The moniker Fermyn Woods applies to a scatter of woods. I am in the biggest chunk, covering three square kilometres of land, but a clear kilometre away from the renowned Fermyn Wood, the bit that draws crowds to its playground and purple emperor butterflies.
In today’s wood, the names tell of a mottled history – Harry’s Park Wood, Meadow Leys, Old Dry Bushes. Clearly this was not always hazel coppice, and ash and oak high forest, with patches of conifer plantation: in the past, livestock roamed meadows and park woodland.
This afternoon I have it all to myself; in two hours of exploring long, open rides and twisting enclosed trails I see no other human. It is humid and hot, and the recent shower has released earthy and leafy scents. Slanting sunlight penetrates mottled and tumid grey clouds, and, to the north, thunder rolls.
Along the rides, wild angelica, brandishing umbels of white pom-poms, is so abundant that the visiting orange sawflies, hoverflies and yellow and black wasps, appear sparse.
The sky clears, the gentle chirp of dark bush-crickets emanates from the brambles, but woodland life feels subdued, languid and drowsy in the muggy afternoon. Yet the rich drama plays on.
Here a couple of froghoppers mate on a leaf; she is a uniform amber brown, but he is a smart dark chocolate, bordered with a ribbon of white. In the overhanging trees a willow warbler constantly flits, gleaning insects with ruthless efficiency.
There is a paucity of old trees in this wood, and it seems less wildlife-rich than the older patches of Fermyn. Nevertheless, there are treasures to find, a single patch of greater burnet saxifrage and a lone cinnamon bug (Corizus hyoscyami) – a glorious red bug, striped and spotted with black.
I am a little surprised to see it here in the heart of England, as it is an insect I associate with coastal areas, particularly in the south-west and Wales. But it transpires that, in the past five years, it has spread inland and made its way up the east coast.
