Down at the Gunnersbury Triangle, I pulled out a quantity of Ivy that had spread across a considerable area of former meadow. We know it was meadow as it is shown as such on the old reserve map from 30 years ago, and – if proof were needed –the area is covered in old anthills: the yellow ant makes its hills in open grassland.
Anyway, I pulled out armfuls of the ivy, along with brambles and a few nettles, and was rewarded by the sight of a new area ready to grow into flowery meadow, if we can keep it reasonably open and free of brambles.
I disturbed a toad that was sheltering somewhere under the ivy, and took a break to photograph it. The static shots were nice and sharp, but I found I much preferred this action shot as the toad scrambles up a bank. Yes, that’s an ivy stem that I hadn’t yet pulled out.
This week down at the Gunnersbury Triangle I found myself faced with a rather large challenge: a willow had fallen on to another willow, which … had fallen on to a third, which had fallen right across our little ‘Mangrove Swamp’ wetland at the end of the reserve, and was overhanging the boardwalk that we had all rebuilt last winter.
Fallen Willow across Gunnersbury Triangle’s ‘Mangrove Swamp’
I cut off all the small branches for two other volunteers to drag away for dead-hedging. Then I sliced off all the larger wood I could reach. The rest was alarmingly high up, or far too large for a bandsaw: much of it will have to wait for a chainsaw team. We held a little conference, and I realized I could cut some more by scrambling up on a fallen trunk. I sliced through a largish branch, and the cut end gradually sprang back to the vertical, ending four metres up, and posing a nice puzzle for anybody wondering how it might have been cut! We cut up and dragged away the considerable pile of bits, and I ended the day with a pleasantly clear ‘Mangrove Swamp’ area, bordered by a neat line of large horizontal willow trunks, defended by a thicket of holly which had become trapped and had regrown all around the fallen trees.
Mangrove Swamp, some hours later, cleared of fallen trees (well, mostly)
The other odd thing that happened was that the picnic meadow was utterly befouled by a filthy assortment of broken raw eggs, cotton wool pads, mashed potato from powder, pieces of raw onion and raw ginger, and nearly empty bottles of vinegar and vodka. It smelt terrible. The team picked the stuff up with gloves and a litter-picker, and we speculated how it had arrived there.
Our story is that a group of new students at the start of term held a night-time initiation ritual there en plein nature, each initiate being required to take a bite of onion, mouthful of mashed potato, shot of vodka, swig of vinegar, etc etc, and to pay a forfeit of being pelted with eggs if they flinched. Or maybe they were pelted willy-nilly, who knows. And then perhaps they tried to clean the worst of it out of their eyes with the cotton wool.
Whatever the truth of the matter, there is no doubt that city-dwellers make contact with nature in a myriad ways. Some go birdwatching; some microscopically study pond life; some walk or run or cycle in green and pleasant places; some hold drunken picnics. Perhaps we should value nature (and nature reserves) for its ability to support all these activities.
Greater Thames Futurescape. Image: RSPB; Map: Google
This is the immense area (3834 km2) of the Thames estuary, including broadly all the neighbouring land up to the 5 metre contour (actually it covers all of the Isle of Grain and the Isle of Sheppey too).
Futurescape has a slightly unfortunate hokey sound to it – reminiscent of the French Futuroscope (near Poitiers), a once imaginative place with exciting architecture and a vision of the future which has turned into a sprawling business park. But the idea and the execution are very different.
There are actually a whole lot of Futurescapes around Britain; the RSPB’s contribution is to manage the Greater Thames one, and it’s a good choice, as there is a concentration of wildlife here – not least, 300,000 migrating waders – and a matching clump of RSPB nature reserves, including Cliffe Pools, Elmley Marshes (now managed by its own conservation trust), Nor Marsh and Motney Hill, Northward Hill, Old Hall Marshes, Rainham Marshes, South Essex Marshes, Shorne Marshes, Vange Marshes, Wallasea Island Wild Coast Project and West Canvey Marsh. There is also a rich sprinkling of conservation acronyms and designations across the area, with Special Protection Areas (SPA), Ramsar sites, national nature reserves and dozens of Sites of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI).
If there are so many fine, well-protected and skilfully-managed reserves in the area, why create yet another layer of management? The answer goes to the heart of the challenge to nature in a crowded place like Southeast England, and indeed in a crowded world. With a changing climate and rising sea levels, it’s always possible that a reserve, specially one down on the mud flats within a metre or two of the high tide mark, may become unsuitable for the species it was meant to protect – or may disappear altogether. If so, the wildlife will have to move to neighbouring sites, preferably suitably protected, or die out in the region.
