The tidy-minded approach that decrees nature should have no hand in
our urban landscape was in this case particularly ironic. I live in a town
widely promoted by the tourist industry for its floral attractions. The
flowers are normally confined to beds cut in carefully edged grass, or pots
specially constructed for the purpose. Considerable effort goes into hanging
baskets, to the extent that local shops pay for the gaudy bundles outside
their premises and the local authority organises daily summer watering.

The splash of nurtured colour for three brief summer months is welcome.
But what about the rest of the year and the huge barren expanses of stone
and brick that loom vertically away from the flowerbeds? Public money may
not extend to clothing these in green, but surely we should not remove plants
that arrive of their own accord – plants which can cope with desiccation
and lack of nutrients and provide a year-round softening of our grey world.

I’m not arguing that any kind of plant should be allowed to grow anywhere.
Aggressive ‘weed’ plants are a downright nuisance in some circumstances.
Even on the restricted habitat of walls it is necessary to reach a compromise.
We need to decide our priorities.

The structural safety of the wall in question must come first. A shrub
or stunted tree will cause damage to the masonry, so in an urban setting
they normally need removing, although an occasional unusual species can
be considered on individual merit.

Ivy is often regarded suspiciously. Walls built over 120 years ago were
constructed using lime mortar, which is quite soft. It weathers quickly
and ivy stems can grow into the cracks and push the stones apart. Modern,
well-pointed walls which use a much harder mortar do not have this problem
and ivy can be encouraged. It can be important in providing sites for birds’
nests that are inaccessible to cats, and as a food source in times of shortage.
It flowers in autumn and fruits in winter when little else is available.
Once ivy is well established, its removal can be more damaging than allowing
it to stay. The tangled network splints together broken stonework and gives
protection from the weather on exposed sites.

Walls are the main habitat of some plants which cannot compete in less
stressful places. Those with soft stems are unable to damage a wall but,
like the toadflax, provide colour where it would otherwise be lacking.

Yellow corydalis (Corydalis lutea) has brilliant flowers and dainty
leaves. Stonecrops, too, are pretty. Their leaves are succulent, with a
resistant covering, so water runs straight off. When herbicides are used
to remove wall vegetation, this can lead to stonecrop dominating. The chemicals
do not penetrate and the plants are unharmed. Ferns may lack flowers but
their leaves provide a dramatic contrast against the wall and will not damage
it.

Many perennial herbaceous plants can grow slowly on walls. They include
the wallflower (Cheiranthus cheiri) and red valerian (Centranthus ruber),
most usually found sprouting from under the capstone. These species have
woody roots and may cause very slight damage over many years if the wall
is constructed from small stones. Valerian, in particular, can cause problems,
but because it is such an attractive plant the best solution is often just
to keep an eye on the wall and repoint if necessary.

While the higher plants are restricted to cracks and crevices, mosses
and lichens have a freer rein. Both categories grow slowly because they
are so exposed. Lacking roots, they are unable to penetrate into the fabric.
Their removal can hardly ever be justified for constructional reasons but
occasionally when stonework is decoratively sculpted, mosses can obliterate
the details. Lichens have been so decimated by sulphur dioxide in the air
that only the flattened forms eke out an existence in urban areas and
these can positively enhance the colouring of underlying building material.

The natural colonisation of bare walls costs us nothing and improves
the appearance of the increasingly sterile world in which we live. Why,
then, the neurotic removal of any unplanted green shoot? The cost is financial
as well as aesthetic. It is the same dislike of anything outside our direct
control that led to the insistence that church-yards should comprise closely
mown grass. Otherwise they were marked down in competitions for best-kept
villages. We attempt artificial recreation of meadow, pond and woodland
but fail to treasure those which occur naturally in greater richness. Why
the desire to surround ourselves with man-made versions when the original
is so much better?

Fortunately, plants are not completely under our domination. The toadflax
reappeared on the library wall. It has a rather neat trick to outwit those
who would remove it. As its seed capsules ripen, they bend away from the
light to lodge in a neighbouring crevice. The capsule bursts to deposit
the seeds which germinate months later. Despite the parents being dosed
with a herbicide, their offspring were back the following year. Enough time
for me to write a persuasive letter arguing for a more sympathetic approach.

But that’s just one wall. How green are those of your town?

Hazel Mackenzie writes from North Yorkshire

I know of a pond near Birmingham city centre where smooth newts thrive.
Not only newts, but a huge variety of other freshwater life. As Andrew Cleave
points out in his excellent book, no one in Britain lives far from a freshwater
habitat. Just in case the reader disagrees with such statements, though,
he does suggest building your own pond and gives precise instructions.

