Leaves vs Logos: where did we go wrong?

A few weeks ago I was working in the woods with a group of teenage boys. It was our last weekly session before the Christmas holidays and, while collecting firewood, a few of us inadvertently ventured off-piste, ending up taking a short cut through all manner of brambles and bushes.

As we scrambled through the thicket I picked a ‘festive’ leaf and, once safely on the other side, I half-jokingly asked if anyone knew what it was. No one did. Yes, that’s right, they didn’t know a holly leaf when it poked them in the face. At Christmastime.

As they stood around the fire in their Adidas tracksuits and Nike trainers an idea began forming in my mind…


A recent survey by the Woodland Trust showed that an astonishing 83% of people in Britain are unable to identify an ash leaf when shown an image of one, which rises to 90% for 18-24 year olds. And only 57% of adults in Great Britain can identify an oak leaf - the King of British trees.

With these two thoughts nibbling at the back of my mind I created a leaves and logos quiz: 12 common logos and 12 common British leaves from native trees. Over the course of a week, I ambushed friends, family, and people who worked in outdoor learning via social media, my blog and face to face.


Results
The good news is that my friends, family and colleagues fared better than the general public.

The maximum score was 12:12 (logos:leaves)
 

Averages

Outdoor educators: 11:11

Friends and family: 11:7

Of which:       Over 40s: 10:9

Under 40s: 11:7

Of which:       Rural Under 40s: 11:11

Urban Under 40s: 11:4

This is where I try and make numbers sound interesting: The average score was 11 logos and 7 leaves, with those over 40 struggling more with the logos but recognising more leaves than those under 40.

People working in outdoor learning still did well with the logos, but their leaf ID skills were higher than for ‘normal’ people, correctly identifying eleven of each on average. Interestingly, for those friends and family who were under forty and living in a rural location, the results were the same as the outdoor educators, suggesting that it may not only be people who choose to work in the outdoors who have good ID skills.

It also suggests that, no matter where you live or how old you are, there is no escape from the logos.

The most notable difference, and potentially the most worrying, was from the under 40s who live in towns of cities. The average was 11:4. 

81% of the British population lives in urban areas and 50% of rural inhabitants are over 45. This means that there are considerably more young people living in urban areas. And they don’t know their ash from their elder.


When I was explaining to my dad this lack of connection to the natural world and the ease with which people seem to bond with corporate branding, he replied, ‘Yes but that’s because you see the logos every day’… 

Well, I see those leaves every day. And now you’re probably thinking ‘Of course you do you silly girl, you live in the middle of nowhere. What about us normal people?’

Ha-haaa!

I deliberately chose leaves that I saw every day when I lived in Montpelier, inner city Bristol.  I could see them all on the hundred-metre-or-so walk from my old flat to the shop.

So there.

If you can’t see them then you’re not looking for them. Which is pretty much my point.


As an interesting aside, while the Soil Association was by far the least recognisable logo (make of that what you will, that’s a whole other blog post) there was no one leaf that people found hard. The general feedback was that people needed to think harder about the leaves, and muddled and confused a few, but the ‘don’t knows’ were fairly evenly spread across all of the foliage, with the exception of oak. I think everyone knew that one. Phew.


Who cares?
What have trees ever done for us? Apart from habitats for wildlife, shade, soil stabilisation, water regulation, medicine, raw materials, fuel, carbon storage, oxygen generation, inspiration for poets and painters, climbing frames for big kids and little kids, folklore and beauty? What have trees ever done for us?

As a species, humans tend value scarcity and cheapen abundance. But is this the way we want to be going with natural resources?


Yeah but, no but, I care about trees. Why do I need to tell the difference between them?
Bear with me for an example involving cars: the original and iconic VW Beetles are no longer being made and those that survive are becoming rarer. One day they will reach the end of their lives and they will no longer exist. They will be extinct. And some people will care. A lot. They will lament the loss of the iconic VW Beetle, while others will say that it was just a car. There are plenty of cars in the world (and don’t we just know it).

