The species list continued to grow, as the full extent of Fedian’s rude good health became clear. Despite undergrazed and uncut meadows, sensitive management, supported by agri-environment funding and Ulster Wildlife’s advice, had long been in operation. An interested neighbour was heard to comment, “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” and as they say when buying a house, “Watch the garden for the first year to see what grows.” 

Like a garden, like a nature reserve, baseline data enhances understanding. Providing a benchmark, this monitoring enables measurement of the cumulative effect of ownership and management. Habitat mapping, before-and-after shots, stock numbers, grazing dates, and site infrastructure are all covered by this spreadsheet-shaped umbrella. 

Who’s in charge here?

It’s no exaggeration to say that the grazier was absolutely delighted we had rescued Fedian. In fact, when telling George we had completed, he leant across the kitchen table and shook my hand for a full 10 seconds. Despite nearly shaking the hand clean off me, we had secured his full approval and ongoing engagement. 

This opened the door, or should I say gate, for his beef cattle – the real management team – to continue grazing Fedian Fields and its woodlands. After all, this same herd had done a sterling job for at least a quarter of a century. 

In simple terms, the elderly lead cows, both 15 years old, had more knowledge of the site than the rest of us put together. Their job was to guide or ‘heft’ the younger stock through a maze of overgrown hedgerows into 40+ fields, some of which were so well concealed that I only recently discovered a new one. Sadly, and unusually, one of the lead cows passed away of old age last month, but at least she lived to see Fedian’s stewardship passed on.

If you go down to the woods today

St Brigid’s Day and Imbolc mark the first day of spring and the return of the light. Then, in March and April, the woodlands undergo a magical transformation. Like a desert after rain, the ground beneath the trees springs to life. Fresh green shoots pepper the undergrowth as if the world is waking up.

Blinking in the morning light, bobbing wood anemones, creamy primroses and clumps of celandine decorate south facing slopes. Kingcups or marsh marigolds draw the eye in ditches festooned with cushions of moss. Also known as May flowers, sometimes I fret at the reasons behind their early arrival. 

From banks of tangled tree roots, dog violets and tangy-tasting wood sorrel peep through leafy compost, the air pungent with wild garlic. In pockets of dappled sunlight, wood sanicle and sweet woodruff join the race against time before the canopy closes over. They’re soon outnumbered by floods of bluebells, decking the woods with violet blue flowers. The goldilocks buttercup, recorded only this March, adds a bright splash of paint to the picture. 

Evidence of mammals, but no bears

For a little veg to accompany the meat in their worm-based diet, badgers dig for pignut roots. Close to the old sett, the family residence for untold generations, swaying seas of these flowers flourish. I wonder if the digging has helped spread the plant – unwitting badger gardening – or if the pignut was here first. Certainly, the juicy roots offer a veritable midnight feast, as if in a convenience store, a short trundle from home. 

Toothwort emerges next, a saprophytic plant devoid of chlorophyll, with no need for sunlight, instead hitching a ride on the root balls of old hazel coppice. Ghostly, anaemic looking plants, these ones watch over the scattered remains of an abandoned car. 

I’ve questioned visitors on the make and model, an answer made trickier as the panels rust away. I should have taken photos years ago because reverting into its constituent chemicals, the car will eventually vanish. More mysterious still, is how it got here in the first place. ‘Parked’ in mixed woodland on a steep bank (or stank), 100 metres from the nearest field, it was driven much further from the road. I’d like to meet its occupants on that last trip. Their recollections of the whacky escapade would surely make for a great story.

A forest feast for the ears

Springtime has climbed into the driver’s seat, and early trees are bursting into leaf. Holly and ivy are ahead of the game, their waxy leaves attracting skittish holly blue butterflies. Pollen fluffy catkins dangle playfully from hazels, as not-so-fluffy blackthorn shows signs of life. Towering above them, the healthier ash trees still draw strength up their mighty trunks, their ailing comrades, skeletal and enfeebled as if awaiting execution.

The air is full of birdsong, loaded with messaging but music to our ears. With gathering urgency, the dawn chorus heralds each new day. Ever so off-key and ululating, the robin still sings, having stuck loyally with us through darker months. Evolving alongside giant herbivores like woolly rhinos, ground disturbance makes their sharp eyes twinkle, darting in for tasty morsels. 

“Teacher, teacher,” the great tits prompt, gentle but insistent, reminding us to learn from our surroundings. Chiffchaffs, saying exactly what they do on the tin, are kings of repetition too. Migrants from southern climes, their mnemonic calls are the rhythm section for the melodies of song thrushes, fluting from lofty branches. Blackcaps, soloists extraordinaire, call shyly but sweetly in the cool spring air. 

Late to join the chorus line, grasshopper warblers furtively reveal their presence, reeling from damp corners. April Fools’ Day may have come and gone, but the next act is no joke for our songbirds. Swallows swoop low over Fedian Fields, while bulkier blue birds of another hue and disposition announce themselves. The first cuckoo calls, spreading panic amongst potential stepparents within earshot. 

Capitalising on Fedian’s sheer abundance of life, these handsome but parasitic birds will be spoilt for choice in the coming weeks. As summer approaches, we too will revel in this abundance.

Find out more about Fedian Nature Reserve