This thorough and practical approach permeates each chapter. I can think
of only one occasion in my past when Cleave’s advice would have been lacking.
It was three years ago in a rickety house in Yugoslavia. One morning a caddis
fly larva, plus debris coat of questionable origins, fully 5 centimetres
long and 2 centimetres wide, appeared in the bath plughole.

Cleave unfailingly recommends returning all specimens to the site where
they were collected. As the creature was now too fat to return down the
plughole (I tried it), and there being no obvious sites to which we could
transfer it, the family had to refrain from bathing. Fortunately, a day
later, it returned from whence it had come, though we did take the precaution
of keeping the plug in the hole. After that, out of consideration for the
beast lurking somewhere in the drain, we allowed water to cool in the bath
before letting it out and used virtually no soap. I hope Cleave would have
approved.

Although 53 projects are listed in the book, each of these contains
several smaller projects with detailed instructions. For instance, Project
26 takes in finding pond snails, observing pond snails feeding, finding
snails, eggs and snail predators. We are also told how to date ponds by
counting the number of snail species and how to examine snail respiratory
apertures.

Most projects include simple, effective tips. For example, to persuade
a dragonfly to rest in a convenient place for photography, place a branch
in a sunny prominent position and watch until the dragonfly investigates
it. Or if you want to find china moth larvae, look for Potomageton and
water lily leaves with small oval segments missing.

As well as such timeless questions, Cleave discusses topical issues.
The planned restoration of the Greywell Tunnel and the opening up of Basingstoke
Canal for navigation both get a mention.

Good field biology must include the making of detailed observations
and keeping of records. Two of the projects are devoted to these matters,
plus what to do with the records once they have been made. Cleave is also
concerned to ensure that the freshwater habitats investigated as a result
of this book are not damaged, as his instructions frequently emphasise.
And having done his bit for the safety of the environment, he also gives
clear guidelines for the safety of the investigator.

Anyone, from the infant school teacher looking for new slants on minibeasts
to the lecturer in further education teaching BTEC National in Science,
will find this book stimulating. Amateur natural historians will find enough
ideas to keep them busy for a lifetime. Even someone just wanting to know
why their pondwater looks pink will discover the answer.

Hazel Mackenzie is a science writer.

But what I found more surprising than a cynic’s comments on politics
– it is easy enough to find people in Britain who will make equally uncomplimentary
remarks about their politicians – was to learn that Bakari had 21 dependants.
Eleven of these were his own children.

I passed a mental judgement that it is wrong to have so many children.
The world, not to mention Kenya was overpopulated before he had added his
contribution. I have since revised my opinion. Bakari’s 11 children consume
less resources and do less damage to this planet than my two.

Consider a few examples. His family walks everywhere, carrying any unnecessary
burdens on their backs. This includes all water used. His family has one
set of clothes each, which are washed before bed time so they can be worn
in the morning. They eat a diet of basic foodstuffs of mainly plant origin,
unprocessed apart from drying in the sun.

Now let me admit what I consume in paper products alone: toilet paper,
kitchen towels, baby wipes (my children have managed without disposable
nappies so I gain a Brownie point there), paper tissues, newspapers, magazines,
envelopes, writing and photocopying paper, books, telephone directory and
food packaging. Doubtless I have omitted many items. In Kenya, a piece of
paper and a Bic biro is the best present you can give a child.

To put things into real perspective, I have only to think of what I
throw away, let alone keep or consume. I imagine the 52 bin bags of rubbish
I throw out each year sitting in our front room, big and fat and mocking.

Back in East Africa, Bakari and co use discarded tins to make anything
from simple containers to ingenious oil lamps. The question of what to do
with discarded rubbish does not arise. There isn’t any.

Now, you will have had it up to your ears from the media about materialism.
It would be easy to catalogue the way we drift along regardless of environmental
cost, but it would serve no purpose. Still less would it change anything.
Perhaps we lack the fire to be green as spring cabbages, right through to
the heart. We are more truthfully flaccid lettuces where the greenness comprises
a few outer leaves.

As Bakari might have said: ‘You don’t need to be a politician to abuse
power. Just living with the resources of a developed country is corrupting
enough.’ I might add ‘Even to me.’

