The recently compiled Met Office climate summary for May, and spring 2024 confirms my own limited observations. Once again records have been broken for the highest mean daily temperatures in a series dating back to 1884. But this was mainly achieved by much higher than normal nighttime temperatures – many days have been surprisingly cool. And also surprisingly dull – the lowest monthly May PV record we’ve recorded in 14 years. Rainfall, although average for May, has been sufficient over the preceding months for soil moisture levels to still be very high for this time of the year.

However, what is most striking to me is not this data, or even the excellent colour-coded maps which the Met Office generate of temperatures, sunlight and rainfall, for the whole of the UK. No, most dramatic is what I’m observing as I walk around the garden and our two wild flower hay meadows. The flower stem growth has never been as tall, for both early grasses, and now meadow buttercups and orchids, and we’ve never had as many flowers at this early part of the season. The normally short Sweet Vernal grass, (Anthoxanthum odoratum), flower stems are as tall as my hip in places – completely unprecedented. Perhaps 25 to 30% taller than normal. The wonderful red common sorrel flower heads, Rumex acetosa, are nearly chest height. Some of our Thalictrum are heading towards nearly 9 feet.

The overall effect in the meadows is a visual aesthetic treat. Very difficult to capture with still images though. The sheer numbers of flowers are a huge boon for the many insects that now use our hay meadows, and in turn for the birds that feed on them. Thanks to my persistence with pee dribbling around both fields, we’ve had no significant turf ripping by badgers looking for chafer grubs over the autumn and winter, and the last ten days have seen large numbers of the emerged adult garden chafers taking flight and whirring through and between the tall stems, whenever any sun breaks through the clouds.

It’s at this time that our 3 resident swallows descend and spend most of their time overflying this field, skimming just above waist height. A chafer must make a very nutritious meal, and having such a rich resource so close to their nests in our barn, where the first chicks have now hatched, must make life much easier for them. All of which encourages me to pound the fields as part of a regular routine, since another observation this year, is an apparent lack of rabbits, or signs of rabbit damage anywhere. However I’m loathe to write this, since just after I made a similar comment about the lack of midges, they’ve exploded into the environment in huge numbers. For the very first time, I’ve even had to resort to wearing a lightweight silk balaclava in addition to our preferred ‘Skin so Soft’ liquid, to keep the pesky insects at bay when the wind has dropped.

This abundance of herbage is going to present real problems for us in making hay. Having to get it dry in daytime temperatures which are barely reaching mid-teens, and with often heavy dew from cool nights, and limited sunshine is nearly impossible. There are no hints on the long-term forecast of a sustained hot dry spell, so on June 5th, with a small potential window of a few consecutive fairly dry days, I took the plunge and cut some small sections in both meadows with the least number of flowers.

Typically, overnight 1 mm of un-forecast rain fell, and the next night a very heavy dew descended. Much of the following 3 days were grey, with temperatures mostly reaching 12, let alone 15, degrees C. The only saving grace was the quite brisk winds, from the North. We thought we were in sight of a dry enough crop to gather in, after the third night had sufficient cloud to keep temperatures above 11 degrees C: thus exceeding the dew point with our typically high 85% humidity. However yet another un-forecast shower around midday wet the crop once more. Eventually around 3.30pm, the sun broke through, 3 hours later than predicted in the morning.

A couple of rollings of the hand turned windrows meant that we could gather the hay into our big bags loose, and get it inside the hay sheds by 9 pm – which is when with clear skies and temperatures dropping to 6 degrees C, dew would once more descend. Tipped out and loose this hay will be lovely and high quality, but it’s required several more turning inside the sheds by Fiona over 3 days to get it down to a dry enough level to store without mould formation or overheating. What a palava. And all for a few quids worth of winter fodder for our sheep.

Such decisions are always a balance – we have to complete the harvest in short bursts, and at least if we clear sections now, both grass and flowers will recover for a very vigorous second flush later in the year. Left uncut for another few weeks, these areas with little in the way of hemi-parasites like yellow rattle and eyebright would become so rank and lush that they’d become very difficult to dry if we don’t get a proper hot period later on. I’m also reminded that we’ve just passed the date last year when the amazing 6 week hot, sunny, dry spell ended.

