Walking on ice

While I was walking home I met a man treading carefully on the icy pavement while his two dogs, full of joie de vivre, ran ahead sniffing the slippery surface. Sherpa too is very surefooted in the snow. Banjo, despite his imperfect hind legs has no fear either.

As children we made slides and unafraid slid down them, confident that our sense of balance and cerebellum once attuned would know which way to lean to avoid falling. For animals and young children walking on ice is left to the unconscious. It is when too-clever adults say, 'Watch, you might fall', and sliding comes under the control of the conscious mind, that we really are in danger of injuring ourselves.

Sherpa slighted?

Sherpa slept in the boiler house the night before last. Why she slept there and not in an armchair beside the fire, on a night when crisp snow covered the ground and it was forecast that the temperature could drop to -4 C, baffles me. Was she feeling unwell, in need of peace? Was she waiting for another cat? When I left Banjo out at an unknown hour in the morning, she had no inclination to come inside and declined the food I offered.

I wonder if she sought solitude because I have been paying more attention to Banjo recently. She even had to get up from my lap the evening before, a few minutes after settling on it when I went to let John in. Perhaps Sherpa feels slighted.

I try to avoid favouring one cat. Banjo is jealous if he feels Sherpa is receiving too much attention. She is aware of this and knows it is wise to leave my lap when he starts to make a scene. Often the first indication I have that he is on his way to the door to be let in, is when she slips down beside me in the armchair.

It is not that Banjo forbids all intimacy between Sherpa and me. Each cat accepts the other is entitled to love and be loved, and it is only when one regards the other’s demands as excessive that redress is needed. His distress is directed outwards, hers inwards.

Now and again we have the very happy situation where all three of us are on the sofa, she on my lap, he resting a paw, or two, or four on my arm, purring loudly.

Last night Sherpa slept in the house. On one side of me.

Doris Lessing on cats

Read this book in a private place because there may be times when you cannot help weeping. This is a great book, the product of a master storyteller’s remarkable powers of observation, her understanding of animals and people and her superb writing skills.

Decades after the death of a beloved feline childhood companion, and after acquiescing in the necessary but horrific cull of cats on an African farm, Doris Lessing re-embarked on a voyage of cat discovery. Various incarnations of ship’s cat, vain, flirtatious, self-indulgent, neurotic, courageous, grateful, loving, accompanied her and she was present at births and deaths. She watched and recorded matings, friendships and rivalries, mothers teaching kittens, hunting. She tended animals that were injured or became ill and took on board those that were neglected and needed help.

There was a cat that would only eat lightly cooked calves’ liver and lightly boiled whiting, another who seemed devoid of maternal feelings and who once drew attention to herself by speaking in a language of sausages stolen from a neighbour’s house. One travelled twenty miles across the veld, avoiding predators and crossing two rivers, to return to the farmhouse where she was reared. Another risked her life during a tropical thunderstorm rather than abandon the kittens she had given birth to in a disused mineshaft.

Cats vary in the quantity and quality of their intelligence, Doris Lessing discovered. Rufus, who was constantly challenged by adversity, was calculating and survived by living on his wits. Another male had the inquiring mind of a scientist. Telepathic communication when circumstances permit is not ruled out.

It is to the neutered male, Butchkin, alias El Magnifico, that she is most closely drawn. When they are able to sit quietly together in his old age ‘then he subtly lets me know he understands I am trying to reach him, reach cat, essence of cat, finding the best of him. Human and cat we try to transcend what separates us.’

This book is in essence a love story.

Emotions: Fear

There is a belief that animals do not have emotions and that cats in particular are cold and unemotional. Fear is one of the most basic emotions and essential for self protection. We don’t always recognise fear in cats because their fears often differ from ours.

Our cats, especially Sherpa, are afraid of what might await them when they leave the house. Sometimes they find it necessary to inspect the garden from upstairs windows; often, after a door has been opened, they need to spend some time testing the outside air or the frame of the door for threatening scents before venturing out. Perception of high frequency sounds, inaudible to humans, may also account for some of a cat’s inexplicable behaviour. I once noticed Sherpa become suddenly alert, and going to a window, saw two bats flying nearby.

Both our cats, but not all cats, fear traffic. Even though the footpath at our house is separated from the road by a wide grass verge, walks with the cats come to an abrupt end as they scramble back into the garden when the first car passes. Stationary cars do not terrify them: Sherpa has sunbathed on the roof of mine.