A thousand Oystercatchers in the Thames Estuary at Sheppey
The logic of this means that although having a reserve like Cliffe Pools that is splendid for avocets, or Elmley Marshes for waders and Marsh Harriers, is a brilliant start and very necessary, it isn’t enough. What is needed is to manage the entire landscape to make it resilient: if a shock occurs in one place, the landscape as a whole can absorb it, meaning that populations will barely fluctuate but instead simply move about. Perhaps the avocet area will turn out to be a lifeline for some other wader, or a snail, a bumblebee, or a rare pond plant.
The result is that no one organisation, not even a rich one like the RSPB – it is the largest single landowner in the Greater Thames area – can hope to do the best for nature on its own. Instead, all across the landscape, different areas, protected initially by separate organisations for their own purposes – flowers, bumblebees, birds, whatever – need to be managed together. And that means partnership, consortium, multi-organisation projects with EU funding, meetings, planning, glossy leaflets, and management-speak.
The Greater Thames area is home to a large population of humans: 6 million, not counting the similar number of Londoners who live within the area’s contour. There are powerful pressures on the land and even the mudflats below the high tide mark: housing, business, roads, bridges, railways, even mad ideas for whole new 4-runway hub airports. London mayor Boris Johnson is just the proponent of the seventh proposal in the past 50 years for a new airport in the Thames Estuary. Others (I digress, forgive me) included John Prescott’s daft attempt to put an airport on the Cliffe Pools reserve, using the Northward Hill reserve as a convenient source of spoil to spread 15 metres deep over the marshes; an earlier attempt wanted to take the Ministry of Defence’s wild seascape at Foulness, a lengthy train-ride from London. So Boris hardly invented the idea; and its dismissal for the seventh time is no guarantee that it won’t come back yet again. What is needed is enough education of the public about the value of the Thames Estuary, a vision of the future that stresses its importance to wildlife and the benefit of that wildness to us humans, so that the idea of plonking an airport in the midst of the Greater Thames land-and-waterscape sounds as ridiculous as trying to put it in Hyde Park. Prescott actually said, as he flew over (as one does) in his helicopter, clutching a map of the Southeast, “What a lot of whitespace down there”. No, it isn’t whitespace, it’s one of the best places for nature in Europe, and irreplaceable.
Crossrail has built a 180 metre jetty at Wallasea to accept shiploads of spoil for the RSPB’s new nature reserve there. Image: Crossrail
Since the sea level is certainly going to rise, areas are going to have to be managed actively to make them suitable for wildlife when the tide reaches higher than it does now. It isn’t enough just to breach the sea wall and gouge out pools, leaving the sea to shape mudflats, as can be done on the (rising) west coast of Britain. Huge amounts of material will have to be brought to places like Wallasea Island to turn them into wetlands and prevent them from simply vanishing beneath the waves. The RSPB has spent 10 years of patient negotiation (what a marvellous tolerance of sitting in meetings) with partners such as Crossrail, a commercial company, with the wonderful result that Crossrail will dump all the millions of tons of spoil from digging its tunnels under London at Wallasea in the Wallasea Island Wild Coast Project. Even so, more spoil is needed, and the RSPB is patiently sitting in meetings about future dredging in the Thames estuary (yeah, sounds exciting), waiting for the chance to get more mud for its nature reserves.
Ah, poaching. It sounds so romantic. The merry strains of the English folk song, “The Lincolnshire Poacher“, that we sang at school come into my ear:
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire
Full well I served my master for nigh on seven years
Till I took up to poaching as you shall quickly hear
Oh, ’tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year.
We think of the cheerfully naughty countrymen pushing a hare or a pheasant into their bag, making off home and delighting their wives with something to put into the pot for their families. We hardly spare a thought for the landowners, and if we do, it is with a pantomime image of greedy, fat, rich and selfish characters who “will not sell their deer”. Cue a chorus of boos and hisses from the gallery.
But (like most rose-tinted views of the world) this is all wrong. Poaching on that scale may or may not still exist: but much worse forms of it certainly do.
In Britain, poaching is organized crime, and becoming big business. Stolen game, farm animals and wild fish, especially salmon, find their illegal way into the human “food chain” (the term is borrowed from an older view of ecology, where it has fallen into disuse, and of course it has shifted its meaning: we consumers do not eat slaughterhouse workers, or supermarket shelf-stackers). There is no inspection of the unlawfully sold meat, which may be infected with tuberculosis (TB), may have been handled unhygienically, or may simply be past what should have been its sell-by date. There is no attempt to manage the ‘crop’ sustainably. If a wounded deer escapes, it will receive no veterinary treatment for its injuries or infections. In short, the whole sorry business is about money, with none of the usual protections that we expect in food and farming.
Across the world, matters are even worse. As roads cut into rainforests all through the tropics, the poor go into the remaining wildlife-rich areas to kill anything worth eating for bushmeat. In lawless areas, hunting the last of the game animals is an easy way for anyone with a gun to earn a little money. Once common and widespread species in many groups – monkeys, deer, snakes, birds, you name it – are being driven towards extinction.