Since then, we’ve had a single warm dry spell of longer than a week – in mid-September. That’s in a whole year. Which means for the first time, we’re thinking about what we do, should we not be able to harvest even a third of these fields this year, or indeed in future years. Clearly, this isn’t a concern for commercial scale farmers, since most fodder is removed these days as silage and wrapped in plastic – this can be completed in a day or so, if the heavy machinery can make it onto fields which aren’t too wet. But as I look out across the landscape and see the (still) peppering of golden fields amongst the plain green, I think of where the significant bio-diversity lies, and am determined to try to keep these meadows as they are for as long as we’re able.

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Another bonus of what is essentially our regenerative approach to managing these few acres of hilly land was highlighted by a recent film I travelled to view with friends at Mwldan in Cardigan last week. “Six inches of Soil”.  This page explains the idea behind creating the film. I thought it a very creditable attempt to highlight a massive problem with conventional and largely industrial agriculture, food production and marketing in the UK. And indeed in most of the ‘developed’ world. The film also considers possible solutions, through the prism of following 3 novice farmers in their first year of trying to establish new farming enterprises based on regenerative principles.

I already had a fair idea of the concepts, but the two most powerful messages I was left with was firstly the massive amount of carbon that can be stored in soils on farms that are managed in a regenerative way. And secondly, the quantity of produce that can be produced from the land when it is worked more sympathetically often approaches conventional yields when a regenerative system has been in place for a few years. Yet with vastly higher biodiversity, and reduced negative impacts to the land and soil.

The other factor at play in the explosion of vegetative growth, (aside from the abnormal weather in recent months), which I’ve witnessed here this year, is probably also beyond our control: excessive nutrients on the land arriving through both atmospheric, or water borne pollution. (I’m excluding here the minimal impact from my regular, but low volume liquid nitrogen application via the watering can😊.)

Recently I watched an interesting launch Zoom presentation by co-authors Jeremy Biggs and Penny Williams from the Freshwater Habitats Trust, of a new book “Ponds, Pools and Puddles”. 

This video is now available to watch, below, and is an interesting exploration of how such small and very varied bodies of freshwater, defined by them as (sometimes temporary) and up to 2 hectares in area, include the richest and most diverse aquatic plant and invertebrate communities found in the UK. And that this is in large part because of the reduced impact of water pollution, compared to streams, rivers and lakes, where the run-off catchment areas are usually much larger.

The presentation also highlights how such small bodies are always subtly changing, in a process that can last thousands of years, as vegetation and silt gradually accumulate in the ponds and can then subtly alter the physical and chemical nature of the pond. The authors are huge fans of new man-made ponds of all sizes and discuss how quickly they can become valuable refuges for many species in a wider landscape that is so often polluted with agrochemicals – fertilisers, pesticides or herbicides.

It’s been interesting to observe just how much the two ponds we had dug out in our lower meadows many years ago have changed over all that time, now having little free open water, in spite of being quite deep in the middle. Yet they’re still a haven for much wildlife. Located at the lowest points of our land, and with neighbours on the hill above who now use zero agricultural chemicals, they are relatively uncontaminated by significant pollution. Unlike our small bordering stream, which in spite of being within just a few hundred yards of its source, still now gets horrendous algal blooms in it, completely covering the rock and gravel stream bed for much of the spring and summer. This is at least in part due to applications of slurry and muck onto fields on the other side of the valley’s catchment.

Just how widespread is such pollution? It certainly is now getting a lot more media coverage. Our elder son has many years experience of trying to mitigate this in his role as a civil engineer in the water industry. We’ve discussed it many times, and he’s highlighted that although there is now specific legislative regulation as to when and how farmers can apply slurry or muck to the land, it’s very poorly enforced. And to be fair to farmers in periods of prolonged heavy rain, and saturated ground, (as we’ve endured for most of the last 12 months), there are rarely dry windows in which the slurry can be spread onto fields. And certainly difficult to apply it far enough from any water course to avoid it rapidly being washed into the stream or river. Which then causes the algal blooms we observe, which are so detrimental to water oxygen levels and aquatic life. He explained that in theory farmers should increase their holding capacity for slurry or muck, to prevent applications being made in unsuitable conditions. In practice this is simply too expensive an option for them.

