Gardens

An Array of Hedgehogs

A few months ago I posted a blog about Henrietta and her urchins. The story had ended on rather a low note when I found a dead hedgehog by the roadside. However, I’m pleased to say that we still have an array (the technical term for a group of hedgehogs) thriving in our garden and, although it’s difficult to be certain, one looks very much like Henrietta.

Over the summer we watched two young hedgehogs coming out at dusk from their nest under the shed and running playfully around on the patio. One in particular seemed intent on running laps for several minutes before stopping for food. We put out cat food (jelly-based and meaty) garnished with a few mealworms. We had been advised that too many mealworms are not a good idea as the hedgehogs seem to get addicted and this can cause huge problems. The following information has been copied from the Hedgehog Street website:-

‘Rescue centres up and down the country are seeing increasing numbers of their prickly patients with metabolic bone disease, which is linked to feeding large amounts of mealworms. Metabolic bone disease is a very distressing condition which basically robs their bones of calcium and leaves them so weak that they are barely able to stand up.’ 

Another issue is overfeeding which results in a hedgehog too fat to curl up and defend itself.

Our hedgehogs grew and seemed to thrive. Some kind neighbours fed them while we were away at the beginning of September and had fun sitting in the dark watching the antics of the young hedgehogs who would come and nibble their shoelaces!

Around the end of September, things seemed to change. The energetic lap-runner didn’t appear at his usual time and we’re wondering if he’d reached sexual maturity and had gone off to new pastures. We decided to put a camera out at night to monitor the activities. This showed at least two hedgehogs are still in the garden.

We have two commercially made hedgehog houses and one homemade one. We provided straw and piles of dead leaves and were pleased to see at least two of these houses are being used, as well as a compost sack half full of earth which has been topped up with leaf litter by an enterprising hedgehog to make a cozy nest!

In the last week or so every scrap of the food is disappearing overnight and we think this is because the hedgehogs are fattening themselves up ready for hibernation.

Our near neighbours have created hedgehog access holes in their fences and gates. The whole village is becoming more hedgehog-aware and reports have come in of hedgehogs in several gardens nearby so we’re hoping our hedgehog population will be booming next spring.

 

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Henrietta and her urchins

We couldn’t believe there was a hedgehog in our garden. It was mid-morning on a Sunday towards the end of May and a portly looking hedgehog was scurrying around collecting mouthfuls of dry leaves then disappearing under the shed. We watched her for a couple of hours, realising she was a pregnant female making a nest.

She appeared again later in the day gathering more nesting material. Then we saw nothing of her for a couple of days. We put out a large shallow dish of fresh water and bought meal worms and hedgehog food which we put behind a paving slab we had propped against the side of the shed. The food disappeared so we replenished it each evening.

Then Henrietta, as we called her, started appearing regularly at dusk. She would have a long drink, eat some food then trot off around the garden. One evening I saw her heading down the road towards the recreation ground. This was a bit worrying, but it is a quiet village road so I hoped she would be ok.

A couple of weeks went by before we started seeing the urchins, or young hedgehogs. They were almost round with little pointy snouts and would drink together from the dish. We think there were three, but were never sure if we had seen all of them at one time. Soon the food started disappearing very fast and we had to stock up on meal worms, their favourite food.

Now, as it gets dark, around 10pm, the two-month-old urchins come out from under the shed and, after a feed and a drink, they run back and forth, disappearing among the herbs. They even found a lost tennis ball in the flower bed and pushed it out on to the path. Our neighbours have cut openings in their back gates to allow access for foraging hedgehogs.

However, we haven’t seen Henrietta now for about ten days. I’m hoping it’s just that she’s weaned her young and has left them to be self-sufficient, but yesterday as I turned off the main road to the village I saw a grey smudge, a sketchy outline, unmistakably hedgehog, lying flat as a child’s discarded drawing on the slip road.

I walked back to look more closely and felt inexpressibly sad that this could be Henrietta, now just a matted grey shape of crushed prickles, the snout upturned cartoon-like.