Tiger Penis is supposedly aphrodisiac. Image by ProjectManhattan on Wikimedia Commons.
And of course, poaching can mean killing elephants for ivory, rhinoceroses for their horns, tigers for their skins or their penises, bears for the bile from their gall bladders. Frankly, even the most beautifully carved ivory statues cannot compensate for the loss of elephants in the wild. Even if a dose of tiger penis brought an erection so huge that a horde of beautiful women were to flock about me, an unlikely result, it would not make up for the loss of one of these magnificent animals, let alone their extinction. If you have erectile dysfunction, Viagra might help you; animal body parts certainly won’t.
There is nothing romantic about poaching. It is incredible that, although it is illegal in Britain, it is not a notifiable crime: the police do not have to keep any record of how many animals are killed, how much property damaged, how many crimes committed.
With wars and refugee crises, human suffering and epidemics of tropical diseases from Malaria to Ebola virus, it is no wonder that poaching gets scant mention. Yet all the while, when there is money to be made, wildlife gets short shrift. Satellite imagery shows deserts expanding, forests burning. The destruction wrought by poaching is less visible, but it is having a terrible effect on hundreds of species.
You can do something about it. Support a wildlife charity. Campaign against the use of animal body parts in traditional medicine. Lobby your member of parliament, your government. Vote for a greener government next time. Now is the time to get on with it.
Green Politics: A cheerful Caroline Lucas, MP, briefing members of the RSPB and Wildlife Trusts on how to lobby their MPs
It has been said that nature-lovers are left-wing on all political questions except immigration, where they are distinctly right-wing.
This can readily be explained by guessing that nature-lovers essentially choose to prioritize in the following order:
Themselves (well, everybody does)
Wildlife and the Environment
Other people
Big business
Immigration is unpopular both because it conflicts with #1: it puts pressure on resources near the home, and because it conflicts with #2: it puts pressure on land.
I’ll return to the question of putting nature above people later, but first I want to note that this set of priorities is radically different from those of the right (say, the Republican party in the USA, or the Conservative party in Britain), who we may guess have these priorities:
1. Themselves
2. Big business
3. Other people
4. Wildlife and the Environment (if they rate this at all)
On this rather simple view of politics, left-wing people (say, the Democrat party in the USA, or the Labour party in Britain) are imagined to have these priorities:
1. Themselves
2. Other people
3. Big business
4. Wildlife and the Environment
The reason left-wingers may put business above wildlife is that, despite all the left-wing rhetoric, they do recognize that business generates the money needed to pay for welfare and shared services such as health care and education. So, although there has been a historic rich vs poor, Upstairs vs Downstairs polarity between left and right, they do actually agree on most of their priorities.
If you’ve followed the argument this far, you’ll see that at least in countries like Britain and the USA, this places anyone who has ‘green’ political views, favouring wildlife and the environment, in a tricky position. There is nobody with any reasonable likelihood of getting into power that they can vote for with any confidence.
In countries like Germany with a proportional representation system for voting, smaller parties are able to flourish, and Green parties can become significant in regional and national parliaments. In countries like Britain and the USA, which have “first past the post” (winner takes all) voting systems, smaller parties usually get trodden underfoot, along with any more subtle points of view than left vs right.
I would love to be able to tell you (I assume you are a nature-lover) that I have a brilliant solution for you, but I doubt there is one. Instead, you have a few possible choices.
You could carefully study, and ideally question, your candidates from left and right about their views on nature conservation in the hope of finding or provoking a spark in some of them. (I’m trying this myself.)
You might consider joining their party so you can lobby them more effectively; you might attend policy forums and try to push the environment up the agenda (I don’t hold up much hope on that one, though I know energetic people who are trying it).
If you have money, you might give donations to either side, accompanied by whatever pressure you can apply.
If you are persuasive, you might speak or write to the candidates, arguing that saving the environment is good for people (their health, exercise, mental state, and so on) or for jobs (tourism, conservation work, pollination of crops, that sort of thing).
Or you could move to Germany, work hard, and apply for citizenship. You could give up on politics altogether, and immerse yourself in practical conservation, campaigning and suchlike.
If you don’t find any of those suitable, you do have another option, but it’s very long-term. You campaign for a fair, democratic, voting system that will actually represent your views, along with those of other minorities: you fight for proportional representation. If you thought that was a dull, dry piece of constitutional reform, think again. It’s the only way things that matter to you and to me will ever be taken seriously. We greens need seats in our legislatures, in direct proportion to our numbers. That might be 30 or 40 green MPs in Westminster, for example. Now that would be talking. Until then, frankly, we’re disenfranchised. And that’s wrong.