One final thought, though. What if Barkari’s children are as enthusiastic
as their father in perpetuating their name? The trend of increasing consumption
is unlikely to be confined to countries with lower birth rates. The global
problems we have at the moment will pale to insignificance when Bakari’s
grandchildren claim their right to an equal share in the Earth’s resources.

Hazel Mackenzie teaches biological sciences at college of further education.

Before the legions gather to wave umbrellas outside my front door, let
me say I do not myself relish the task of cleaning the pushchair after squashing
canine faeces on the pavement. I become cross when someone allows their
four-legged friend into the children’s playground which is fenced off specifically
to exclude dogs. But I do think we need to get our priorities right.

Why have dogs been singled out as being particularly filthy? No one
freaks out when a sparrow defecates on the window, the washing, or even
scores a direct hit on oneself. It is a simple operation to wash it off.
Gardeners do not tear out their hair when a neighbourhood cat unburdens
itself among the roses. Most people, as they picnic on the lawn, are not
even aware that the nutrient status of the soil is increased by invertebrate
faeces. They certainly do not write letters to the paper about it. And so
what if a horse disgorges its manure over the road; drivers do not feel
the need to swerve to avoid contaminating the car tyres.

So far I have avoided the issue of Toxocara, the canine parasite that
can be transmitted to humans via dog faeces and, in extreme cases, cause
blindness. I have two comments about this. First, dog owners should be responsible
enough to worm their dogs at regular intervals, and perhaps propaganda should
be directed at eliminating the parasite itself rather than the parasite’s
host. Secondly, what about our own waste? We appear to have very confused
ideas on this. Human waste, remember, contains parasites specific to human
beings. The risk of a human contracting disease from human faeces, therefore,
is much greater than from that of a different species such as the dog. Major
outbreaks of certain diseases are often linked with drinking water contaminated
by inadequately treated sewage.

Yet we operate a principle of out of sight, out of mind. Once we have
flushed the loo we can forget about the side of our biology which can be
such an embarrassment. So long as it is swept underground through the sewers
where we cannot see it, we do not worry. But the trouble with human faeces
is that they are produced in such huge quantities, especially in towns and
cities. Dog fouling might seem a problem, but at least normal decomposition
is usually enough to dispose of the waste.

So, because of the enormous quantities of human waste we have to resort
to sewage treatment plants. This is fine, except that treating waste is
expensive. Where feasible, most local authorities are happy to dump or pipe
it a short distance off our coast. After all, this is cheap and sea water
does destroy many of the pathogens that are adapted to the conditions of
our gut.

People forget, however, about the occasional viruses that do survive
to invade unwary swimmers. They forget what happens when all this organic
matter is broken down. Decomposition uses considerable quantities of oxygen.
The decomposers use this to the detriment of other organisms, which die
in the low concentrations of oxygen that ensue. Dumping sewage alters the
flora and fauna of an ecosystem.

Provided human sewage is out of sight, we ignore the ecological effects
on the seas around us. The ecological effects of dog fouling just do not
compare. When we actually see our raw sewage, gift wrapped with ribbons
of toilet paper, we suddenly become offended.

To prevent this affront, we pipe the sewage farther out to sea where
the telltale remains are unlikely to be washed onto shores for public viewing.
Just to make sure, the waste may be homogenised first so conspicuous brown
lumps will not give the game away. We can then pretend the problem no longer
exists as the effect on marine environments is invisible to our eyes.

Why do we not respond to the problem in the same way that we expect
dog owners to – with responsibility? No one likes to foul their own backyard,
but the solution is not to go and foul someone else’s.

While we are on the subject, what about all the other waste we produce:
the stuff that disappears as if by magic from our dustbins and from industry?
Dogs are not the only species capable of fouling our world.

Hazel Mackenzie teaches biological sciences at a college of further
education.

Throughout the developing world the trend is the same. Over vast tracts
of Africa it is possible to see women bent almost double under enormous
bundles of firewood. They sometimes have a baby cradled in a strip of material
slung from their shoulder, adding to the weight. As if this were not working
hard enough, some women I saw would occupy their hands with two plastic
knitting needles engaging a ball of wool tucked into their pocket. When
they were accompanied by a man, I never once saw him carry anything other
than the clothes he wore. The women were effectively the beast of burden.
An average African male farmer puts in 19 hours per week on agricultural
work (Review, 1 April 1989). The women do the rest.

