How lovely to see that books about nature are all the rage. The public suddenly seems to be mad keen on butterflies, badgers, hawks, coastlines, rivers and hedgerows. And none too soon, if you ask me. Last week I met a youngish woman in the park, who was about to teach a class of primary school children about nature.
“Do you know the names of the trees?” she asked, looking a little anxious. She did not, and needed to. I’ve forgotten some, but I know the main ones – oak, beech, birch, sycamore. We used to bring leaves into class and draw all the different shapes, and now here was a young grownup who hadn’t a clue. What did she learn in her school? But at least she was in the park, trying to show the natural world to the kiddies from the concrete jungle.
No wonder so many of us are going barmy. I blame our brutish, inhuman environment, soon to be more brutish when the South Bank in London is stuffed with more giant towers. Be grateful if you don’t live there. I’m doing my best at home, with the frogs, foxes, mice, goldfinches – well, one sighting so far – buddleias, butterflies and assorted weeds, dog and tortoise, but it’s a struggle. I posted a picture of my frogs on Facebook, with the count for that morning – 49 – and someone messaged me to “get a life”. I have one, thank you, in my own mini-nature reserve.
But as I plod round the block with the dog, it is mainly desolate concrete, brick, slate and more concrete front gardens – I’ve dug mine up – and in the park, the usual spring daffodil slaughter has started. Somebody or something is wrenching the flowers up and scattering them around, to wilt and die. So I bring them home, put them in water and they perk up.
Isn’t nature miraculous? And the burst of books suggests that more of us are beginning to come round to that funny, old-fashioned idea, which had disappeared for years, that money isn’t everything. Nature is. Perhaps we’re not doomed; perhaps we’ll save ourselves. I feel a tiny bit hopeful.