Over 10% of the planet’s trees are threatened with extinction. In the UK, juniper, most commonly known as the flavouring for gin, is rapidly disappearing from our lands. But they’re just trees. There are plenty of trees in the world …

And dormice, well they’re just mice, there are lots of mice. And red squirrels, there are loads of squirrels. And skylarks and song thrushes, well, there are still plenty of birds. 


Do you get it yet?


By not knowing, or caring about, the difference between species, not only are we losing the connection to and ownership of our natural world, arguably we care less and are unlikely to notice when species have disappeared or are threatened by disease. How can the public (that means you and me) be expected to report incidences of ash dieback if 83% of us don’t know what an ash tree looks like?

None of us are born knowing how to identify a leaf or a logo. These are skills that we have to learn and spend a lifetime honing. Firms spend obscene amounts of money every year ensuring that you can identify their logo. Nature, on the other hand, doesn’t have a marketing manager, protecting its brand image. Until now. Filmmaker David Bond has appointed himself Marketing Director for Nature, in an attempt to advertise the benefits of nature to the nation in the form of Project Wild Thing.

And let’s get back to those urban Under 40s. Yes, I’m talking to you. You are the most likely people to have young children or reproduce in the near future, or to be part of the educational workforce. How are you expected to educate the next generation if your nature ID skills extend as far as ‘bird’, ‘tree’ and ‘butterfly’? How will your children know what they need to care about if they don’t see it coming from you?

And if, by now, you still think that you don’t care, let me make one thing very clear:  There will come a point in our lifetime where you will have to care. And your children will most definitely be affected by the actions that we take now.


Who’d have thought that not knowing a few leaves could be so serious?


Time to take action
Luckily, you don’t need to live in the middle of nowhere in order to connect with nature (remember my walk to the shop?). Parks, gardens and public spaces are often filled with wildlife, you just have to take the time to notice it.

And once you’ve started noticing it and become a little curious, there are plenty of resources available online, such as the educational part of the Woodland Trust’s website. If you fancy a bit of printing, cutting and sticking, the Woodland Trust’s Nature Detectives resources are brilliant. From a spinning leaf ID wheel and fruit and seed finding to garden bird spotting and bug hunts, they may be aimed at children but these resources are fun to look at and easy to use. I for one will be investigating the twig ID sheet as I’d like to improve my tree identification skills when there are no leaves on the trees. There is always something more to learn.

There are also a number of events and courses available. Cue a shameless plug for my Nature Awareness Day in the Forest of Dean. There are loads of organisations, such as the Wildlife Trusts, RSPB and (for Bristolians) the Avon Gorge and Downs Wildlife Project that offer plenty of opportunities to get outside and learn something new wherever you live. Or you could simply get yourself a decent book of your chosen subject and just go for a walk, see what you can find and give it a go. And for the technophiles among you, yes you’ve guessed it, there’s an app for that. 
 
So as this year draws to a close and our thoughts turn to the future, perhaps each of us should make a resolution to learn something new and reconnect with nature in 2014.

Leaves and Logos Identification Quiz

Have a look at the leaves and logos above and see how many you can identify without looking them up (answers below).

Tell me (in the comments below):

1. How many logos you knew
2. How many leaves you knew
3. Which 2 logos were the most difficult
4. Which two leaves were the most difficult

Thank you.

Secret Family Recipe (sorry Mum)

The first eighteen months of my life were spent in America. Along with a batch of sunny baby photos and dual nationality, one of the things that came back with us from the West Coast was a recipe for 'Sandies' - melt in the mouth shortbread cookies rolled in icing sugar. These tempting treats are synonymous with Christmas in our house. They are never made at any other time of the year and, to our family, they are more festive than mince pies (and disappear in half the time). The recipe never varies (one year Mum added chocolate chips instead of walnuts and there was almost a mutiny) although the Americans seem to favour pecans over walnuts.

