Depressing news. The earth’s sixth mass extinction is on the way, and it’s our fault. I could have told you that ages ago, which is why my friend Clayden and I have been doing our bit to avert it and are clinging to the last remnants of biodiversity by letting our gardens grow rather wild. It’s easy for me, because it’s my garden. I can have frogs, foxes, nettles, dandelions and more bees if I so wish. But Clayden has the housing association contract gardeners to deal with, who like to shave the grass bald and hack everything else almost to death.
This year he left a large notice out for them, saying, “No strimming,” and explained it to a neighbour. “I want part of the garden to be a grassy wildlife area.”
“Boy scout,” mumbled the neighbour scornfully, and buzzed off. Clearly our government’s National Pollinator Strategy has not got through to everyone. Perhaps because it’s a bit wet – full of monitoring, promoting, securing awareness and commitments, workshopping and studying, and stopping funding this year for National Improvement Areas.
I know voluntary action is cheaper and less bother for our leaders, but could I suggest they toughen up a bit, impose mandatory wild meadow areas for every council’s parks and verges, and enforce a strict ban on paving and shaving gardens, before the planet goes right down the pan?
Even the Californians are beginning to give up on watering lawns in the desert and trying native, drought-tolerant plants, and then their gardens fill with darling humming birds and bumble bees. About time, too. I may sound a bit Fotherington-Thomas, but what does everyone want? To gaze at lovely flora and fauna, or die in a wasteland?
“Why don’t you go over to China and tell them off,” says Fielding. “Their green programme is lamentable.” He calls himself a realist. That is our problem, people like Fielding. He has given up hope. I have not. I like to think we have a last, weeny chance to save ourselves. Or I might as well just go and bang my head on the nearest concrete patio.