Journeys in cars recall being brought to the vet, being neutered, being operated on. Our local vets and veterinary nurses treated the cats with great kindness and succeeded in saving their lives. Nevertheless, when Banjo returned to convalesce after having a plate inserted in his leg, he was met by a hissing, spitting Sherpa with back arched and fur erect who refused to be in the same room with him for several weeks. Months later, when Sherpa returned with no tail, smelling strongly of veterinary clinic the situation was reversed.

These cat fears I can understand. What seems to me irrational is the way, while alone in the kitchen with me, Sherpa sometimes nervously looks around her before and while eating.

There are situations where cats are fearless when it is natural for humans to feel fear. Sherpa, climbing a tree, races along branches until only a thin twig is supporting her weight. She climbs through an open window on to a window sill high above the ground. And, of course, she and Banjo have no fear whatsoever of spiders or mice. These humans! How irrational they can sometimes be!

Self awareness

As I came through the bedroom door, Sherpa, who was sitting with her back to me at a corner of the dressing table where two mirrors meet at right angles, turned her head. I have no doubt that she heard me coming and that she also recognised my reflection as me, but did she equate the image of the cat in the mirror as herself? Does she realise that a unique cat we call Sherpa exists and is it she?

We are told that, unlike children older than two years, primates except gorillas, elephants and at least one magpie, cats fail the mirror self recognition test. This puts their self awareness in doubt. I don’t have access to the original research, so I don’t know the age of the cats tested and whether they had experience of mirrors or other reflective surfaces like puddles before being tested. I do know that both Banjo and Sherpa show a calmness when confronted by a cat image in a mirror, that is never apparent when a feline intruder enters their territory.

Their behaviour is very different to that of the blue tit which happened to see its reflection in the wing mirror of my car. The small bird undoubtedly saw, very close to where it stood, what looked like another member of its species, which failed to fly off when threatened. Bewildered it flew to the back of the mirror, found no bird there and returned to the reflective side. Repeated movements from one side to the other failed to establish a connection between the image and itself. Mirror self recognition was too difficult a problem for the undoubted problem solving abilities of this blue tit.

Mirror self recognition is only one aspect of self awareness. Full self awareness is something which I, and presumably the cats, have yet to achieve.

Toys

Sherpa once found a broad elastic band. Picking it up with her teeth she anchored the other end with her paw and pulled. When the band had stretched a little she let it go, before picking it up again and repeating the experiment. This she did several times, stretching the elastic a bit more each time. When the band finally broke she ate it.

When Banjo and Sherpa played with the toys I gave them, individual differences emerged. Banjo favoured a toy I made by attaching feathers found in the garden to lengths of chocolate box ribbon. It was rendered especially stimulating by the soundtrack I provided, a rapid ‘chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck,’ as I whipped it along the floor and through the air.

Like Banjo, around human bedtime, Sherpa experienced a surge of energy and expressed a desire to play. She too enjoyed the feathered ribbons, but preferred the dainty silver balls, made from the foil in which chocolate wafer biscuits are wrapped, for the ball games we devised.

As soon as Banjo succeeded in sinking his claws into a ribbon, he held on as tenaciously as a dog would, and the game ended. Once I found him, like a large, charcoal coloured, furry hen, incubating a silver ball. Sherpa knows, consciously or unconsciously, that it is sometimes necessary to let go to allow participation in something more advanced. Wise little animal!

Play

Banjo and Sherpa are litter mates, brother and sister. Watching them as kittens at play, I could recognise many of the games we played as children; tig, wrestling, climbing, jumping, sliding, hide-and -seek. They challenged themselves to walk along narrow ledges at a height, and once we saw them bounding through long grass like a pair of springbok. They were much more adept at tree climbing than we were, and occasionally would stage dazzling displays of aerobatics for our benefit, basking in the applause they received.

Along with displays of skill we witnessed displays of emotion. Sherpa, more agile and more daring, had an air of superiority which infuriated Banjo and led him to thwart her in any way he could, and her to conceal her talents in his presence. We think such behaviour is unique to human schools and, when discovered, deserves to be reported.

More than once I heard an expert declare that only humans indulged in play as adults. This is not true. Although not as frisky as the young, adult dogs and cats still enjoy play.