If we look at other animals the pattern of female industry is not so
clear cut. In a number of fishes, amphibians and birds the bulk of parental
care, and hence the general work load, falls to the male. Male sea horses
(Hippocampus), for example, have a brood pouch in which to carry developing
eggs. Male midwife toads (Alytes) carry their fertilised egg masses around
their waist, transporting them back to water when the tadpoles are ready
to hatch. Male birds of many species help their mate with incubation and
subsequent feeding of the young, but some take this a step further. In the
button quails (Turnicidae), the males alone brood and rear the offspring.
These are by no means isolated examples.

When we come to the mammals the picture changes and active involvement
of the male in the family unit is rare, the general pattern being: male
gets female pregnant, male clears off and leaves female holding the babies.
Male mammals may have a good biological excuse for not feeding their newly
born progeny in that they do not lactate. However, there is nothing stopping
male lions from killing antelope for their pride instead of gorging themselves
on the meat provided by the lionesses. Don’t think I am just getting at
lions. There are many other pertinent examples, from echidnas (Tachyglossidae)
and kangaroos (Macropodidae) to mice and, of course, men.

Coming back to the human race and the way in which tasks become divided,
I felt myself to be fortunate to be part of an ‘enlightened’ society. A
society in which people held doors open for each other, regardless of sex,
and occasionally offered a pregnant woman a seat.

Then I did the week’s shopping accompanied by a baby and a toddler,
and noticed for the first time that every other person struggling alone
with offspring and a pile of groceries was female. Okay, so I did not have
firewood strapped on my back or water balanced on my head, but the baked
beans and potatoes with a couple of children in tow can be pretty unwieldy.
Males did occasionally join their mate in this environment, but it was in
the same uncluttered capacity as the African tribesman. They ambled round
and blocked the aisles – the same scenario with a different backdrop.

But the trend in evolution is for the fittest to survive by natural
selection. Surely participation by the male would increase the number of
his offspring which survived. He could help by providing protection, food,
instruction and so on, the provision of any one of which could add to his
offspring’s chances of survival. On the other hand, if she had more help,
perhaps the female would have more free time to wander, meet other males
and produce broods with different fathers. This would not help to perpetuate
the first male’s genes, so it would not be in his interests to encourage
it. If instead he selected a mate with broad shoulders to carry the bulk
of the work, he would ensure that she was too busy to wander. . .

Now I know why shoulder pads have become fashionable in women’s clothing.
I am still pondering how Mary got round Joseph though.

Hazel Mackenzie is a biology lecturer living in Harrogate.

How many woods do you know that fit the above description? I am fortunate
in that the place I describe is only 7 kilometres from where I live. Its
diverse flora have gained it status as a Site of Special Scientific Interest,
but a specialist in almost any branch of natural history would find it fascinating.
England was once covered by such woodland but we are now left with a few
precious relics squeezed between housing estates and monoculture crops.

Sadly, the ancient wood I write about has days that are numbered. The
county council is summoning up its strength to subdue conservationist opposition
and build a bypass right through it. We condemn South American countries
for destroying the rainforests, and our politicians mouth green phrases,
but the reality continues. Conserving our natural heritage is not a major
priority. In fact, planners and politicians alike seem to regard conservation
as a positive nuisance, getting in the way of more important tasks. Take
the case of my local wood.

The town does need a bypass, so that much is not in question. The choice,
therefore, is between spending an extra Pounds sterling 1 million and buying
up farming land for an alternative route, or preserving a very diverse example
of ancient, semi-natural, broadleaved woodland. In other words, conserving
the wood costs money. Directly. And damaging the environment saves money.

Change is inevitable, but does it really have to be for the worse? Are
the wood’s 52 breeding bird species, 130 or more species of vascular plant,
plus numerous invertebrates, fungi and bryophytes and so on, not worth Pounds
sterling 1 million? Given that a single painting has been auctioned for
more than Pounds sterling 50 million, our society has some interesting values.
It seems that anything manmade – art or architecture, for instance – is
valued more highly than things that we cannot create. Imagine the justifiable
outcry if the same council were proposing to route a road through York Minster.
Yet a 30-hectare site of complexities ecologists are only beginning to fathom,
and could certainly never recreate, is sacrificed. Those people who try
to intervene are labelled extreme and reactionary and certainly do not seem
to be considered seriously.

I was at a meeting recently when a local dignitary was explaining future
developments around the town. Proposals for further building work on estates
where the audience lived were received with alarm. There was much grave
discussion. Everyone wanted to push the block of flats, the supermarket
and the industrial park somewhere else: there were sighs of relief where
this could be achieved.

