Author: dirtieswebspinner

Last month, instead of the usual project fare, the Dirts headed to Craigmillar Castle Park in the South of Edinburgh to learn about winter tree identification. The course was run as part of the RSPB’s Young Roots Project, which the Dirties have been involved with for about a year and a half now.

Identifying tree species in the winter is quite a skill and requires much keener observation than in the Summer. In the winter, broadleaf trees generally lose their leaves, flowers and fruit, all things that we usually rely on to ID the tree, meaning we have to look for more subtle signs. Given that the Dirts do most of their tree-felling and pruning in the winter months, it’s a useful skill for us to have.

We started our day at Bridgend Farmhouse where we met Amber, our guide for the morning and began our tour with some staples of the British countryside, the wych elm (Ulmus glabra) and the sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus). Both of these can be identified by looking at their buds, which are out for most of the winter season. Sycamores form bulbous green buds with alternating scales, resembling a fat beetle in my eyes, while wych elm buds are decidedly more round and red in colour.

We moved onto some other key species of British woodlands and learnt their distinctive features. The silver birch (Betula pendula) can be identified by its bark, the pedunculate oak (Quercus robur) and European beech (Fagus sylvatica) by its distinctive leaves that often stay on the tree, and the hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) by its fruit and fruit stalks.

We found that the more we paid attention to the trees and our surroundings, the more our collective minds dredged up little snippets of information about the species and all of us became teachers. Birch bark makes a great tinder, yew trees play an important role in folklore, elder bush branches can be fashioned into flutes, etc..

As our eyes became more attuned to what had become a treasure hunt for interesting specimens we came across remnants from when Craigmillar Park was a private garden in the early 1900s. We found what we think was a himalayan pine with long soft needles and a patch of some sort of bamboo, which both stuck out against the mostly leafless woodland.

We sat at a park bench and got out a load of books and put our new ID skills to the test with some twigs that Amber had gathered from Kelvin Grove in Glasgow, helped along by biscuits and penguin-huddling to stave off the cold. Many were species that we had seen that morning but many more were exotic species, a reminder of how integral people are to cultivating our woodlands, especially in urban areas.

I think we all learned a lot on our morning botanical excursion, and it certainly showed how interesting woodlands can be when you pay more attention.

__Here are some links to help you start identifying trees in the winter:__
Woodland Trust Nature Detectives Twig ID sheet
Paul Kirtley’s blog post on winter tree ID

The day came along and we huddled,

With Daisy the dog left to cuddle.

We walked, talked,

Not feeling too hot,

Fearing both rain and puddle

With Cammo our aim we trekked.

The shoes and the pants we wrecked,

To get through the sludge,

And twigs that don’t budge,

Building up quite a good sweat

We spaded and barrowed and raked,

In quite an impressive rate.

We all kept on going,

Putting off slowing,

Ignoring our muscles that ached.

Nearer came noon and our ruckus,

Feeling the hunger among us.

We sat, ate,

Needed no plate,

To feast on our sandwich with hummus.

Despite the magnificent lunch,

And the cold that packed quite a punch.

We returned to the field,

Refusing to yield,

To mountains of mud and mulch.

We gave it our all as a team,

It was quite the wonderful scene.

Pulling and clearing,

Sludge disappearing,

With Daisy just running in glee.

Twilight then came and we stopped,

And back on the bus we hopped.

Happy and seated,

For the job we completed,

And back on our warm beds we plopped.

 

By Markos Ioannou

The padlock clutched the gate, hanging there, the little wind there was having no effect on its stationary form. The ever-reliable clamber of golfers, the ping of the balls fighting against the air as the club strikes and then falls as the holder inspects the quality of his shot. The cries and songs of the birds sitting, flying, posing against the early morning sun as it captures the landscape in its all-encompassing glare.

The birds move. A new presence disturbs them from their routines, they fly and scatter as the serenity is broken. The war was about to begin. The dirty weekenders had arrived, group by group marching towards their opponent with murderous intent, weapons in hand.

Sea Buckthorn, had ravaged the land, spreading across its boarders and inhabiting the dunes that for many a year had been left undisturbed. It was in a hollow that the main battle took place with the dirties sheer numbers overcoming the lighter smaller bushes and eventually even the stronger buckthorns succumbed to the relentless bite of mattocks. The birds looked on, staying away from the conflict only occasionally would a pheasant stray close to the seen only to call in alarm as it witnessed the carnage taking place below it.

The bodies of buckthorn were strewn across the hollow only then to be piled and eventually burned, the fire removing all trace of the life that once existed in their branches. There was a brief lull in the action as the dirties took respite with sandwiches passed around as they talked about the deeds they had done that morning.

Greater deeds were yet to come, as many among the feasters talked about heading down to the shore and heading out into the Firth. Their nemesis was not only found in this area and determined to rid any dune of their plague attempts were made to reach the north side of the firth. The cold sea bit and scratched at their skin and the waves tore through their ranks as they swam and fought against its might. In the end the attempt was fruitless, though the dirties could clear the dunes of the sea buckthorn, the sea was a barrier they could not surpass. Instead they warmed themselves by the fallen foe as it burned. The flotilla of Eiders sat out in the firth gloating at the attempt, the Razorbill gave an inquisitive glance but preferred to ignore the apes.

Sun was drifting away and the dim of the evening started to creep into the hollow, the cold air now becoming dominant over what rays still penetrated the slopes. It was time to leave. The army of workers now trudging away silent, their tools underarm. The deer would stop to watch the curious march of this group as it made its way back to the vehicles that brought them in the first place. Aberlady was once again quiet, the golfers long gone home for tea, the low call of the sea as it broke upon the rocks sending spray up into the air, the whisper of the once excitable birds fell lightly upon the ears of the shyer wildlife that inhabited the dunes and the maze of thorns. They looked out, sniffed the air and realised something had changed.

By Gareth Powell