wildflower defenders, reluctant spider friends, the hare's corners and the luxury of long evenings by the sea
The roadside.
‘They’re all baddies!’
‘They are all … what?’
‘Baddies.’ He throws his arms in the air.
‘Who?’
‘The people who cut the grass. They cut all the flowers.’
‘Oh – the men with the lawnmowers?’ I ask.
He nods angrily and folds his arms across his chest.
‘The flowers are all gone now. Why did they DO THAT?’
‘Oh ...’ I pause. ‘They aren’t baddies. They just ... They cut the grass because they ...’
I stop to compose my thoughts.
The three-year-old and I are walking together along a footpath close to our home. The evening before, in this very spot, we picked buttercups, fluffy dandelion seed heads, clover, vetch and self-heal.
Why did they cut away all the lovely wild dandelions and buttercups? I ask myself. It’s not as if I haven’t thought about this before. Yet I still can’t find an answer to explain this to a three-year-old.
‘Well... They cut the grass because ... some people think the long grass and flowers look messy. And ... I suppose they wanted to cut it now before it gets longer and falls onto the footpath’
He looks at me, puzzled, and points to the path.
‘But now it's all messy. They should not do that.’
He points to the path. The once flower-filled verge is now shaved down to the roots. The flowers have been eradicated. And the dry grass clippings are scattered along the path.
I don't want to vilify the lawn mower men who cut the grass in this area. ‘‘They aren’t baddies ... They mean well.’ Even as I say it, I realise this is a weak defence.
His brow stays furrowed. He is unconvinced. I can see his stance hardening. He stamps his feet.
‘They are baddies. The bees need the flowers.’
‘No. They aren’t baddies.’
To be fair to the lawnmower men, I have noticed they are cutting later and later each year. We are almost at the end of May. They are mowing less frequently now, too.
‘They want to look after the footpaths,’ I say. ‘But it is better to leave the flowers for the bees and butterflies. I suppose they could have cut just the edges that would have been better’
He nods and huffs.
The glasshouse
The five-year-old comes running in from the back garden in a dramatic panic.
‘There is a spider in the glasshouse. And I’m not staying out there.’
I sense immediately that she is enjoying the drama of this.
‘A spider!’ I say. ‘Of course, there is a spider outside. There are supposed to be spiders in the glasshouse.’
She drags me out to show me. We have a small sandpit set up in the glasshouse. A tiny money spider has woven a web across the top of one of the strawberry plants.
‘That’s a lovely spider,’ I tell her. ‘I think it's a money spider and it's good luck to find one.’
‘Get rid of it,’ she demands, feigning fear.
‘No. It’s allowed to be here. It won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt it.’
She stomps back into the house.
This is a child who is afraid of almost nothing. My intuition says she is trying on the identity of someone afraid of spiders. To see how this might feel.
I go back to washing dishes. She is sitting on the couch. Her younger brother, the wildflower defender, is outside playing in the sand, entirely untroubled by the presence of a tiny spider.
When enough time has passed that I sense she is growing bored of this new arachnophobic identity. I decide to pry a little.
‘Where did you get the idea to be afraid of spiders?’
There is a long pause.
‘One of my teachers in school,’ she eventually says.
I leave some silence.
‘Well ... you can be afraid of spiders if you want. But I think you might end up missing out on lots of the most fun things in life. Like playing outside. Planting things. Watching things grow... And, who will pick the strawberries for me in the morning? You're very good at that.’
Silence.
I continue. ‘You know, one of my favourite things about the new glasshouse is that, since we started growing lots of things in it, we have so many more butterflies, bees, slugs, snails and spiders coming into the garden than we ever had before. I love that. And you know - I think you do too.’
She says nothing.
But I sense her stance is softening.
A few minutes later, her brother calls from outside, asking her to come out to play with him. She jumps up and runs back out to the glasshouse.
The money spider.
I read a lovely story about a money spider one evening.
‘The money spider never builds its web between two hard objects like two stones. If it did this, it would be rent by the wind. Instinctively it builds its web between two blades of grass. When the wind comes, the web lowers with the grass until the wind has passed, then it comes back up and finds its point of balance and equilibrium again. [...] We put terrible pressure on our minds when we tighten them or when we harden our views or beliefs; we lose all softness and flexibility, which makes for real shelter, belonging, and protection.‘ *
The hare’s corner
The idea of leaving "places for nature' has been on my mind in recent weeks. I have begun to notice wildlife ponds appearing in the corners of fields around Mayo. On one road, I walk close to our house, four neighbouring fields now each have a small fenced-off pond dug out in the corner of the field.
I see the same on the Mullet Peninsula in North Mayo. In a wet corner of a cattle field, yellow flag iris, water mint and marsh marigolds have taken hold. Damselflies hover above the water.
I suspect these ponds were built last year or even the year before. But it is only now, with their fringes decorated by tall yellow flag irises, that I am beginning to notice them.