Stretching himself

It is hard to ignore Banjo when he is agitated. One evening about a week ago it was obvious he was. Our seven-year-old neutered tom cat uses very clear sign language to signal his wants, and what was then on his mind was not food, urination, defecation, or defence of territory. He was at the side of the sofa looking upwards. Then he was standing on his hind legs, had anchored his claws in the upholstery of the armrest, and, with a cry, was struggling to pull his body upwards. At first it looked as if he might not succeed, but he persevered and reached the comfort of the sofa by climbing over the armrest.

He has no difficulty getting up or down from the sofa or a bed by the conventional route. Banjo was challenging himself as he had challenged himself a short time before to get down from the sofa via the armrest. Our cat was the victim of a car accident which almost cost him his life. His left hind leg contains a metal plate and an X-ray of his right hind leg showed a dislocated joint. For some time after the accident his gate resembled that of a lizard, but he relearned how to stand upright and gradually to explore more of his territory.

The motivation to do all this came from Banjo, and I have developed respect for the wisdom and courage with which he carries out this stretching of himself. He is pleased when we notice and praise his achievements.

Since we started to share our home with two cats, we have had to abandon many of the assumptions our culture holds about this animal species. I hope to write more about Banjo and Sherpa in the days to come.

Flatworm Mystery Solved (perhaps)

After an absence of up to four months, flatworms, betrayed by their glistening mucus, appeared in dribs and drabs in early November. Over a week I collected seven New Zealand flatworms (Arthurdendyus triangulatus). The plastic basins resting on mossy tarmac under which these sought refuge also yielded one Australian flatworm, (Australoplana sanguinea), which resembled the New Zealand flatworms but was the colour of apricots.

To the best of my knowledge, this is the first Australian flatworm I have seen. On the Habitas Alien Invasive Species website it is stated that these animals are normally dispersed through the horticultural trade. Around the time I noticed both species of flatworm, winter-flowering plants were appearing in a local supermarket and I bought (in dribs and drabs) eight very pretty potted cyclamens. These had been obtained in the fruit and vegetable market in Belfast and originated in Northern Ireland, I was told.

Vermicomposting 2

Having come across more earthworms than New Zealand flatworms recently, I thought I might risk trying to make my own vermicompost. Kits are produced by a firm in Co Down. They are not cheap, but what Clive Edwards and Norman Arancon have to say about the product in Earthworm Ecology makes me willing to invest.

The kilogram of tiger worms, fed on kitchen waste supplemented by material from the garden, should provide me with a substance similar to peat with ‘excellent structure, porosity, aeration, drainage and moisture-holding capacity.’ It should contain adequate nutrients in a form readily taken up by plants.

Evidence has been accumulating that vermicomposts contain magic ingredients not found in commercial growth media with equal nutrient composition. These are plant hormones and plant-growth regulating substances, probably produced by the bacteria, fungi and other microbes whose activity earthworms increase, and probably stabilised by their combination with humic acids in which vermicomposts are rich. Hence most plants growing in them germinate faster, grow faster and produce better yields.

As if this were not amazing enough, it has been shown that vermicomposts, because of the diversity and activity of the microbes living in them, prevent a range of fungal diseases in a range of plants. Even more mysteriously, several researchers found they conferred protection against insect pests, including aphids and caterpillars. Other researchers reported decreases in plant-parasitic nematodes in their presence.

If this sounds too good to be true, evolution has been around a lot longer than man-made chemicals.

Vermicomposting 1

Recently I received an appeal from a charity set up by a fairtrade company. They planned to raise money for Indian women intent on setting up businesses to sell compost to farmers producing cotton organically.

By chance, just before receiving this appeal, I had been reading a chapter in Earthworm Ecology, written by Radha D. Kale of the University of Agricultural Sciences in Bangalore. It was about vermicomposting in Asia. Vermicomposting is the process of adding a suitable species of epigeic worm (epigeic worms are found in, or just below the litter layer) to organic matter. Kale believes, ‘the whole human race will benefit if vermicomposting technology is accepted and adopted.’

The Green Revolution came to India in 1961, staving off famine with its high-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, but the ever increasing amounts of chemical fertilizers and pesticides required to maintain crop yields left a legacy of degraded soil. In 1984 a vermicomposting technology was made available by the University of Bangalore but few farmers were interested because at that time fertilizers were heavily subsidised. By 1990 farming using chemical fertilizers and pesticides had become uneconomical and the advantages of vermicomposts, produced at minimum expense, were becoming apparent. By 2000 the technology had spread throughout India and into Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. It is included in the curriculum of Indian secondary schools, has spawned a cottage industry and has proved invaluable for the removal of organic waste generated in residential areas of cities. The Khadi Village Industries Commission supports farmers financially to establish vermicomposting centres in villages.