It’s time to come back to the awkward matter, for green politics, of at least seeming to put nature above people. To put it at its mildest, it can look somewhat self-indulgent in the well-off with money and leisure enough to enjoy looking at wildlife in beautiful places to argue that conserving nature is more important than dealing with the pressing social issues of the day: hunger, homelessness, unemployment, poverty, disease, and all the side- and after-effects of war: trauma, grief, coping as refugees, orphaned or widowed. And that is to hint at the hidden, unspoken issue for green politics, migration, which numbers among its many causes inequality, war, and climate change.
The cause of green politics is not simply an open-and-shut case of selfishness, however. There are arguments that can be used in its favour.
A key one, perhaps, is the moral argument for care for other living things, and for the environment as a whole: we are just one species among millions, and we have just one world to look after, not just for ourselves (the poor, homeless, unemployed and so on) but for all Earth’s species, and for all future generations, our children and our children’s children. If all species were valued equally, and why should they not be, then wildlife should score a millionfold more than any purely human priority. It seems, of course, that nobody can quite bring themselves to value other species anywhere near as highly as Homo sapiens: indeed, even the assertion that a million other species might be worth nearly as much put together as humankind would raise eyebrows – who cares about a rainforest or two when business or livelihood is at stake?
The somewhat more selfish argument that we need nature for a large number of ‘ecosystem services’ such as pollination of crops, a ready supply of timber or fish, genetic variety in the shape of ancestral species related to valuable crops (wild potatoes, wild maize, wild apples) or a list of candidate pharmaceutical drugs from as-yet-undiscovered species of plant, fungus or micro-organism, may have a little more traction. Here, nature is worth conserving for its enormous utility, of which we currently have only a hazy notion, but which we already perceive to be much larger than we ever imagined. Most clearly, the cost to farmers of hand-pollinating every fruit tree is becoming frighteningly obvious as bees of many species vanish from the ploughed and pesticide-sprayed countryside.
A slightly less utilitarian argument concerns the value of nature for human well-being, both now and for future generations. We wouldn’t want to live in a world with no ‘charismatic species’ such as elephants, giraffes, lions, gorillas and tigers. Yet, we could easily find ourselves there, with perhaps a few miserable beasts desperately keeping their species alive in zoos and safari parks. More mundanely, we know that city-dwellers are happier and more relaxed, better able to focus clearly at work, if they have a little time in a park or garden with trees and flowers, and perhaps with bees and butterflies too (if that isn’t too much of a luxury).
If we accept any or all of these quite good reasons for saving life on Earth, then we must make nature conservation a high priority: which means making it a higher priority than at least some human political priorities. And that is a ‘green’ agenda. If anything, it is alarming to anyone who reflects on the question just how little effort is in fact being spent by governments on keeping the world’s ecosystems in existence: we are all so busy fighting wars and economic collapse that such larger matters spend their whole time on the back burner, if not (to mix metaphors disgracefully) on the ‘too difficult’ pile.
Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that all the non-human species in existence add up in moral terms to our single species (leaving aside any idea that this grossly undervalues them). Let us suppose, too, that all future generations add up in moral terms to the generation which is alive today (and yes, we’ll ignore any idea that this undervalues them, too). Then all our conventional political goals should be given 1/3 or thereabouts of the total weight: the other 2/3 belong to nature, and to future humanity (who of course may care about nature also). And Nature should then easily top the political agenda.
Or we can look at green politics in space rather than in time. The politics of big business, and of the social systems of rich nations, ignore the rest of the world, where injustice, drought, poverty, dictatorship, war, tropical disease and famine are major factors. Worse, our greed and selfishness has inflicted post-colonial disaster (think of the Anglo-French agreement to draw borders for the new kingdom of Iraq after the First World War) and exploitation of minerals on many parts of the world. We owe it to everyone to put these matters straight, which means protecting the environment: their environment, in the places where we are stripping them of their resources, or already did so, or where we are dumping the wastes that we don’t want to deal with ourselves. This way too, justice means green politics, but more clearly Nature and suffering humanity need to be safeguarded together.
Green politics is not a luxury for the idle rich. Making wildlife and the environment, biodiversity and conservation a top priority is vital for everyone, rich or poor, on the entire planet.
Aah. Ducks with ducklings. Coots with Cootlings. Geese with Goslings. Swans with Cygnets. Moorhens with … chicks. Whatever the charmingly mediaeval diminutive nouns, it was a day for walking around the London Wetland Centre, enjoying the ‘sunny spells’ and the bright display of wild flowers, artfully seeded, and delighting in Mother Nature’s ability to conjure up fluffy sentimental feelings about roughly duck-shaped balls of fluffy down feathers.
Coot with Cootling
I’d gone alone to see if there were any interesting dragonflies, but there weren’t many about: a warmer day is always better. But there was a Black-Tailed Skimmer basking on one of the ‘wildside’ paths.
Black-Tailed Skimmer
Apart from that, I glimpsed one Hawker dragonfly – probably a Hairy dragonfly, as the only kind other than the Emperor seen there in the past month; and there were plenty of Common Blue and Bluetail damselflies about.