After the talk, the speaker turned to the subject of woodland. ‘Well,
you know,’ he explained, ‘the conservationists weren’t just worried about
tarmac flattening those medieval weeds, they actually claimed . . .’, he
paused for dramatic effect, ‘they claimed the traffic fumes would damage
the wildlife.’ Everyone fell about laughing.

The speaker went on: ‘We’ve had such a terrible time with these people.
They are causing a scandalous waste of public money by their opposition.
I can’t understand them. After all, I’m a conservationist too. We are having
to spend I don’t know what to renovate the statue of Queen Victoria, bless
her, so she doesn’t fall off the plinth.’

So that was that. I could have stood up and said: ‘The local conservationist
and naturalist societies are fighting like crazy to save this wood for you
and yours. It’s got fascinating geology, shows wonderful biodiversity and
has a history which probably dates to the time of Richard the Lion-Heart.
But so long as you can get to work faster in the morning and the bypass
isn’t next to the piece of territory you call home, you don’t care.’ They
would only have laughed louder.

I guess that is why the council can carve up the wood. The people who
vote for them will not be upset, and votes are second not even to money
when it comes to a politician’s priorities.

The only way out is via public opinion. Without that the case for conservation
is doomed. The task of environmentally conscious people, therefore, is not
just to fight the green fight, but to enlighten and educate. We have to
emphasise our unique responsibility for the environment. What we do or fail
to do within the next few years could completely destroy the few treasures
we have inherited. As the Nature Conservancy Council wrote in 1984, ‘Compromise
is essential in a democratic society, but in nature conservation the great
compromise has already been made.’ After all, spring can not be celebrated
in tarmac.

Hazel MacKenzie is a biology lecturer living in Harrogate.

Try a change of scene. A British garden in the summer. Your cauliflowers
are almost big enough to eat. You pick the biggest one and proudly carry
it indoors. On slicing it through, however, the cavities between the florets
are packed with cabbage-white caterpillars waving their heads at the sudden
disturbance. Do you go ahead and eat it? I’ve cut my losses and grow winter
caulis.

We are a pretty lily-livered lot when it comes to food. Not for us the
juicy maggots enjoyed by Aborigines or the flying ants added as an interesting
texture to food in many parts of Africa. Locusts have been eaten since biblical
times but those we import are reduced to decorating school biology labs.
We make an exception for a few marine crustacea and molluscs, but their
terrestrial counterparts are definitely regarded as ‘not nice’.

Perverse as it may seem after shunning such varied sources of protein,
there is one category of organism we eat live in huge quantities. I’m talking
about microbes.

The public appears surprised to learn during recent salmonella and listeria
scares that living microbes are everywhere. Out of sight, they appear to
be out of mind unless causing unpleasant side effects. Perhaps in years
to come we will be able to cause wonder and hilarity among our great grandchildren
recounting what we used to eat: ‘Great grandad really used to eat cheese
with fungus grown specially all the way through it, and the milk he drank
went off after a while because of all the live bacteria.’ It sounds silly
now but why do we still regard terrestrial invertebrates as inedible? The
simple answer is conditioning. I freak out when my toddler and her hamster
fill their mouths (and pouches in the case of the hamster) with garden slugs.
I hate removing these creatures from such orifices though I don’t suppose
the slugs enjoy the experience either. In time my daughter will, I hope,
get the message that slugs are not edible. My behaviour really is quite
illogical, though, when the perennial problems of what to have for tea and
how to eradicate slugs are being solved for me. Should I really be encouraging
this interest in the hope she will want to research molluscs in 30 years’
time? After all, entomologists have often suggested that you should eat
the subject of your research if you are to become fully acquainted with
it.

This begs the question why did people originally get turned off invertebrate
food sources in the first place? Poisoning seems unlikely as, although some
invertebrates are poisonous, so are many plants. It doesn’t stop us eating
those which are palatable. We have got it down to a fine art, eating rhubarb
stalks for instance, while rejecting the leaves.

I think the real reason, in Britain at least, is the problems of harvesting
small individuals. Couple this with the fact that our climate is not suitable
for large, worthwhile invertebrates to evolve in large numbers. It was not
economic to harvest this category of livestock. However, nowadays people
have more leisure time than formerly. As a nation we are also acquiring
a taste for exotic food. In the future our great grandchildren, far from
being shocked at our consumption of microbes, could be adding a whole range
of organisms to the food we eat.

Hazel Mackenzie teaches in a college of further education in Harrogate.