I'm rubbish at taking photos of food so I've borrowed this one from t'interweb

This year, a lot of my Christmas gifts have included a batch of Sandies and I have been asked repeatedly for the recipe. If you didn't get any for Christmas, I apologise, but at least now you can make your own:

Ingredients: (makes about 40)

225g butter

75g sugar

2 tsp water

2 tsp vanilla essence

250g sifted plain flour

120g chopped walnuts

Icing sugar

1. Put the oven on at 180.

2. Cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy.

3. Add the liquids and mix.

4. Add the flour and nuts and mix to form a dough.

5. Chill in the fridge for 3 hours if you can wait that long. I never can.

6. Roll into small balls (about the size of the big marbles that you always wanted to win when you were a kid) and place on the baking tray.

7. Bake for about 20 minutes.

8. When the Sandies have cooled but are still warm, roll them in icing sugar so that it coats each biscuit and melts a little.

9. Hide them or they will disappear in no time.






I'd also like to point out that I did actually ask permission from my mum before I posted this.

Am I over it?

It's still incredibly windy. But, much to my surprise, I've felt no ill effects of having a home that rocks back and forth with every gust. So far, at least.

In the twilight of Wednesday afternoon, with the squalls gaining in force and frequency, I decided it would be prudent to make sure that everything in the yard was either tied down or shut away in a shed (I accidentally shut the cat in an outhouse for a short period of time, but at least I didn't tie him down). I did find myself at one point, standing on a chair in the near darkness, wielding a large rake as I tried to catch the end of a massive tarp that had flipped itself over the roof of one of the sheds and was making deafening cracking noises as the wind mounted.

Tarp secured, I returned to the truck to find that the central pole of the awning had worked its way forward and had slipped off the roof of the horsebox, taking a piece of guttering and the outside light with it. I also discovered that I was a couple of inches too short to be able to reach to put it back in place.

Luckily, a tall friend was due to come over for a cuppa and when he arrived, I put him to work. With the awning speedily fixed, tea drunk, biscuits munched and the gutter put to one side (there's only so much you can do in the dark) I settled down for the evening ahead. The outside light is a goner.

Then the rain came. Apart from the physical movement of my home, the most notable difference between here and living inside bricks and mortar, is the noise. If you've ever spent time in a caravan, you'll know what I mean.

The appearance of a small-but-rapidly-growing puddle under the door confirmed that the guttering couldn't wait. It's amazing what you can achieve with a head torch and bit of stubbornness in a very short space of time...

But the thing that surprised me most wasn't my twilight-shed-climbing abilities but the fact that throughout the whole of the storm, I didn't feel ill. Not even a slightly fuzzy head. The truck swayed, glasses clinked together, light fitting swayed and the mirror bounced against the wall. I felt fine.

The forecast for the next four days is mostly cold, wet and very windy. I suppose I will very quickly discover whether or not I have conquered my 'seasickness'.

In the meantime, the wood is chopped, tea is soon to be on the stove and the music is turned up loud (really loud otherwise I can't hear it). This will do:

 

Happy

UPDATE 00.01 21/12/13

I take it all back. I obviously wasn't trying hard enough ... bleurghhhh ...

Seasick in bed

Ever since forever, I have struggled with motion sickness. As a kid, swings made my stomach churn, roundabouts made my head spin and slides made nauseous. I can remember throwing up all over Grandpa's brand new car because Dad was driving us through the winding lanes of Cornwall quicker than I would have liked. I've even felt carsick as an adult - as the driver. I can't face backwards on trains or buses without getting a fuzzy head, and as for boats...

I am the only person I know who has had a hideous experience at the Great Barrier Reef. I've never been good on anything floating but when I arrived at Airlie Beach (in 1999 - so long ago!) the sea had been as smooth as glass for over two weeks and, somehow, I was persuaded to spend a lot of money on a three-day boat trip to the Whitsunday Islands.

I think I enjoyed the first two hours.

Yup. A freak storm. Five metre high waves. Of course, I suffered before anyone else did (I'm the human-seafaring version of a canary in a coalmine). Being sick up a snorkel isn't fun. I remember commandeering the Captain's hammock as it was the one bit of the boat that didn't move too much. I vaguely recall seeing a mother humpback whale and her calf breaching as I puked over the side. The storm is a total blur. And the worst bit? Sailing back to the mainland in perfect calm and feeling 'landsick' for another three days after I got off that damn boat.