As for butterflies, it was alarmingly empty: a couple of meadow browns, a small white or two, and a female brimstone the highlight. My alarm at the lack of insects in general in England is growing. If it’s neonicotinoids – hot on the heels of all the earlier insecticides, many now rightly banned for their destructive side-effects on wildlife – then we are watching a manmade calamity. The BBC noted that some ditch water was toxic enough to be used, just as it was, as an insecticide spray for crops. The effect of that on dragonflies can only be imagined: a sad thing, as (living in rivers and ponds rather than on farmland) they have to some degree escaped the disaster that has all but eliminated our farmland birds, bees and butterflies.
But on a dead tree, wildside, was another fluffy-duckling sight, this time from a distinctly arboreal bird.
Parent and juvenile Green Woodpecker
Two Green Woodpeckers, presumably a parent and a newly-fledged juvenile, were clinging to a dead tree, the parent a little higher up, the youngster apparently begging for food with open beak. The family drama went on for several minutes.
Two different Hoverflies on Burnet
Tiny wildlife shows were visible on the flowers: here, two hoverflies of different species, busy being Batesian mimics of dangerously stinging wasps (but harmless as doves) are feeding, slow and relaxed in the sunshine, on the small flowers in a Great Burnet’s flowerhead. They didn’t seem at all bothered by each other, or by any risk from predators. But despite their glorious colours, it was duckling day today.
People laugh at the Victorian taboo on talking about sex, while prostitution was rife in London at the time. Today, too, we have curious taboos: people don’t talk about death, for instance. But the taboo I have in mind is different: population control. It’s just not done to speak about it. But I’m going to, and I’m not sorry. It’s vital.
Back in 1972, Donella and Dennis Meadows and Jørgen Randers published a book that, even at the time, I found distinctly curious. It was called The Limits to Growth.
The Limits to Growth, by Donella and Dennis Meadows and Jørgen Randers, 1972
It was commissioned by the Club of Rome, a non-profit think tank. It argued, in a nutshell, that a model of the Earth’s resources and human usage of them predicted, under certain scenarios, ‘overshoot and collapse’ of the whole system in the 21st century. The model was called World3 and it contained subsystems for agriculture, industry, population, non-renewable resources, and pollution.
The basic idea of The Limits to Growth was Malthusian, after Thomas Malthus’s 1798 book, An Essay on the Principle of Population. Malthus argued that population would continually increase; assuming the ‘means of subsistence’ started ‘equal to the easy support of its inhabitants’ – that food supply and consumption were in balance – then consumption would always tend to run ahead of food supply (and of wages), leading straight to poverty, though war, famine and disease could also intervene.
Malthus observed that either the death rate could increase to cut down a population through positive checks like famine, disease, and war; or birth rate could be lowered by celibacy, late marriage, birth control or abortion, to prevent population growth. He attacked the idea that agricultural production could grow indefinitely. He was attacked, unjustifiably, for being uncaring of the poor, and replied that it was ‘vicious and cruel’ of a government to allow population to grow without preparing to feed (and we might add, to house, educate, and care for) it, in other words for society to rely on human misery instead of proper planning for a stable and happy population.
The Limits to Growth was similarly attacked, perhaps with rather more justification. What seemed to be its ringing certainty about how we would really soon now run into unalterable limits imposed by nature was shredded by the critics. Its over-reliance on what was, after all, only a model into which one could put different numbers was in hindsight distinctly naive. By making itself look like a cranky doomsday prophecy, it became only too easy to dismiss.
But the Malthusian argument, updated a little, is unanswerable. If you have a finite planet and exponential growth – heck, ANY growth – then you must run into limits eventually. If growth is rapid, that ‘eventually’ will be soon. In 2011, Ugo Bardi’s The Limits to Growth Revisited argued that reality seemed to be following the 1972 prediction after all.
What the critics seized on in The Limits to Growth was, especially, its naive assumption that resources were known and fixed. Big Oil argued that new discoveries would (always) be made, only to find that discoveries declined rapidly, and became steadily more inconvenient, polluting or dangerous – far out at sea, high in the Arctic, or as dirty and difficult oil shale, necessitating the invention of fracking.
Big Oil and the economists argued, correctly up to a point, that when a resource becomes scarce, its price rises, and that enables formerly too-expensive alternatives to be developed. In the case of oil, that begins with deep, dangerous and dirty ways to get more oil. Failing all of those, it continues with alternatives to mineral oil, which might include synthesising oil from plant materials, or perhaps directly from sunlight, water, and carbon dioxide. Failing that, it could continue with alternative forms of energy, such as wind and solar power used with batteries, and so on, as the excess of demand over supply pushed prices steadily upwards. All of this is pretty basic economics, but it overlooks the real attachment of today’s economy to resources such as oil, and the pain that is starting to result as resources start to run short. Wars and tensions in the Middle East over both oil and water (especially for irrigation) illustrate the point.
