Author Archives: John Clark

These days, walking out the front door to go for a stroll is a scary business. The solitary flowering daffodil immediately in my line of vision is no longer a glorious wonder of spring, rather an ominous siren luring me onto Infection Street. I find myself checking left and right before placing a single foot onto the garden path. You never know, there could be a plague carrier incoming, a milkman or postie. I step out and recce my proposed line of travel equidistance between toxic surfaces shuttering my short driveway – the wall, the car, the tree trunk. For a brief moment they appear to be a gauntlet bubbling with millions of agitated Covids, hairy microscopic golf balls, bouncing against each other and chattering in excited anticipation. “Here he comes!”

It doesn’t last long; doorway to pavement is but a dozen paces yet the fear is tangible and horribly unnerving. I check that the road and pavements are clear then stride towards the white line, turning left to follow it, proceeding down the centre of the road to the snicket that leads to my R&R destination. Barely a handful of people are out promenading, undoubtedly feeling equally freaked out, eyes scanning the tarmac as if to look up and acknowledge me might risk impregnation, by or from. I’m feeling bold by now and cheerfully hail them. They immediately respond and positively beam, waving as if we’ve all just received a swift immunisation shot. Strange days…

My designated R&R has been to engage in a spot of guerrilla gardening in the wetlands located at the bottom of our estate. These were created maybe eight years ago to mitigate the Daybrook flooding, a small stream that used to rush straight down a culvert running along the side of what was then scrub land. Issuing from a park less than a mile away, the brook still managed to aggressively overflow, so the corporation sent in contractors to dig a meandering course and redirect the flow. Then they just walked away, leaving a pretty unsightly mess, which I presume they believed would soon grow into some kind of attractive wilderness. It didn’t.

Six years ago I started pushing willow whips into the sodden earth to add a little height to the reed beds that had indeed germinated, but the snaking brook quickly became a pond then a lake that now hosts a range of waterfowl including herons and egrets. Little or no attention has been paid to the area by the city gardeners responsible for it, and you simply can’t leave willow to grow and grow, not when they are next to a public footpath. Sooner than later heavy branches are going to come crashing down. They don’t call it crack willow for nothing!

So I’ve set myself the task of pollarding and coppicing, and building a solid winrow, an activity I can safely perform for a couple of hours each day by isolating off my section of the path. Despite blocking either end with felled branches and despite an alternative route that is anything but inconvenient, wouldn’t you know that some idiots still insist on forging their way into my exclusion zone.

But from a distance my work is clearly appreciated by those taking their legal constitutional in the wetlands. If I get away with it, I might just continue as I’ve started and sort out the whole darn place. One week on from the lockdown, seems I’ll have plenty of time for it.

A small gallery showing the growth before and after, and the winrow. It is very rewarding to see the young shoots sprouting. By this time next year (in time for the next Covid lockdown?) there will be willow whips ideal for bean poles and a conical sweet pea climbing frame.

One of the most enjoyable promenades a city walker can make has to be around the urban cemeteries that largely came into existence during the Victorian period, particularly if a respectable chunk of the graveyard has fallen into disrepair and been overrun by nature. Aside from the joy and tranquility of escaping the noise and eye-clutter of the urban environment, a wander around last resting places is a stroll through a people’s history of the locale, as expressed not only by the dedications engraved into the memorials but the very nature of the architecture of headstones, catacombs and obelisques, and the bric-a-brac some authorities still allow relatives to leave for the departed. By the mid-20th century, many of our town cemeteries were full to capacity and legislation to permit cremation was passed to provide an alternative, so the history is a snapshot of little more than the 150 year transition from Victorian to Modern via two world wars and various colonial conflicts. It is a period that marked the rise of the middle class, the entrepeneur and professional, and they weren’t going to leave their mortal coil without making sure people remembered them through the grand monuments they left behind. That the plot next door was to be occupied by a mere commoner or worse, a paupers’ grave where cadavers were stacked one one top of another was beyond their control.

Possibly the most evocative urban cemetery outside of London is the 45 acres of Arnos Vale in the heart of Bristol, particularly if visitied on a crisp and foggy winters day. Tumbling down a hillside, it is a beautifully ramshackle and  neglected place, laced with muddy desire lines and winding paths, teeming with wonderful woodland plants and wildlife, and studded with fascinating memorials. Grim though it is and looking a lot like a steam-punk version of The Iron Giant, there is even an early furnace in the bowls of the café that I recommend starting with, just to get you in the mood!

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