However, it’s not just run-off from land based pollution that’s an issue. In this extensive recent report, (snappily titled: “Trends in critical load and critical exceedances – 2022)  the impact of atmospheric pollution on our landscape is disturbing. Again, one clearly can’t escape such impact, even in a quite remote landscape. It seems that our area of North West Carmarthenshire is a hot zone for excess atmospheric nitrogen deposition, equating to over 14, and possibly over 28 KG nitrogen per hectare per year, above the level considered to be critical for significant ecosystem damage. In other words our local ecosystems are probably suffering significant adverse impacts from all this excess nitrogen, falling from the skies. It’s a very detailed, long report, but the maps on page 20 illustrate how much of the UK now suffers from this sort of air deposited pollution. If I assume a figure of 25 KG Nitrogen excess, and try to put this surplus weight of nitrogen into context, it would equate to 100 KG of a typical granular commercial inorganic fertiliser being applied to every hectare of this part of the world, once a year. Free, but unavoidable. That’s a heck of a weight of unpaid for, unwanted nitrogen, both boosting plant growth, and impacting negatively on ecosystems. Perhaps it’s not surprising that our plants are looking so large this year, with ample soil moisture, if not bright light.

For those interested in where all this excess nitrogen comes from, it’s mainly two sources – atmospheric ammonia, of which about 88% comes from agriculture: from the spreading and storage of slurry, manure and inorganic fertilisers. And secondly from nitrogen oxides, which mainly come from the burning of fossil fuels in transport, energy production and other industrial processes.

We’re delighted (and amazed) to see that our stream still has small trout or salmonids in it this spring despite all the algal sludge. But mainly concentrated in a few of the deeper pools. Perhaps they will even evolve to cope with higher nitrogen and phosphorus levels which are the key elements involved in this.

I can certainly foresee a time when, if winters stay mild, cutting and producing hay the way we do may become too impractical in our changing climate. My guess is that a further reduced stocking rate, and greater plant diversity in all of our fields, might allow for regular rotational grazing of all our fields, with just a late annual topping of meadows and some scarification in the autumn months to encourage wild flower seed germination. And hoping we get minimal days of snow cover when access to the grass would disappear, and hay or some alternative supplementary feeding would be needed..

All of this discussion highlights that wildflower meadows are the most wonderful, diverse, nature-supporting communities. Creating many times greater diversity than a modern intensively managed pasture with its frequent slurry or fertilise applications, and cut for silage several times a year.

However, ‘natural’ they are not. They’re completely dependent upon sensitive human interaction and management. They change constantly, from year to year, regardless of human input. Yet remove or modify this seasonal human and herbivore grazing activity, (as aftermath grazing) and plant, fungi and invertebrate populations will change surprisingly quickly.

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As a musical interlude, here’s one of my recent discoveries. A new piece played beautifully by a new pianist, for me, the Bulgarian, Veneta Neynska. The music, composed by a 19 year old Sergei Rachmaninoff in 1892, is one of 5 small works from a suite, ‘Morceaux de fantaisie’ Op.3. This first piece, Elegie in E♭ minor, precedes his more famous Prelude in C sharp minor, which we already knew, and which our younger son very ambitiously tackled as one of his A level performance pieces, many years ago. It demonstrates the rich melodic vein that the composer tapped with many of his later works. This set was dedicated to Anton Arensky, his harmony teacher at the Moscow Conservatory.

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I couldn’t let a post with this title pass me by without referencing last week’s momentous F, F and G dramas: firstly the announcement of Nigel Farage‘s entry into the British general election campaign, as both a candidate and also as the new leader of the Reform party. Secondly, on the same evening, Monday June 3rd, came the televised grilling of Dr. Anthony Fauci by the American House Select Subcommittee on the coronavirus pandemic. Since acquiring and reading The Real Anthony Fauci, well over 2 years ago, written by Robert F. Kennedy Jnr, the alternative, independent candidate to Trump and Biden in the upcoming USA elections, I’ve been looking forward to watching how Dr. Fauci behaved as a witness, under oath.