We are continuing to feed our two remaining hedgehogs and have installed a hedgehog house ready for hibernation time. We still hope that perhaps Henrietta may still be alive and will come back one day to have another litter.

Poetry Day – 4 of my poems

Pipistrelles
In the uncertainty of dusk
pipistrelles gather invisible sound
picking up echoes of warmth
from old stone walls
winding in the whirr
of insects’ wings
darting closer
in faltering light
weaving me into their loom
of silence –
netting thoughts.

I hear my daughter indoors
practising her scales,
notes swooping
dipping –

roosting even now
in my mind
undisturbed by time.

Chalk Ghost
Chalk ghost on the windowpane –
a barn owl drawn by its own reflection
flew into the moonlit glass last night,
left its outline etched in flight dust.

Swooping Narcissus-like
on its rippling image
left the imprint of each feather –
whirlpools of dust for eyes,
emptiness where the beak should be.
How the glass must have screeched
when the talons flexed.
closing on that wraith-like prey.

published by Poetry Wales

Written in Chalk
Beneath this swaying field of flax
a sea bed swarms with coiled creatures
tiny ammonites
cochlea echoing with Jurassic surf,
snails curling round pebbles
imprinted with the cicatrice
of fallen petals.

Below the keel of plough
fossil fish spawn in salt-white sponge
swim through ancient coral
brittle as bone.

When the moon brims over Knowle Hill
a tide still turns beneath the earth.
Moths move in shoals
through scented waves.

Close layers lie undisturbed –
memory written in chalk.

September
This evening
picking beans after a thunder shower,
shed blossoms cling like drab insects
to my fingers.
Late sun, yellow as pumpkin flowers.

Now, with my colander
by the open kitchen door,
the sun makes a square on the red lino.
Outside hens peck at shreds of light.

Soon bats will draw down the dark,
But I’ll leave the door open,
breathe in the honeysuckle air
while moths circle the lampshade
dizzy from touching the moon.

published by Poetry Wales

Poetry by Jennifer Hunt (copyright applies)
Photo by Brian L Hunt

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Butterfly Bonanza

The Buddliea I planted last year is hanging its purple lamps across the garden and, above it, is a constant whirring and buzzing of insects – bees, hoverflies, moths and butterflies. I looked out yesterday and saw a Humming bird Hawk-Moth hovering from flower to flower. I rushed to get my camera, but when I got out there it had vanished. Then there was a vibration next to my right ear and it zoomed in, touched down briefly on my chest then flew off.

When the sun appeared yesterday I saw Red Admirals, Tortoiseshells, Peacocks and a beautiful female Brimstone. After the recent cool damp weather, these butterflies seemed galvanised into a flying fluttering frenzy by the sudden heat of the sun’s rays.

On the ground was an enormous caterpillar – that of the Elephant Hawk Moth. It had fearsome ‘eyes’ and dinosaur-grey skin which rippled and wrinkled as it shimmied along. I watched it till it reached safe cover. These caterpillars feed on Fuchsia, among other things, so I was glad I’d planted a Fuchsia shrub.

Today it is grey and dull again, but I keep looking out in the hope of seeing the Humming Bird Hawk Moth again.

A wing and a prayer

It’s a time of winged things. Summer is taking flight and giving way to autumn. House martins are whirling through thundery air, stocking up on insects before their journey.

In the park, Finley, aged two, is swinging higher and higher – ‘I’m flying …’ Jago, five, is standing still staring at the ground where there is a seething mass of silver wings among the grass. The muggy humid weather has created perfect conditions for flying ants to hatch. The newly emerged young queens and males are spiralling up on sweet-wrapper wings to mate in mid-air. Afterwards the queen bites off her wings, which have served their purpose, and creates a new nest by digging into the soil. The males, having mated, die.

