WHERE DO you start? Assuming you have no experience of watching wildlife, this whole subject matter of getting close to, and reconnecting yourself to, the wild may seem to be a bit daunting at first. For a start, you’ve got millions of species of other animated life forms to choose from, and you’ll almost certainly have in your imagination the fantasy image of what you might think this book is about. But trust me, there is a point to this – it’s the beginning of a journey and it’s a journey that starts off at a walking pace.
While you might hanker after being familiar with a fox or matey with a moose, or even gaining the confidence of a Kodiak bear (and any other wildlife alliterations of which there are many), the reality is, it’s probably better, more achievable, cheaper and indeed safer to train your senses with smaller and more accessible life forms. The little things in life rarely let you down and few will eat you if you get things a little wrong.
Before tigers, black rhino, badgers, dippers and even robins, it was caterpillars. There is seemingly little in common between a top feline apex predator and an unassuming fleshy grub of a thing, but there is. This personal connection with nature for me started in a jam jar. I have to reiterate, in a world of flow diagrams and step-by-step hand-holding instruction manuals, you don’t have to emulate my path; this is merely a serving suggestion. Find your own thing, but by all means, if you’re struggling for inspiration, you can do a lot worse than picking a few large white caterpillars off your nasturtiums or cabbages and observing them.
To take a small creature and look at it through a different set of eyes, to smell it, touch it, feel it, is great training – you can do all these things, surprisingly, with these caterpillars. For a short moment in my life, all of my focus was on these ‘pets’. I did all of these things, I drank them in in every way I could (almost: I never tasted one).
You might not think of a caterpillar in a jam jar as a multisensory thing, but I just have to see these mottled eating machines on my allotment and I can recall watching them moult (five times), the periodic struggle to rush out of the previous tight skin and reveal a new one underneath, the smell of the ‘mustard oils’ as I unscrewed the lid to change their food every day, and the same smell from the green goo they would vomit onto my fingers if I was a little rough with them, I can even hear them eating, a methodical, miniature, mechanistic ticking. I had always thought the caterpillar built its chrysalis around itself, but I watched an animated caterpillar wriggle out of its skin to reveal something unlike its previous form. The mask was removed to reveal a bag with no recognisable caterpillar features, then it hardened into a box, one that wriggled when gently touched.
Finally, the climax of the whole life cycle, the crescendo of wing and limb, came when, a couple of weeks later, that everyday hedgerow miracle occurred – the chrysalis ruptured into butterfly life.
If that’s not enough to stir you up, to bewilder and amaze you and to generate a list of questions, then I don’t know what is. It had me hooked and then I started to look at butterflies, not just as floaty comments of summer, but as marvels, each one an envoy for a magical metamorphosis, four different life stages, each with its own mysterious transformation, each with its own ecology, predations and dramas.
They got me out, I was a caterpillar hunter. I poured over details, honed search images to hunt out their often highly cryptic forms; I stalked the adults as they nectared on flowers, just because I could. It was a game at first, but then I was mesmerised by their patterned eyes, the mechanics of the watch-spring proboscis. They drew me in and while I fell into their rabbit holes of wonder, I found other things, denizens of the world, which equally challenged the senses and my interpretations of the world at large.
When was the last time you got down on your hands and knees and simply stared at the world of the grass-roots jungle? I mean really got eyeball to compound eye with a beetle or an ant? Most of us go about our lives completely unaware that we are missing all the good stuff that is going on almost under our feet. In fact, when we notice these most numerous groups of creatures on earth, underfoot is pretty much where many of us would want them to be. I’ve never really understood all the negative connotations which are conjured up just by the mention of their names: fly, spider, caterpillar, moth – you get the idea.
However, one of the real challenges of life is being able to see these inhabitants of the microcosm as equal denizens of this planet; every species, if we’re talking about the concept of biodiversity, scores the same.
By this I mean that if we’re talking about the importance of the variety of life on Earth, that big fluffy giant panda is as important as that ant that just scuttled across the paving slab and disappeared down the crack. The only real difference is our attitude, knowledge and understanding and, sadly, it’s harder work to try and relate to an ant, and it’s a whole lot easier simply to hate them.
Ant or anteater, tiger or tiger moth, every living thing (and yes, that includes wasps, mosquitos, slugs and spiders) has a function within its ecosystem, and part of a naturalist’s ability to connect to the world is to not only understand this interconnectivity of life but also to go searching for some of the answers. Admittedly, it can be a bit of a challenge, but with some sound observations and a curious mind, you can become acquainted with some of the most fascinating of animals and, in doing so, connect at a much more intimate level with the world around you.
The best thing about the invertebrates is that small creatures take up little space and so there are always some to be seen wherever you are and at all times of the year.