Few readers will be interested or bother to sit through hours of such inquisition. Here’s a link to a typical example of one senator (Marine veteran, helicopter pilot, emergency room physician and since 2023, the senator for Georgia), Dr. Rich McCormick’s allocated 5 minutes of comments, questions and Fauci responses. For a summary of the Select Subcommittee’ key take-aways from the grilling of the most influential American government scientist during the lead up to, and management of Covid 19, click here.

I mention this subject, and book now, (for the first time on this blog, I think), because some sort of awareness of the message of the second half of the above book’s title – “the global war on democracy and public health”, is useful as our own election approaches. Reading the book’s detailed analysis, compiled by an author with considerable forensic, analytical skills honed by years of successful litigation cases pursuing large corporates over pollution incidents, was more than just an eye opener. The scales fell from my eyes. It helped explain to me why, and how, the political, news and corporate world we’re now surrounded by, works. And how interconnected it is in Western democracies.

The G drama of last week refers to the loss of a vote of no-confidence in Wales’ own very recently appointed First Minister, the Labour Party’s Vaughan Gething (President of Wales National Union of Students of Wales whilst at Aberystwyth University, solicitor specialising in employment law, President of Wales TUC, political career in the Senedd from 2011). An interestingly different CV to the American senator, above. Yet a surprisingly parallel one to the former Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair, and current Labour leader, Sir Keir Starmer. Almost 3 peas from the same pod, one might say – both read law at University, as Gething did, and Blair and Starmer both professed support for Trotsky principles, before moving into careers as barristers with interests in the human rights fields, before electoral selection and success moved them into parliament as MPs and eventually leadership of the Labour Party. (I thought I needed to do a bit of brushing up on the complex and violent life and times of Leon Trotsky to understand why politicians aligning with this figure’s ideals might, or might not, be good leaders for the UK in the years ahead).

Normally one might think that the loss of a no confidence vote by Mr. Gething in the Senedd (Wales governing parliament) would be a cause for immediate resignation. Particularly given the reasons for the debate and vote of no confidence. To date this shows no sign of happening. This is how The Guardian recorded the events. It seems likely that Wales’ political process will be paralysed whilst Mr. Gething remains in post. This is a somewhat later take, by BBC Wales, on the more recent issues relating to Mr. Gething leading to the no confidence vote.

About 8 years ago, (gosh, was it really that long ago?) in early July, there had been another significant vote for the British people. An apparently unexpected result was declared. It inspired me to write a few words: ‘A rural view‘. It seems unlikely that anything so dramatic will happen in early July this year, but who knows.

Maybe England will win a great victory in the Euro football championship, as Wales did in 2016. Maybe the vote won’t go as pundits predict? And I might be inspired to write a few more words. I very much doubt it. What a long and often politically depressing 8 years it has been since that moment in July 2016.

I’d pretty much decided that I was going to spoil my ballot paper this time around using slightly tweaked lyrics from Gerry Rafferty’s excellent song performed here live on Top of the Pops:

Clowns to the left of me
Jokers to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with WHO?

But now? I’m not so sure.

Maybe I shall vote after all. The list of prospective parliamentary candidates has just been published for our local constituency, and thanks to recent boundary changes for the newly created Caerfyrddin constituency, it has become a larger and less easy to predict electoral population mix.

Decisions. Decisions.

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The Old Man with the Hats

“Who owns this land?”

Asked the sun as he peered above the horizon and saw that the clouds had at long last vanished. He could see above the hundred hills and valleys that stretched in front of him, all the way to the distant sea in the West, beneath a sky of perfect blue.

He’d seen so much of our solar system. He’d seen so much of this Earth so many times. Mountain peaks, and arid plains. Open oceans and frosty forests, but never before seen such a green and golden, rolling, hilly land.

He asked again, to anyone who would listen to him this early in the morning, with the land still soaked in dew.

“Who owns this land?”