At home, one evening, I read up on The Hare's Corner scheme. This initiative of Burrenbeo Trust is a scheme that works with landowners, farmers, schools and community groups to support them in creating small habitats for wildlife such as ponds, mini-woodlands, orchards and hedges. Through the scheme, landowners in the west of Ireland receive practical support, advice and, in some cases, materials or funding, making it easier to take simple actions that benefit biodiversity.
I read that the name itself, The Hares Corner, is inspired by the old farming term for an awkward corner of a field that was traditionally left to nature.
Whereas the popular ‘No Mow May’ biodiversity campaign can sometimes feel like a call to pick a side, to divide us all up into goodies and baddies, The Hare’s Corner scheme speaks in a different tone of voice altogether.
Rather than focusing on what people should stop doing, this scheme focuses on helping and supporting people to create more space for nature in ways that work for them and with the land.
The approach seems almost disarmingly simple: make space for nature without making enemies of people.
And judging by the number of ponds appearing across Mayo, it seems to be working.
I point one pond out to our three-year-old, the wildflower defender.
‘See the rope fence? That’s so the flowers can grow, and the cows don’t get in and trample them. There’s water there for the birds and insects like bees too.’
He says nothing but nods approvingly. This child has such strong aul fella energy about him.
Consistent, positive, practical praise over time brings people along. If this is true for children, it is surely true for all of us.
The machair
Over the next few weeks, the weather is warm and dry, and the evenings are long. As anyone who lives in the west of Ireland will tell you, you make the most of warm, dry weather when you get it.
On one particularly warm, calm evening, we cook our dinner on the beach and jump in the waves long past the small children’s bedtime. The sun still hangs high in the sky at 9 pm.
We have been swimming all winter with the children. The younger ones swim only in the swimming pool in the cold months. The ten-year-old is hardy and enthusiastic. She has been swimming in the sea since March, and now the younger ones are following her lead. It feels like a breakthrough this evening when we notice the three-year-olds ' growing confidence in the (shallow) waves.
After swimming, the five-year-old asks me to read all the new signs that have appeared along the flat grassy area of the beach behind the hilly sand dunes. The signs explain all about the Life on Machair Project. This project works with farmers, landowners and local communities to protect and restore Ireland’s flower-rich machair landscapes, helping wildlife such as breeding wading birds and pollinators to thrive.
The main illustration on the sign describes how the special machair grasslands are formed and why these areas of commonage are so special.
I talk the children through the illustration and explain the purpose of the special exclosure fences on the flat grassy area in front of us. ‘The little fenced-off areas are so that people see what happens in these areas when the larger animals like sheep and cows can’t eat the plants inside that area’.
‘But I don’t get it,’ the ten-year-old says, looking around. ‘I thought all beaches looked like this.’
‘No, they don’t,’ I smile. ‘We are just very lucky that there are so many of these special beaches so close to us.’
The five-year-old and I lie still on the edge of the machair grass and watch at eye level, looking for birds.
We spot a dunlin.
Overhead, a skylark calls.
Eventually, we decide that responsible parents should probably bring their children home to bed for school the next morning. We pack up the car. The sun is finally beginning to sink lower in the sky.
The long summer sunset is just beginning.
As we drive away from the beach and up the small, straight road towards the main road, the sky turns pink behind us. The wet ditches are bursting with yellow flag iris and ox-eye daisies. The slanting light is catching the fluffy heads of bog cotton. We slow the car right down to admire them.
Then, in a grassy field beside a small farmhouse, we spot a brown hare sitting in the long meadow grass, absorbing the long evening sun. He sits perfectly still.
We bring the car to a gentle stop and lower the windows.
For a moment, he locks eyes with us. It feels like he is about to say something profound. When, all of a sudden, he startles and bolts for cover.
‘Wow!’ says the ten-year-old.
We continue home, listening to our favourite summer songs. The car is quiet. I assume the younger two have fallen asleep when the five-year-old pipes up from the back of the car.
‘I love all the things that are alive,’ she announces proudly.
I know she is still thinking about the recent incident with the spider in the glasshouse. ‘Oh, that's nice I say’, not really knowing how to respond to this level of cuteness.
‘All the things that are alive?’ her father asks. ‘But you like snow too, don’t you? And that’s not exactly alive.’
‘Hmm. Yes,’ she says.
‘Ok, then I like everything that the world is made out of. But ... I don’t like needles.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ I say. ‘Needles can be sore.’
‘I love dolphins!’ her younger three-year-old brother chimes in. ‘I love dolphins ... and flowers ... and all fluffy things.’
‘Aw ... that's so cute, says the eldest child, looking fondly over at her little brother. His hair is a tangled mass of curls, badly in need of a wash and brush after the salty sea.
‘I love fluffy things too,’ she says.
Words: Jo Anne Butler
Photography: Gearoid Muldowney and Jo Anne Butler
Photographer's Assistant: Our daughter.
Book excerpt from Anam Cara by John O'Donoghue