The economists further argued that economic growth was not ineluctably tied to population growth, nor to growth in the use of resources. The economy might grow (we could phrase it today) through services like insurance, or banking, or software, or games, or videos, none of which in themselves logically entail physical resources, however much bankers build themselves flashy headquarters and huge IT centres full of hot computers and power-hungry air-conditioning systems. In theory, wellbeing and the economy could improve without using more resources. So while it looks and feels as if every industry and service depends hugely on oil today, in theory, argue the economists, you could have one without the other. So, oil, qua energy, isn’t quite the solid roadblock that it appears, nor are mineral resources like copper, or tantalum, or germanium, or gold, however vital they each may look to today’s world of electronic devices. I hope I’ve stated the economists’ case fairly.
Oil as a chemical feedstock is another matter: many years ago one of my science teachers observed that when we have burnt all the world’s oil, our descendants will bitterly regret our folly in using millions of years of chemical wealth just for energy. Paint, plastics, dyestuffs, fertilizers, medicines (yes, and pesticides and explosives) – oil has a hand in thousands of manufactured substances and materials that we all rely on every day. It sounds grim: no oil, no feedstock. Well, not quite: we already have ‘plastic’ bags made of cellulose from plants. With enough effort, chemical feedstocks like methanol can be made from wood, or carbon dioxide and water: we could one day learn to recycle carbon endlessly, and carbon will then be enthusiastically scavenged from the atmosphere as a vital resource.
Ah, carbon. The outpouring of carbon dioxide has already warmed the planet, changed the climate, moved ecological zones towards the poles, acidified the oceans. It is apparently in the process of sending perhaps half of all the species on the planet to extinction in the coming centuries. It seems incredible that such verifiable facts should be disputed; or that such urgent warnings should be ignored. But disputed they are, and ignored too, drowned out by the incessant tinnitus of wars, elections, recessions, politics, selfishness and greed, and simply the sheer bustle of daily life.
But carbon contributes to one thing that humans are definitely tied to: food. If the population rises, more food is required. Even this, though, is not a straightforward 1972-style equation, N people x C kilos consumed = F kilos of food required. If we all became vegetarians with the modest diet of a traditional Indian villager (just rice or chapatis every day, with a little oil, a few onions and chilis, rarely anything else) then the world could sustain many more of us than if we all demanded Texan portions of steak made from methane-producing cows, each animal guzzling the grain that might have fed dozens of vegetarians.
Still, for any given agricultural productivity and any given area of land there is a maximum population that can be sustained. Let’s try a thought experiment: say we achieved optimal efficiency in converting sunlight to grain, over the whole land surface of the earth, deserts, forests and all, we might increase productivity fivefold, and the productive area fivefold, for a 25fold increase. Perhaps we could grow food all over the oceans, hard as that might be; the production would double again. If we could reduce our food needs through genetic engineering (I am not advocating this) or other means, more people could be fed. Now, the human brain accounts for about 20% of our energy intake, and can hardly be changed; but let’s suppose we could halve the food used by the rest of the body, we’d then use just 60% of what we eat today: the population could increase by 100/60 or 1.66fold. So how many people would that be? Much more than now. If the current population is 7 billion then we could have 7 x 25 x 2 x 1.66 = 580 billion people on the planet; it could be more if the proportion of vegetarians increased, rather than decreasing as it is doing today. No doubt you can argue for still greater numbers. The theoretical limit is enormous (nothing at all like the 1972 view), and full of uncertainties: still, it is an extraordinary prospect. And it ignores what we are already seeing, which is increasing shortage of resources.
But even assuming that the agriculturalists and engineers did their work splendidly, and none of the terrible shortages of oil or water or minerals, or fights over shortages that The Limits to Growth implied ever occurred, I should not like that world, and I can’t believe you would. There would be no room for wildlife or non-food plants: no place to go for a walk in the sunshine: indeed, no call to go to the agricultural surface at all, except to drive a tractor, if humans still did such a job in a robot-rich world. For with the land all devoted to growing food, we would all live underground (but for a few super-rich, who would still enjoy unimaginable luxuries like fresh air and sunshine and flowers), work, play and probably fight down there. For any mass emergence on to the surface would spell starvation for billions as crops were crushed underfoot. Unbearable? If so, that is the limit to growth.
We could ask, why should all the planet’s resources flow to just one species, us? What makes us so special that we should take the shares of all other species, for that is what the grow-as-we-like until the hundreds-of-billions scenario means? At the least, it is a bit selfish.
For we have one more professional to convince, after the oilmen and economists, and all the work to be done by agriculturalists and engineers to set up such a world. It’s the ecologist.
A famous book on this subject was also published in 1972: Barbara Ward and René Dubos’s Only One Earth.