The kite ignored him, gliding down into a dying ash tree, where he hid behind a few unfurling, pale green leaves. Then the kite turned and whistle-warbled at the sun in his shrill, three-toned voice. Once or twice. The sun didn’t know if this meant anything, and if it did, he didn’t understand what it was, so rose higher in the sky, and asked a swallow, skimming low over the gently dancing buttercups.

“Who owns this land?“

“I can’t stop to chatter“, said the swallow swooping this way and that, and quartering the field at high speed. “I’ve chafers and flies to catch for hungry chicks before lunch and afterwards, I’ll hunt the drones and queens above the castle hill below you. And anyway, I only come here every summer on holiday. I don’t live here. Try asking the moles. They live here all year, so they should know the answer to your question.”

So the sun rose higher and burned down upon the slope as strongly as he could. Eventually, the brown soil of a molehill shifted, grew darker and damper in the centre and two big pink clawed spades pushed through, followed by a tiny pink nose, then long white whiskers and a head of softest black velvet.

“Who owns this land?” the sun asked the mole, patiently, wondering at this strange-looking animal, and how sad it must be to live underground for all of its life, with no fresh air to breathe. The mole squinted into the sky. He didn’t know it was dangerous to look straight at the sun, but anyway, his eyelids were tightly shut around his pinhead eyes, so although he heard the sun’s question, all he felt was a faint orange-hued warmth, behind his closed lids.

“Not me“, squeaked the mole in his quiet, thin voice. “I just live here and mine the ground for worms. You could ask them, I suppose, or better still, the Waxcaps. They’re well connected with everything, and probably know the answer to your question.”

“Ah“, said the sun. “And where will I find them?”

“I pass them every day down here. But if you want to see them above ground, you’ll have to come back later, in the autumn, when their mushrooms pop up“.

“Thank you“, said the sun, kindly, “But I think I’ll try asking someone else today. I never know when I might see this land again.“

So he looked down into the meadow and called to the millions of flowers which filled the field and danced happily together in the gentle breeze.

“Who owns this land?” the sun asked them, hopefully.

“Not us,” they sang in perfect harmony, their colours chorusing in golds and whites and pinks and blues more beautiful than any flowers the sun had seen in the world’s grandest gardens. “Our time is brief, we must enjoy it while we can. If you return too often, we’ll all be gone, cut down in our prime, to make hay to feed the sheep over winter so please don’t linger. But you could ask them before you go. They might know the answer to your question“.

By now, he’d risen high above the small flock quietly grazing in the valley bottom, with their cheerful black and white faces, so he boomed down in his warm voice.

“Tell me, little lambs, do you know who owns this land?”

The sheep all scattered, startled by this sudden sound from above, but when they saw it was only the sun, whom they’d missed for so many days, they all smiled and bleated up in unison.

“You need to ask the Old Man with the Hats. He’s bound to know.”

“Thank you,” said the sun. “And where will I find him, since I don’t have long before I have to move on, and I can’t see anyone about from up here.”

“He sometimes walks around the high meadow, all on his own“. They bleated back.

The sun looked down into the high meadow and saw shadows and the dark tips of boots just inside the open doors of the green hut. Which sheltered beneath a lollipop tree at the top of the field. He asked the North wind for a small favour, since he couldn’t see inside and wondered whether the Old Man with the Hats was sitting in there.

The North wind and sun weren’t the best of friends, but sometimes bumped into each other, so tried to keep on good terms. So the North wind did as the sun had asked him, and moved through the grass stems, which grew tall between the golden flowers. As waves upon an ocean, they whispered the sun’s question for him.

“Who owns this land?”

The Old Man with the Hat saw the swaying waves of grass, and heard the whispered question, sitting quietly as he was, all on his own.

“Indeed, I live here, and many years ago I did buy this land from the farmer who lived here before us. But do I own it? Let me gather my thoughts, which is why I sometimes sit awhile up here.“

Then, remembering that there was work to do, he rose, closed the doors, and began to walk down the hill, still thinking to himself, following the mown path that led amongst the flowers and grasses.

“Ah. Now I can see you,” said the sun, “I must tell you that of all the lands I’ve seen in my travels, this is truly one of the most beautiful, so I’m sure someone must claim to own it.”

