Renaturing
Twenty years ago James Canton moved to the countryside and bought a small field close to his cottage. Slowly he began to return it to nature, until, instead of being empty, it was buzzing with life. Renaturing is his account of that process, and an inspiring illustration of the small things we can all do to rewild our world, whether we have a farm, a field or just a window box
James’s field meadow in spring
12 April
My first sighting of a swallow this year. They’re back from Africa. I could cry with joy.
On 13 April 1768, Gilbert White, eighteenth-century vicar and naturalist, simply wrote ‘Hirundo domestica!!!’ in his diary on seeing the swallows had returned. The three exclamation marks tell of his utter delight.
16 April
Planted the two great mullein plants that have sat in pots since last summer. Spoke to Tony over the fence who said the bloke who owned Parks Farm might well lend his digger if I wanted, for the pond. ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Tony, ‘next time I see him.’
18 April
A sunny Sunday morning. I am out early. A blackcap is singing from atop an oak branch in the field, all gusto and hope.
19 April
Time is against me. I need to get all the sections sown with wildflower seed before the end of the month at the latest. I scarify the ground with that strange three-clawed tool that I found years ago in the shed which scrapes at the surface of the soil like the foot of some prehistoric creature.
The swallow is there early morning, sat preening his wing feathers, and then gone for much of the day, which I put down to the presence of workmen digging up the road directly beneath to install hyper-fast broadband. Late afternoon, I weed the strawberry patch. The road has returned to quiet and the sun is shining. He appears again. Chittering. Busy lifting one long wing, then the other; the two prongs of his tail pointing to the ground.
My neighbours Jane and Bruce pass with their rescue black Labrador, Rocky. I call a hello, then rise from my knees and we chat over the hedge. The swallow appears on the wire above their heads. ‘Just back from Africa,’ I say, pointing, oddly proud.
20 April
I am running out of wildflower seed and realise that there simply isn’t enough to go round for the remaining sections to the west. It’s something of a saving grace as I won’t manage to dig out the bramble roots in time anyway. So I vow to clear and prepare one more strip down to the wild service tree, seed that and then call it a day. The remaining two outcrop patches will act as control areas – to see what arises from the soils naturally. Apart from bramble.
Having dug a new, small, triangular patch at the front of the field, I spot the remnant of a cherry tree which had been taken out of the cottage garden years earlier. Now, weathered and worn, the remains have an intriguing structure. I lift it from the ground and turn it upside down. The root stub looks like some strange bird’s head, a mythical crow perhaps. I look again and wonder if in fact there isn’t some Green Man face peering back at me from within the whorls and cracks of the wood. Anyhow, the tree will make a fine piece of natural art. So I dig a hole and fix the trunk at the apex of the triangle of freshly prepared earth.
There feels something deeply atavistic in this action. I think of the ancient monument of Seahenge discovered on the Norfolk coast at Holme where a great oak had been inverted and placed in the ground 4,000 years ago at the centre of a carefully prepared circle of timber. I stand back. The stump sculpture seems to fit in nicely.
I head inside to weigh out some of the precious remaining seed. Though only some ten square metres, the new triangular section will have to go light on meadow mix. I add some twenty grams of the special cornfield mix and then some of the remaining devil’s-bit scabious and musk mallow. It should be a fine floral display come summer. I scatter the seed and then net the area, as it is small enough to do so, with the old net I once used to keep the blackbirds from the strawberries.
About an hour later, I spot a wren perched on a root of the upturned cherry tree.
Renaturing: Small Ways to Wild the World by James Canton is out now. Order your copy here.