One of my favourite activities, one which really helps me to get my eye in, is to do something that in our hyper-fast modern world there never seems to be much time to do, and that is to lie still. Find some nice, tall grass and, after a quick check for thistles, nettles and other objects that it would not be desirable to lie on, get down on your belly, get comfortable and simply watch.
Just stare at the grass and other plants and, deliberately, slowly pull focus through the depths of this verdant miniature forest. Sometimes it helps to partly squint through your narrowed eyelids, as this cuts out peripheral distractions and allows you to pick up on any movement.
Recently I did this with a group of retired professionals who, when they came on one of my wildlife-watching weekends, mistakenly believed that the sort of wildlife watching we were going to do was all from the comfort of a minibus or at least while standing upright. However, after a few minutes of giggling and grumbling as arthritic limbs were bent and buckled into load-bearing contortions – some shapes which, probably, hadn’t been experienced by their bodies for some fifty years – they settled down. Where moments before there had been a group of eighteen or so octogenarians, bedecked in red and yellow cagoules, there was suddenly nothing visible or moving. Save for the gentle breeze rippling the grass and causing the wild flowers to bob around as if freed from their earth-bound roots, it was for a few moments at least as if they had been suddenly atomised and beamed off to another planet. Well, they sort of had. Slowly, as old eyes became accustomed to the rhythms and oscillations of the plant stems, they were transported to a world inhabited by multi-legged aliens and creatures.
Strange cooing noises, gasps and the odd slightly more abrupt exclamation signified to me that somewhere in the sward in front of me my group were witnessing things never before seen.
As you stare into the tangle of greens, the exercise starts with colour. Immerse yourselves in the multitude of hues and tones of this rarely witnessed world. Really get tuned in to the variety of pigments that are on display. I like to think about what it is that makes these colours all so different, the thickness of the leaf or stem, the other microscopic structures within that either bounce light around, let it through or obscure it. I imagine all those science lessons about transpiration, photosynthesis and circulation in plants coming to life. This is what fuels life on Earth. Inside each plant, through tiny pipes and micro-plumbing, the elixir of life is flowing, magical sugars and proteins made from nothing but light, water and the gasses we all breathe in and out. Conjuring up an ecological vision of the molecular alchemy in your mind’s eye helps with understanding what the others are up to.
No sooner do you start to imagine the building blocks, the cellular machinery and the ebb and flow of microscopic living processes than you meet one of the giants, plumbed in to a stem by its sharp, piercing rostrum mouthparts; a plant hopper feeds like a wine thief stealing its sugary needs.
You hadn’t noticed it when you first pushed your face into the grass, but now, as you’ve tuned in to the minute, rhythm and patterns of the plants, it suddenly stands out; its mere shape and form, even though beautifully matching the colours and lines of its environment, appears to pop out at you. Just the swell of its body, the twitch of a leg or antennae is enough to give it away to your now-rejoicing senses – you’ve just taken a first step into a deeper natural awareness.
In no time at all you’ll be feasting your eyes on a world you had probably never seen before and one that you may not have even experienced unless you had undertaken this, the simplest of instructions – to take a little time out and lie down on your belly.
For some of us the planet feels as if it holds few surprises; the great explorers of the nineteenth century and the modern scrutineers of science sometimes seem to have stolen all the real exploration and excitement for themselves. Sometimes it’s easy to feel that we might have been born 150 years too late. Not true. The perception is a false one – to become an Indiana Jones, an Isaac Newton or an Alfred Russel Wallace you need do nothing more than change your perspective on the world, lower your horizons and get down on your elbows.
It’s as easy as that, you just have to build that bridge in some way. I found that insects are very accessible and you can fast-track into the wild in their company. But, of course, they are just a small part of the equation. They don’t exist in isolation, nothing does.
Your effectiveness improves with every curious moment. If you’ve taken away some of the techniques in the previous chapters, you will inevitably observe, smell and hear other things. Question and quiz all that you experience and you’ll start a magical mystery tour.
My thing for caterpillars led to a basic knowledge of botany – it had to, you need to know what they eat, in order to find them. Some are not that fussy, while others are so specific that it’s the limits of the food plant, not the insect, that make it rare.
Very quickly you develop an ability to identify different kinds of plants by their foliage, flower, bark and growth form, you can’t help yourself. It’s botanising. Not that I would call myself a plant expert. In fact, I’m not an expert in anything; ‘expert’ is a dangerous word that suggests it’s a final achievable goal. When you hear it used to describe someone, all it says to me is that they have pursued one particular area more than another.