Only One Earth argued (much more solidly than The Limits to Growth) that development should be limited to ensure basic human rights, an ‘inner limit’ within the ‘outer limit’ of the Earth’s carrying capacity. Much later talk has grossly diluted the idea of ‘sustainable development’ to allow almost anything: it is much easier to claim that something is sustainable than to stop consuming more. Ward and Dubos argued for ‘the careful husbandry of the earth’, sharing wealth fairly and conserving wildlife carefully. It was pretty radical stuff for an economist like Ward. In effect, she broadened economics to include human wellbeing – a domestic and individual ‘economy’ – as well as ecology – the wellbeing of animals, plants, and ecosystems.
I would like to imagine that the arguments for healthy ecosystems rich in life of every kind are becoming obvious: I feel they are already painfully clear to anyone who looks at the question. Still, here they are, very briefly. Crops need pollinators, like bees, bumblebees, moths and butterflies, flies, beetles. Pests need to be controlled by predators, parasites, and pathogens. Materials need to be recycled by saprophytes. We need genetic diversity – wild plants, old cultivated varieties, not to mention animals and fungi too, to combat pests and diseases, to supply unknown future crops and crop varieties, medicines, and other useful substances. In short, all ecological roles, species of every sort, are needed, not just crop plants, our primary producers, creators of food: they can’t survive alone.
More than that, more than those desperate agricultural and economic requirements, we need beauty and delight; birds, bees, butterflies, dragonflies and Komodo dragons, tigers and tiger-lilies. Without them, life isn’t worth living.
We are already in serious danger of losing all these things, as neonicotinoid insecticides join the already long list of disastrously dangerous substances we have created, manufactured in stupidly large amounts, and released onto the land with blithe ignorance (or worse, reckless lack of concern, with contrary evidence left unpublished, covered up to preserve profit). Already neonicotinoids are proving as deadly as the organochlorine insecticides of the 1950s and 1960s, that led Rachel Carson to write her 1962 classic Silent Spring.
The veterinary drug Diclofenac has destroyed almost all the vultures of the Indian subcontinent; now its use is spreading disastrously to Africa, as countries that should know better are doing the cheapest and dirtiest thing, in the face of incontrovertible evidence of harm. We do seem to be a terribly stupid species, like Douglas Adams’s mindless military robot.
Are there limits to growth? Of course there are. It’s more than time we started acting as if there were. The taboo on population control did have some slight justification: of course we cannot want a world with compulsory sterilisations, euthanasia, even a China-style One Child policy. But there’s no need for such drastic and terrible methods. Population can be controlled far better by persuasion, by taxation, by education, by informing people of the consequences of their choices, by understanding the pressures on nature and man’s place in the world.
Let us decide how much room we want to give to forests, to prairie, to tundra, to wetlands, to deserts.
Let us decide where we want seabirds by the million to have undisturbed cliffs and seas full of fish to feed on.
Let us decide that we shall have a world full of lions and bears and howler monkeys and sparkling damselflies, of buzzing bumblebees and naturally-pollinated fruit trees, of pristine forests full of undiscovered species, rich in species and substances whose uses we have not yet even imagined.
Let us choose life, and start to live lightly on this beautiful planet.
But the loss of these individual species pales in comparison to current trends of animal extinction. The large-scale destruction of habitat, the degradation of water and soil quality, the pollution of the air, and the loss of rain forests and coral reefs are wreaking global havoc on biodiversity. The butterflies and parrots of the Amazon are no longer as numerous or diverse as Bates found them, and if Darwin returned to the Galapagos Islands he would find that the very symbol of the islands, the Galapagos tortoise, as well as the large ground finch and sharp-beaked ground finch, have gone extinct on some islands. Under relentless human assault, Nature’s forms are not endless, nor are the most beautiful being spared.
What a tragic irony, that the more we understand of biology, the less we have of it to learn from and to enjoy. What will be the legacy of this new century — to cherish and protect Nature, or to see butterflies and zebras and much more vanish into legend like the thylacine, moa, and dodo?
— Sean B. Carroll. Endless Forms Most Beautiful. Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2006. Pages 303-304, 304.
Aston Rowant: view over the Oxford Clay plain… and the M40
Aston Rowant National Nature Reserve is on the scarp of the Chiltern Hills, between Watlington and Chinnor. That places it at the western edge of the relatively hard rock of the Cretaceous period – Chalk – overlooking the softer rocks of the Jurassic period – the Oxford Clay. It has some fine chalk grassland, once a widespread habitat, though most has been lost to the plough, woodland, or development. And it has a rushing noisy motorway right through its middle, complete with a deep cutting hacked through the chalk escarpment. Here’s a short video clip to give you the general idea.
I visited in hope of seeing some orchids, and was delighted to find not only Pyramidal Orchid and Bee Orchid, but some seemingly hybrid plants with a few looking very close to ‘Wasp Orchid’, a variety of the Bee Orchid species.
