David Lean film, “Brief Encounter.” The plot for this is based on a one-act play, and indeed subsequent screenplay by Noël Coward titled “Still Lives”. This short play was one of 10 written by Coward in the 1930s intended to be performed as variable triple bill combinations as part of his concept called “Tonight at 8.30”.

However, a last minute change of plan means I’m including a Chopin piece, his Etude in Ab major (Op 25 No 1). Composed when he was 24, it’s one of the most challenging of piano pieces to play, but I discovered it whilst hunting for something to accompany some amazing scenes I witnessed on the afternoon of October 8th.

A late afternoon walk around the fields to check the sheep (we’re still getting the odd one with fly issues, thanks to the incredibly warm September), showed a resting late-season dragonfly, and then in the long wet meadow, a wonderful profusion of gossamer spider silk strands. Profusion doesn’t seem the best word to describe what I saw, in low, slanting light. Perhaps a new word is needed – a wonderful ampullation. (Ampullation – collective noun to describe the multiple strands of spider silk sometimes seen in fields in late summer or autumn).

Since the dragline silk which makes up these gossamer threads is one of several complex ampullate spidroin proteins which the spider produces from specific ampullate glands.

Ampullate silk is, for its diameter, as strong as steel, but far more flexible, and can be stretched to 135% of its original length before breaking. It’s even being trialled by the military to create bulletproof vests. However, such amazing biochemistry and function shouldn’t distract from the simple pleasure of appreciating the vistas in this video, and marvelling.

The Etude was titled, sometime later, by Robert Schumann as ‘Aeolian Harp – Shepherd Boy’. Perhaps he was inspired by just such scenes, with gentle breezes playing on spider silk threads. He would certainly have been aware of the sounds and operation of an Aeolian harp. Such harps were very trendy in the Romantic era of the late eighteenth and nineteenth century. For those, (like me), who don’t (didn’t) know what an Aeolian harp is, it’s an instrument designed to sit outside, or placed in a slightly open window and be played by a light laminar flow of wind, blowing through its strings. It was named after the Greek God Aeolus, who was the mythical divine keeper of the winds and king of the floating island of Aeolia. (More hints at Rundell’s work here?)

They largely disappeared from the scene as gramophone records were developed in 1887, but are still available in many different, simple, and sometimes very expensive, complex designs today. They rely on some interesting physics behind their operation, created by the von Kármán vortex street effect, with the wind creating vortices behind a smooth cylinder – in this case the perfectly round strings of the harp – and it’s these vortices, which generate the variable sounds.

But enough of my perpetual problem of trying to explore, and understand!

Just experience, Julian!

Watch and listen below – the spiders’ shimmering silk threads, and later a kaleidoscope/ flutter/flight/swarm/rabble (take your pick), of butterflies and other insects which suddenly descended on the rain-battered Aster flowers on the terrace, before the sun and temperature dipped, and they were gone. Thanks to pianist Donald Betts, on Musopen, for the performance.