So why am I thinking about boats and travel sickness and swings and roundabouts?

When I lived in Princess Pea, I wrote a blog post about the wind and how it shook the caravan and disturbed my sleep. The thing is, the horsebox is so much worse than the Pea. For a start, it's not as sheltered. It's there, bold as brass, at the top of a big hill, wide-side on to the wind. And it's at least three times bigger than the caravan. More to aim at. And it's taller. With better suspension. And a massive awning attached to it that acts like a huge sail.

Sailing...

So far, the wind has been moderate. I've been woken up a few times by twenty mile an hour gusts, and I've spent evenings feeling a bit fuzzy (no, not because of the winE, because of the winD) especially at night. The bed is raised above the cab of the horsebox. As a result of this, it moves more than other parts of the truck.

As I write, nothing is moving. It's as calm as calm can be. Too calm. Why? Take a look at the forecast for tomorrow (look at the gusts, they're the bad boys):

I'm now in the proverbial calm before the storm (these sayings don't come from nothing you know).

1800 hours tomorrow s going to be interesting.

I might have to take a bucket to bed with me. Wish me luck!

F-f-f-f-f-freezing... Except it's not

I've just spent a very amusing day in Bristol, selling mistletoe and holly to friendly-trendy people and having mulled cider and a good giggle with friends. It was a lovely day and the rain arrived just after it got dark and sent people home in a very timely fashion. This meant that the stock of greenery disappeared at precisely the moment that the people did and we were able to pack up and go home without feeling naughty.

Ms Bedlam sporting a holly moustache and a brussel sprout headband

However, today I discovered a huge disadvantage to living alone. I've only lived alone once in my life, when I lived in a two metre square izbushka (small log hut) in Siberia.  It was at the bottom of someone's garden (a bit like my horsebox now) and I overcame the 'alone' bit by rarely being there and kipping in the spare room of my friends, pretty much every night. So really, I have no idea what it's like living on my own.

The weather was mild today. I went out without a proper coat and I was warm all day and well past sunset, until the rain came. The sleeves of my woollen jumper got wet. It was fine. Then in the car on the way back, the HEATED car, I got cold. And I stayed cold. I shivered all the way home and then when I got back to the horsebox, that too was cold.

I have to point out at this stage, that I am pretty hardy. I work outside a lot and I love cold weather. Nothing beats a bright and crispy winter day. Not even a sunny summer one. Seriously. I get grumpy when it's hot (by which I mean above 20C). 

No one had been in the box for a good twelve hours. No body heat, no boiling kettle and definitely no log burner. There's only so much heat a lazy tabby can generate. So I arrived home and inside was as nippy as outside, which wasn't actually that cold but I was soggy and shivery. I chopped some wood and I was still chilly. I lit the fire and then I got under the duvet with a glass of red wine and caught up with some reading. Twenty minutes later I was still struggling to maintain a decent temperature but the stove was finally warm enough to be throwing out some heat so I descended to the sofa and was eventually warm.

If I didn't live alone there might have been someone home to heat the horsebox before I returned. If I didn't live alone there might have been someone to snuggle up to to warm me up. If I didn't live alone I wouldn't have to do everything myself. 

But then I wouldn't be here on this adventure if I didn't live alone.

Today has served as a timely reminder - I need to figure out some form of sustainable heating before it gets properly cold. I mean below-zero-cold. The wood that I've been using is recycled pine off-cuts from a local woodyard that would otherwise be classed as waste. It lights easily but it doesn't throw out huge amounts of heat and it disappears in a flash. No heading out for twelve hours with a few bits in the burner and returning to glowing embers. Not a chance. 

I could use coal. But there's no way I could. It's coal. If we were supposed to be able to use coal then why is I so far underground? But people like it because it generates a lot of heat and lasts for ages. In the short term I can see its advantages. But I still won't use it. I once found some dense charcoal made in Monmouth (7 miles away) that was produced from recycled sawdust. It generated the same amount of heat as anthracite coal. I bought a bag. It was great. I've never found it again. 