Glancing up a little, but with the wide rim of his straw hat shielding his eyes from the sun’s fierce gaze, the Old Man with the Hat spoke again.

“Having thought a little more about what you asked, I think that for all your ancient wisdom, you’re asking me the wrong question.” The Old Man with the Hat replied.

“Which I find it’s very easy to do. And it’s even harder trying to answer the wrong question than trying to answer the right one. Particularly questions beginning with why, or how? Even if you think about the question for a very long time. I always used to struggle with the why questions when our children asked me. There’s rarely a simple answer. You have to try to understand what they’re thinking of, which is never easy, since they have far more ideas than we do. And we adults have far more experience and knowledge than they do from which to fashion an answer. So it should be easier for us, but somehow it doesn’t seem to be.”

He paused for a few moments, thought some more, and then walked on.

“But I still enjoy asking myself the why and how questions, and trying to work out the answers. Even if it takes me a long time, and even if I sometimes never succeed. Perhaps I’m a little too inquisitive in my old age. I do like to try to understand things.”

He paused again, then walked on a little further down the narrow path slanting through the meadow.

“No one really owns this land, I’d say. Although it’s true that I live here and call it home. Although we didn’t used to call it so, before we moved here from the North. Or was that the East? It’s so long ago now, and my memory isn’t what it used to be. I’m just a caretaker, a steward of this land, I think. When I came here I was looking for the golden key that lies at the end of a rainbow, which I’d read about in an old story. I’ve seen many rainbows here over all those years and always looked for a golden key. But I’ve never found one.“ “I suspect I never shall, although that doesn’t mean there isn’t one somewhere. Wouldn’t you agree? And if I did find one, what would it be for? Instead, I’ve sown these beautiful gold, and white, and pink, and blue flowers to cheer me and unlock such rich pleasures when your warmth returns each summer. And maybe when I’m gone, someone else will come to love this land, and call it home. And share it with the sheep and the bees and the birds and the flowers, which share it with my wife and I so graciously.“

“But I’m talking too much, as I always do.” Said the Old Man with the Hat, who by now had reached the bottom of the slanting path, by the long white house. The sun regretted that he couldn’t stay longer to ask the Old Man with the Hat some other questions which didn’t begin with who. Like why just a few of the fields had so many flowers, but most of the fields around didn’t. And how the Old Man with the Hat looked after the fields and everything that shared the land with him.

But he had the rest of the world to visit, so he thanked the Old Man with the Hat, for his answers and smiled.

The Old Man with the Hat turned and watched as the sun slowly moved Westwards over the hill, sad to see him leave, after so brief a time.

“Now that’s a rarity.” The sun said to himself as he drifted lower across the sky. “A beautiful land that no-one wants to say they own.” Soon he began to pass over the calm sea that lay at the edge of the ocean, and the Old Man with the Hat disappeared from his sight.

The next day the clouds began to return, just after dawn. The sun was nowhere to be seen, though the brightness on the small clouds’ sides showed that he was still there, high above the clouds, which drifted East towards the hills that marked the horizon. Later in the day, The Old Man with the Hat climbed up the hill once more. And sat in the hut, alone with his thoughts. And wondered if he really had talked with the sun the day before. And who really owned this land. And whether it really mattered, anyway.

Or whether it was all just a daydream. Or an illusion.

High above, now fully hidden behind the clouds, the sun passed overhead once more. Over the green and golden rolling land he’d seen the day before. Except, of course, the sun knew that it wasn’t he that was moving over the land. It was the Earth that was spinning around. Precisely one full turn, every single day. Which made it seem to the Old Man with the Hat that it was the sun which had moved across the sky. Now that really was an illusion.

Like the Old Man with the Hat, the sun still had so many questions he found it hard to answer. Even after living for such an enormously long time. Like where all the stars and planets that filled the trillions of galaxies that sparkled in the cold darkness all around him, actually came from. And where the universe that spanned them all really ended. And what was beyond that. And when the stars and planets and galaxies all began to be. Just thinking these questions made him feel very tired.

And although he didn’t ask as many who questions any more, after his brief conversation with the Old Man with the Hats, just once in a while he still wondered who had made them all.