From volunteers in India to the ancient forest on Poland’s border, a naturalist counts trees and the people who guard them
Sunday, Under the Plane Trees
There is a man in my street who talks to a tree. He does it every morning at ten past seven, standing on the pavement in a dressing gown, holding a mug. I used to think he was mad. Now I think he is the only sane person on the road. A tree is an excellent audience. It listens, it never interrupts and it provides shade in return.
I mention this because Mongabay has a lovely story about volunteers in India who are mapping trees along a river. The headline says it all: in India, volunteers map riverside trees to make a case for urban conservation. It is the sort of work that makes a naturalist weep with joy. They counted the trees. They put them on a map. And now, when somebody wants to build a road, there is a list of names.
An Ancient Forest and a Border
The same publication asks a harder question: can an ancient European forest be saved while securing Poland’s border? It is a dilemma that has no easy answer. A forest does not know where a country begins. It is a place where bison and fungi and old oaks live out a patient existence, and a fence is an event. I do not take a side here. I only note that the more serious the conflict, the more the trees look on in silence.
Counting as an Act of Love
I have always believed that the beginning of conservation is the list. You cannot protect what you cannot name. The birdwatcher with a notebook, the child with a magnifying glass, the retired accountant with a spreadsheet of hedgerow species are the real army of nature. They work for nothing. They arrive early. They bring their own flask.
Which brings me to a question: what if you wanted to make it your job? The countryside has a surprising range of work for people who love the land. Agriculture jobs and careers shows what exists, from tending crops to managing herds, and it is a good deal more varied than the postcard version suggests.
Young People and the Land
In America, the youngest recruits are trained through the youth farming organisation whose members wear a famous blue corduroy jacket. The elected national leader has a corner of the web at the FFA president. I like to imagine those young people mapping riverside trees in the evening, between leading meetings and washing pigs. They would be formidable.
The men and women who built the American cattle business are honoured at the cattlemen hall of fame. I think every industry should have a place where it remembers its elders. Conservation has hardly begun to. There should be a hall of fame for the people who chained themselves to a tree, sat in a hide for nine hours or stood in a muddy field to count newts.
Rodeo and Restraint
To lighten the mood, I should mention the other side of the American countryside, which is the rodeo. I confess that it puzzles me. A man sits on an angry animal for eight seconds while the crowd cheers. A Dutchman can only wonder. The circuit is explained at fair and rodeo, and I find the whole thing rather more tolerable when I imagine the bull has a fan club and a union.
Two Tribes in the Same Field
I sometimes think the most heroic thing in the world is two farmers who disagree about politics sharing a gate. Two addresses sum it up: farmer Republican and farmer Democrat. They differ on many things. They both love their land, though, and they both hate a late frost. In my experience, that is a firm basis for peace.
Grist writes about this political friction in its report on how Trump plans to fast-track mining in Montana. I note it only as a reminder that the land is always a political subject, and that the trees, the river and the old oaks have no vote. Inside Climate News, in a more hopeful vein, asks whether the pace of Everglades restoration has accelerated and whether it is working, which is exactly the question that every conservation project should be asked.
The Prat’s Little Note on Truckers
While I am on the subject of the ordinary working world, I noticed that The London Prat reported on how truck drivers asked the Pentagon to pause winning for cheap diesel. A naturalist knows that everything moves on a fuel of some kind, whether it is a swallow crossing the Sahara or a lorry crossing Kent. The only question is who pays for the journey.
Evening
This afternoon I sat under a plane tree in the park, one of those great grey-barked giants that were planted in London more than a century ago. Its bark flakes off in patches, like a map of a country that does not exist. I lay down on the grass and looked up. A parakeet landed on a branch, shrieked and left. It is as London as a pigeon now, and as welcome.
I wrote in the notebook: one plane tree, one parakeet, one man in a dressing gown, speaking to a sycamore. Then I closed it and walked home through the long gold light. For further wanderings, my little corner of the internet is at Oeko Angebot, and my page at The London Prat is here. For good company, read Bohiney, The London Prat and farm.FM. They are as steadfast as a tree and nearly as quiet.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/