For the curious, nothing exists in isolation. Caterpillars, by necessity, lead to plants, and adult butterflies and moths need other kinds of plants to feed upon, so you get to know these too. Then there is the morphological circus that every stage in the life cycle takes part in – every scale on the wing, every spine, flap or flange has a role to play in an insect’s survival; this then leads you into the world of what threats to survival there are, what predators – the birds, the shrews and mice, to name but a few – and so it goes on, connection after ecological sensory connection. You become ensnared in a net of wonder and with it comes an awareness – what I refer to as rewilding connection. You are using everything you’ve got on the world – the things you see, smell, taste and feel – an alchemy of senses, and your brain and you become part of it. The deep, core satisfaction that comes with it is the real, wild you.
The sphere of influence
Something to bear in mind, something that neatly encapsulates all of what we’ve learned about ourselves and the world we’re trying to immerse ourselves in, is that although we may not for the most part be a threat, we move clumsily and noisily about our business in a short-term ‘there’s nothing around that might eat us’ kind of way, and are unbelievably disruptive and disturbing to all around. As a consequence we spoil many a moment before it ever happens.
Part of my work as a naturalist, whether I’m working on a film and waiting for the shot, doing ecological survey work, or simply enjoying nature in a meditative way, requires me to spend quite a lot of time, maybe more than most, simply sitting still, being patient and waiting for life to happen all around me. It’s the art of sitting still and being able to shut up. There’s nothing to it, it’s not rocket science, and yet it’s something we rarely do. Try it, find an hour a week – it could be your lunch break, or a detour on the way home from work. Just find a spot, and sit there. Practise tuning in, listening, looking, smelling, all of which can be done while rooted to the spot.
On several occasions I have been sitting quietly and have witnessed first-hand other people ‘missing’ some pretty amazing stuff simply because they are crashing through life, turned off to possibility. I’m always hearing how people are amazed at the luck I have, the things I see on a regular basis, yet there is no reason why they can’t experience these things too. While luck always plays its hand in whether a moment is experienced or not, it cannot apply to every scenario. I put a lot of this down to something I call our personal sphere of influence.
When we go for a stroll, it’s a fact that we have a rolling, invisible effect on all that we pass. A sphere of influence on all the life forms that surround us, especially those with a well-developed central nervous system. If you walk quietly, calmly and slowly through the landscape, your sphere of influence shrinks. Conversely, if you speed up, your disturbance factor increases proportionally. When you are moving slowly, you will also tend to notice the details and the finer nuances of the world around you, and this is when you get to see stuff happening. Stop moving altogether and let a little time go by and your invisible footprint can sometimes almost completely dissolve; this is when butterflies land on you, mice run over your feet, and birds perch and sing, so close that you can hear their breath.
This increased ability to notice things is partly down to your lower speed: you’ve just given your senses more time to take it all in but you also represent less of a threat, you make less noise, and are able to adjust to the unfolding picture around you: a stoat moving its kits makes you pause, enabling you to drink in the furry wonder of it all; a pied flycatcher snatching caterpillars from bursting oak buds – you stop, it stops, and after a breathless moment of mutual scrutiny, its assessment of your threat level enables it to continue feeding. Such trust gives you an insight into an intimate everyday process.
When you started this book, you might have been one of many people I meet who are desperate to connect with nature in some way but have been put off somewhat by the lingo, the bewildering array of subject matter and, perhaps, the consequences of getting something wrong. Expert syndrome also takes its toll on some people, clipping their enthusiasm, drowning the sometimes childlike wonder in a sea of seriousness. Hopefully, many of these fears have now been allayed. Boil everything down to its basics and take each moment for what it gives you; drink in, absorb the sensations and revel in the experiences you have on your adventures. You may well find yourself lost in a taxonomic maze, unable to put a name to a face or feature. No matter. We often get ourselves in a tizzy over the identification of something, a plant, a bird, an infeasibly small moth – I know I do on a regular basis. If I’ve been on a fungal foray or have just emptied a moth trap and am working my way through all of my specimens, I always have a handful that make me want to cry, give up and take up a simple hobby like stamp collecting instead. Take comfort in the fact that every ‘expert’ has times when he or she feels this way. In a moment of insane frustration brought on by a field guide to fungi, I tore it up and fed it and the little brown mushrooms to my giant African lands snails – they, at least, got some sugars and starches from the experience (it wasn’t a very good book, as it turns out). Paying attention to the details and recording what you experience will take you a lot further. This familiarity is what brings the answers in the end. Eventually, some of these skills will become first nature and in time you’ll start to unravel the details.
Foraging is a good example of this – wild foods are everywhere. Finding them, identifying them and eating them is a very satisfying way to connect with the natural world. As ever, how things unfold always boils down to being careful, taking your time, using your senses, exploring and trusting what you’re seeing, smelling, feeling and tasting. The basic skills and lessons in this book should help empower you in whatever natural adventures you wish to set out on, whether it’s trying to get that perfect photograph, meal or insight into a wild life.