Wasp Orchid, Orchis apifera var trollii
The site is carefully managed by English Nature to conserve the plants and animals of this special habitat. They employ a team of 24-hour all-terrain woolly mowing machines to keep the grass sward properly short for the more delicate flowers, such as the orchids, the Cistus rock rose, the delicately aromatic tufts of wild thyme, the eyebright, salad burnet, and many others.
Team of all-terrain 24-hour mowing machines: Beulah speckle-faced sheep
The flowers in turn support a wealth of bees, butterflies including (those that I saw) Meadow Brown, Small Heath, Marbled White, Speckled Wood, Brimstone, Adonis Blue and Small Tortoiseshell, as well as day-flying moths like the Cistus Forester and the Six-Spot Burnet.
The shiny green Cistus Forester moth, Adscita geryon, flies over chalk in full sunshine. Its caterpillar feeds on the rockroseCaterpillar of Six-Spot Burnet mothGrasshopper
The delightful grassland is scored by ancient trackways, and the pre-Roman Ridgeway runs along the bottom (surprisingly) of the slope. Which brings us back to the modern trackway, its constant roar doing its best to drown out the bleating of the sheep and the screams of the red kites. The zizz of the grasshoppers is not lost entirely, but the quiet contemplation of them is certainly a little difficult.
Ancient Trackway, Modern Motorway: what are we conserving?
So, what are we conserving? Beautiful nature, ancient landscapes, specific habitats, individual species, an experience for the public, material for scientists to study? As the photograph shows, humans have cut trackways through the chalk for thousands of years: it’s just that somehow, an ancient trackway seems a little, well, quieter than the modern variety. The most obvious effect is on human visitors: the place isn’t quite the escape from modernity that it might be.
Drifts of scented Meadowsweet…
Beautiful but brutalized: perhaps meadowsweet waving in the breeze under the sunshine on the M40 is the perfect icon for the Britain of Cameron (and Blair before him). We need transport infrastructure, heaven knows, just as we need sufficient housing and everything else. And yet, a reserve where visitors can actually hear the birdsong (and record it if they want to) would be nice, even if the birds do manage to reproduce somehow. Are they affected? They easily might be. So what is a nature reserve for? If it’s a place where a teacher can bring a class and say ‘this is what the countryside was like x years ago’, then Aston Rowant fits part of the bill. Realistically, what do we want our world to be like? Just with one or two pretty bits to conserve the orchids, the cameras judiciously avoiding getting trucks in the background, the video having to dubbed with birdsong and grasshopper stridulation in the studio? Can we afford something more complete, given all the other pressures on the budget? Not easy to say, I think.
An English Summer is, as the saying goes, three fine days and a thunderstorm. Or, going out with sunhat, suncream, sunglasses… and a pullover and raincoat, just in case. Today it started out cold with a chill north-north-easterly wind, but quietened down and became rather too hot to work comfortably.
A tree had fallen across the glade in the Gunnersbury Triangle where the beekeeper is going to station one of her hives. I soon threw off my pullover, and my rainproof jacket never left my rucksack. The soft willow wood was no trouble to saw up, and I dragged the branches to the dead-hedge without much effort. A lot of small holm oak, an invasive alien species from the Mediterranean (think Ligurian coast) has sprung up from old stumps, so they joined the pile. A Blackcap sang to me while I worked.
The butterfly transect revealed very little, though some Commas are encouragingly laying eggs. As for other insects, several species of hoverfly, from tiny and slender to large wasp mimics and a fine one largely black, perhaps a bee mimic, were active. They hover, perch and sunbathe, or dash and chase each other (specially the large black ones) aggressively. I had fun trying to photograph one actually in the air, you can see the atmospheric but not very useful result above. It does give something of an idea how much they whiz and dash about, hovering always on the qui vive.
Ragwort is getting more and more abundant on the reserve; today, Helen spotted some tiny (probably first instar) Cinnabar Moth caterpillars on one of the plants; an adult visited me while I worked.
The Peacock Butterfly caterpillars of last week seem all to have pupated in hiding somewhere; there are quite a few younger ones still on the stinging nettles, so there will be at least two lots of adults.
Knot Grass caterpillar on bramble
We found a Knot Grass moth caterpillar (a Noctuid moth) on a bramble. It is hairy and aposematic, with brown hair but without the four long brown ‘shaving brush’ tufts of the Vapourer moth caterpillar (a Lymantriid or Tussock moth), which we’ve also found here.
But perhaps the insect I was happiest to see was this young Bush Cricket, resting on a flower for no particular reason, and taking a risk as its fine spotted green camouflage was totally compromised by its white and yellow flowery background. It must be the first one I’ve seen this year.
Young Bush Cricket
I have always loved natural patterns. The bark of this Aspen tree looks almost as if it encodes symbols in some cuneiform notation.
Natural Pattern: Aspen bark, almost seeming like a form of writing
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