Regarding the appeal, I don’t have the wisdom to decide which is better: to send money to the charity, or to let Indians continue to do without interference what they appear to be doing so well. Perhaps, in their concern for future generations, they have something to teach us.

Himalayan balsam

Sunday’s walk to the river where she engaged in doggy water sports was the highlight of Zoey’s week. It was during one of these walks, probably in the late eighties, that I first spotted Himalayan balsam. The flowers, shaped like policemen’s helmets and ranging in colour from pale lilac to dark violet, dangled from slender peduncles and swayed in the breeze. As autumn progressed I watched their fertilized ovaries turn into five-ribbed green flasks. These became fatter until a point was reached when the slightest touch caused them to burst open along lines of weakness between the ridges. The five sections separated, each coiling like a tight green snail shell, and ten black seeds were catapulted out. To me this was a rare, interesting and exotic plant. I wanted to bring it back to surprise others, but once it lost connection with its water supply, it quickly wilted and the seed capsules lost their potency.

Zoey died, and, without the gentle, intelligent animal, there was no reason to walk among thistles along that straight, narrow stretch of silent, brown water. Himalayan balsam was spreading and became included in lists of alien, invasive species.

Last week, taking advantage of warm September sunshine after a summer of grey clouds and rain, John and I brought cameras to the river. The grass along the bank had been trampled and mined with pats by a herd of cows that had recently grazed there. The place had been transformed. A silver sally had grown on one side of the bridge. Its leaves glinted in the sun. Further along the bank two exotic trees, one with glossy dark green, the other with lighter palmate leaves, intertwined at the water’s edge. Himalayan balsam was present, but not abundant. It clung in small clumps to the vertical river side of the bank, but grew more vigorously around a drain that emptied into the river.

Yesterday we took the canal walk from Toome down to Lough Neagh, looking out for Himalayan balsam. Along the canal and on the shores of the lake we could see none, but there were clumps in swampy ground. The flowers produce copious nectar and John photographed a bee visiting one.

Grey Squirrel

The stray marmalade cat had given no evidence of hunting skills, but having seen a grey squirrel with its back to him, he could not resist jumping down from the window sill and moving in the rodent’s direction. Like a child playing One, two, three red lights, as long as the squirrel appeared to be oblivious to him he sneaked up on it in all his orange obviousness, but when it seemed about to turn its head he froze. The squirrel let him come close enough to pounce before dropping the toadstool and darting up the trunk of the nearest tree.

I have to admire an animal that runs nonchalantly along a twig as high above the ground as the roof of a two-storey building, and then drops, to land unerringly on a slender twig far below. Or, that leaps across the gap between two trees unconcerned by the roar of traffic on the road below. Or, picks up fungi to eat from ground where the Deathcap grows.

Norman Hickin, author of Irish Nature, is one of the few people prepared to allow that the grey squirrel has ‘many endearing ways’. Political correctness demands that we think of it as the wicked persecutor of the lovable red squirrel. To the best of my knowledge, grey squirrels did not displace red squirrels from the trees around our house. I have never seen the latter here.

In 1988, when Graham d’Arcy was writing his Pocket Guide to the Animals of Ireland, foresters, (horror of horrors), were shooting large numbers of red squirrels as pests because they nibbled the shoots and stripped the bark of trees in conifer plantations. There they were considered to do more damage than greys.

A grey squirrel was the main suspect when, some years ago, I noticed that part of the frame of our kitchen window had been gnawed. I split a red chilli and rubbed the juice into the wood. Damage to the windows ceased.

I had two close encounters with the alien species. The first was in the garden one June, when I went to see if any strawberries had ripened. Under a net I used to protect the fruit from blackbirds, a squirrel sat on its haunches with a large juicy, but not yet red strawberry between its fore paws. On the second occasion I disturbed a squirrel as it rested on the carpet beside an open window. Both times my amazement was met with fear and the rapid disappearance of the animal.

