Nestled between two wooded ridges above Lower Lough Erne, Fedian Fields is a place where time slows, wildlife thrives, and every visit feels like stepping into a secret world few have seen. 

I didn’t know it then, but the summer of 2015 marked the beginning of my affair with Fedian Fields, now Fedian Nature Reserve. Over the ensuing decade, I’ve grown profoundly familiar with the place, but how the name is pronounced, depends on who you’re talking to. 

Some say the townland ‘Feyd-jan,’ but as it’s easier to remember, I’m sticking with ‘Fey-gin,’ the spirit of the place. It stems from the Irish for ‘small stream’ or ‘water supply,’ and sure enough, there’s a crystal-clear spring at its heart. I’ve drunk from it, cupping a small handful on a baking hot day, and never has water tasted sweeter. 

Discovering a wild treasure

They say first impressions are important, and if so, it was love at first sight. Blessed with some of the finest views in Fermanagh, it straddles two wooded ridges, above Lower Lough Erne. Immediately it felt special, a one-off, a place where brand-new secrets, big and small, await the curious explorer. 

I warmly invite you to stand awhile, breathe deeply, touch the ground and watch for the wildlife. Sense the magic, and join me on a journey, into the land that time forgot.

Protecting Fedian’s riches 

In 2015, as part of Ulster Wildlife’s Save our Magnificent Meadows project, I collected bucketfuls of wildflower seeds here with my colleague Eva to restore nearby meadows. Lit with lilac blue flowers, they were awash with devil’s bit scabious. 

Soon after, George Roosky, the grazier, applied for the Environmental Farming Scheme, to support ongoing sensitive management. In my role as a Farm Planner, this offered another excuse to visit, only this time to assess all 90+acres: half old-growth woodland, half species-rich grassland, the work was an absolute pleasure. The survey, navigating among a maze of huge hedgerows, offered a first glimpse of Fedian’s riches.

Since then, it’s been my professional privilege to return for annual land-management ‘health-checks’. However, Fedian’s sharp-eyed residents spot me far more often. Over time, the farm, less than a mile from where I write, has become my happy place – a source of fascination, exploration, discussion and more recently, aspiration.

The Race to Save Fedian

Step forward to 2024, whispers, rumours and distant jungle drums had heralded Fedian’s impending sale. That summer, the Nixon family revealed their need to sell and the thought of it slipping into intensive agriculture was unbearable.

On a beautiful spring day, I took my colleague Peter MvcEvoy, who shares my passion for these places, and I knew he’d love it, but we needed to spread the word. Another colleague visited, and along with George and the owners, we all backed a bid. 

A proposal was put together to sound out and enthuse potential funders, and the wheels were beginning to turn, but then to our disappointment the sale went public, and a bidding war ensued. 

Meanwhile, an updated habitat assessment was completed and unsurprisingly, this delivered a glowing botanical report, and hot on its heels, a butterfly survey followed. In glorious October conditions, one of those weeks when you just feel lucky to be alive, a larval web count took place. Amid sparkling dew-laden fields, a powerful picture emerged – the farm was alive with marsh fritillary butterflies, one of Northern Ireland’s most threatened butterflies. 

Would our dreams of buying Fedian be just that? Funding from The National Lottery Heritage Fund, The Wildlife Trusts and generous gifts in wills from Ulster Wildlife members could enable a purchase, but only to an agreed budget. Each time we thought we were over the line, another rival bid was tabled. Trying to keep our cool, the weeks dragged on, our budget limit fast approaching. 

So close, and yet so far, success began to feel out of reach. Then, finally in January 2025, after what seemed forever, the agent accepted our bid. This meant, from what we’d heard, that Fedian was no longer in danger of being flipped into ‘productive’ farmland. 

Even then, it was difficult to believe the farm was saved for posterity, at least until we’d signed on the dotted line. 

I shouldn’t have worried – we clinched the deal.

Call the diggers off. It’s ours.

And as I stood there, taking it all in, I knew this was a story I’d tell for the rest of my career.