Finley blows the seeds of a dandelion – ‘two, three, six’ and hands me the bare stalk. We examine a stink bug (Coreus marginatus) which has landed on his jeans. A fly sits beside me on the picnic bench. The droning sound of bees blends with distant thunder. In the garden, borage and lavender are straggling everywhere, but I refuse to tidy up as the insects love these plants. Hoverflies, ladybirds, wasps and bees are pinned to every petal.

As we watch the shimmering wings of the ants disappearing into the shadows of the lime trees we hear a loud roaring sound and the Red Arrows fly over in formation. Later is the sad news of the Hawker Hunter crash at Shoreham.

Looking for spring

Bramble leaves were purple with cold. Black fungi and yellow lichen crept over bare branches. A dead badger lay by the roadside and debris from fast-food outlets littered the verges. Overhead a buzzard was being mobbed by a crow – a macabre aerial ballet. The clear chalk stream of the River Frome was flowing fast under the bridge and a skein of mallards flew sketchily across the grey sky.

It was a gloopy sort of day. A curtain of thick grey fog hung over Portesham Hill. The road was covered in a slippery layer of stinking mud. Hedges had been flailed creating raw splinters of wood that poked through the mist. I was looking for signs of spring, but, apart from a celandine, some catkins and an isolated patch of fragile white blossom, everything was still steeped in winter gloom.

However, in my sister’s garden the surface of the pond was corrugated with clumps of frogspawn. It was all clustered on the shaded side of the water – a myriad of eyeballs , small black pupils unseeing, but warding off predators. I remembered the nature table at school and the excitement of watching tadpoles develop. I was fascinated by the change in the frogspawn from black dots to squiggles, and loved drawing the different stages in pencil on sugar paper, revelling in the word ‘metamorphosis’ which seemed to sum up for me the mysteries and excitement of the natural world.

When I was nine our class was occasionally taken down the road to a long sloping garden owned by an elderly lady called Mrs Fiddler. She kindly allowed the children to come and play on the grass in fine weather. At the top of the garden was a pond which drew me into forbidden territory. I would hide in the grass next to the water, watching the newts and other wildlife. In the spring I’d scoop a lump of frogspawn into a jam jar and smuggle it back to school, keeping it in my desk. I took it home at the end of the day and tipped the gelatinous soup into a large glass bowl. I once caught a great crested newt and somehow got it home. It looked newly painted with orange and black splodges on its belly, but it vanished overnight from its fruit bowl. I searched guiltily for a corpse for days but found no trace of it.

Today I lifted a lump of the rubbery jelly from my sister’s pond and drove home carefully with it in a washing-up bowl. All these years later, yet I can’t wait to see my frogspawn begin to turn into froglets.

Kitchen tables and bird tables

Sitting at the kitchen table doing some artwork. The rain on the French windows is blurring the view of the garden. From the corner of my eye I see a squadron of rooks targeting the lawn, maybe thirty or so, white-coned beaks cleaving the air as they come in to land.

Next time I look up the rain has stopped and there is a pale green blot on the grass – then a flash of red and I recognise the outline of the green woodpecker sitting completely still – until it hears us reaching for the camera …Blackbirds, robins, chaffinches and collared doves are all taking advantage of the bird tables, along with a couple of very smart tweedy pheasants who are scouting around beneath the feeders.

Like a shuffle of playing cards, a greater spotted woodpecker clamps on to the peanut holder, a red mark on the back of his head showing him to be the male. He attacks the nuts with gusto, hammering with his powerful beak.

A couple of weeks ago a sparrow hawk dropped in – a beautiful bird with death in his eyes – and sat, rather incongruously, on the washing line. He looked imperiously around with his clockwork orange stare, but by then, the garden birds had made themselves scarce.

I got back to my artwork, thinking of my Great Uncle Richard who was a bird watcher and artist at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. He created detailed pencil portraits of the birds he saw from his home near the Exe Estuary in Devon. I never met him, but have some of his drawings – each pencil stroke as light and sensitive as a bird’s feather.