Bummer. 

Occasionally, friends chuckle at me for buying in logs. Why would I pay for wood when I live in a forest? I'll tell you why: the wood I buy is locally and sustainably sourced. The nearest woodland to me is part of a nature reserve. It is stunning and even my dad, who is possibly the most understated person I know, thinks it is utterly beautiful. How can I, given my background as an environmental educator and conservationist, justify collecting wood from a forest that does not include me as part of its sustainability and management plan? Knowing the value that standing deadwood has for threatened species such as the stag beetle, and its habitat value for bats and birds, how can I condone taking it just to keep myself warm?

And yes, I drive a car and I use electricity and I buy food from supermarkets and every now and then I get on a plane and I am fully aware if the impact of these actions. I just don't want to add anything else to the list. So I buy my wood from a local man who owns a wind farm and has a licence from the Forestry Commission to manage a small amount of hardwood forest.

By trial and error I am learning the fine art of managing a log burner. I am also wearing extra jumpers (or skimpy t-shirts according to how skilful I have been!). Hopefully by the time winter sets in in ernest I will have mastered the Art Of The Burner. Until then, sustainable suggestions are welcome. 

I am not a hippy

Just to clarify: I am not a hippy.

Ok, so my home is a converted horse box, that’s not exactly ‘normal’ but there’s good reason for that (read this if you don’t know the story). It’s just the way that life has worked out.

I shower daily, I brush my hair, I have a job, I drive a car, I eat meat, I know nothing about tarot cards. Think of a stereotype and I probably don’t do it. That’s how boring I am.

Ok, so I regularly run around in the woods for a living, I nearly always have a twig or leaf or small spider in my hair (hazard of the job), I know when the next full moon is and I can identify a whole host of birds by their song. That’s just enjoying being outdoors and noticing the natural world.

I grew up in suburbia, my childhood was as straightforward and secure as anyone could hope it to be. We had holidays, we had music lessons, we were clean and fed and well-dressed, all the stuff that people generally want for their children. My parents were strict with us and we knew where our boundaries were, we rarely crossed them and got a right telling off when we did.

The thing is, my parents always encouraged me and my sister to have open minds. They taught us to be independent thinkers (even when that meant big old arguments between us over the years) and to have an amazing amount of resilience. They have always respected my judgement and my decisions (even if they do let me know in no uncertain terms that they don’t agree). They have always been supportive. 

I have come to realise over the years that I am a very lucky girl. 

Obviously, when I was younger, I thought my parents were right pains-in-the-arse. Of course I did, they told me I had to tidy my room, they made me eat my greens, I got in trouble when I did something wrong. They were parents.

In retrospect, I got off lightly. And they did a very good job of letting me go once I was old enough, and potentially wise enough, to make my own way in life. Here are a few examples (slightly shortened):

Me: I’m not going straight to uni. I want to travel the world and have lots of fun. I’m going to do most of it on my own. Can you lend me some money for a visa?

Them: Er, make sure you go to uni afterwards. Get a job and get the visa yourself.

Me: I don’t want to do my year abroad in St Petersburg with all the other British university students, I’m going to go and live in a small village in Siberia with no running water or phone for 8 months. I’ll be the only English speaker there.

Them: (rolling their eyes) Well, it’ll be good for your Russian. Make sure you email us when you go to the city.

Me: You know that doctor boyfriend of mine that you really liked? I’m single. We’ve given notice on our idyllic cottage in the country. I don’t want to live in the city again. I’m going to live in a 12-foot long caravan at my friends’ place for the foreseeable future.

Them: That makes sense, you’ll be around people you know at a time when you need them. So long as you’re happy.

Me: I’m really pissed off with my full-time managerial job with a respectable conservation charity. I don’t feel valued and I’m being held back.

Them: Why are you still there? Go and work for yourself.

So, to clarify once more, I am not a hippy. I just live somewhere a little bit different.