An alien species is defined as one that has been introduced from another country and later become naturalised, but the word ‘alien’ can explode within us, like the seed capsule of Himalayan balsam. Its seeds invade our emotions with unintended meanings, so the unfortunate organism, which was originally introduced by humans, is seen as unfamiliar, disturbing, even distasteful.

We do not encourage grey squirrels, but neither do we apologise for the pleasure we take in watching the antics of this daring animal. Perhaps, again this year, when the beech trees have shed their leaves the bushy-tailed acrobat will gladden our hearts and raise our spirits.

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Cherry Pecking

There is a cherry tree by the hedge. In April, as the blackbird seduced with pure slow notes tinged with melancholy, white blossom burst from the branches.

In June we stood on the path and looked up. The cherry was marketed as a compact variety, but defied all efforts to restrain its growth and reached a height of twenty feet, or thereabouts. High above us long branches were lined with immature fruit. It was a very heavy crop.

The fruit continued to swell, and in early July I took four black plastic bags, put a few of the lower branches in each and waited. As I feared the uncovered green fruit began to disappear. More than once I passed the tree to hear a flapping of wings among the leaves and see a hen blackbird fly into the hedge.

In mid-July I removed the black bags to reveal plump, gleaming cherries the ripest of which were dark as wine. Above them the branches had been stripped of fruit. As I put the luscious fruit into a tub I heard a loud squawk from the hedge.

Biting through tight skin into juicy flesh, I reflected on how amazing it was that a single bird could consume such an enormous amount of fruit in such a short time and not suffer from belly ache. Perhaps an active substance could be isolated from the blackbird’s digestive system, patented and sold to travellers.

An observation a couple of days later caused me to abandon this idea. There were cherries lying in unexpected places distant from the tree. Perhaps the hen blackbird was not the greedy guts I imagined her to be, but a devoted mother bringing food to hungry chicks.

Earthworms, insects, seeds and berries, it is stated in Wikipedia, are the food of blackbirds. During the breeding season protein-rich animal material is the grub of preference. But, what if no earthworms can be found, as happens in areas where the New Zealand flatworm has become established? Are the young then fed mainly on fruit and seeds?

One day genetic engineering may bring us cherry-flavoured flatworms which will mate with natural-flavoured ones to produce cherry-flavoured offspring. What a treat they would be for baby blackbirds!

A Toast

Last month I stood beside a shrub that bore an enormous number of showy flowers. The base of the petals of each flower united to form a funnel of a very pale lilac colour. Into each of the five petals the funnel sent rays of pale lilac which were edged with deeper lilac. This background colour was interrupted on the topmost petal by an area of small blocks of yellow orange that had spread to touch the neighbour on either side and converged on the lip of the funnel.

From the shrub came a soft hum as bees worked one flower after another. They returned day after day, honey bees and bumble bees with pollen baskets white and bulging. By mid-July most of the flowers have withered, but the few that remain still attract insect pollinators.

And the name of the shrub? Rhododendron, the genus of plants which is mentioned on the same website as the earthworm-devouring New Zealand flatworm. Rhododendron ponticum, considered to be a forestry weed in lime-free areas and an alien invasive species, is still regarded as foreign although it was brought here as long ago as the eighteenth century.

Until recently I was under the impression that there were only a few species of rhododendron and that all lilac-flowered species were invasive. Loathe to question the experts, I watched with disbelief as the lilac-flowered rhododendrons in our garden stubbornly refused to invade and left invasion to elder, raspberry, blackberry, Veronica, ash and St John’s wort.

Yesterday I consulted the Reader’s Digest Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants and Flowers. Far from there being only a few species of rhododendron, the number exceeds 500 and includes the azaleas. Perhaps the definition of species was different in 1987.

Along with the bees I propose a toast to this attractive genus of plants, of which at least 499 species pose no threat to the countryside, or at least no threat compared to those rampantly invasive species, buildings and tarmac. Please raise your glass of nectar.

The Mystery Deepens

Arthurdendyus triangulatus No 20 was smaller than average. Wanting to see if it would find its way back to the plastic basin, I lifted it and placed it on the centre of three tiled steps which were nearby. As it was uncurling, its head end, which was a much lighter tan colour, became as thin as the lead of a pencil. This end was repeatedly raised a couple of millimetres above the tile before being lowered again, while it sensed the direction in which to move. Leaving a mucus trail which quickly dried, it first circled towards the edge of the tile before continuing in a straight line towards a wall. This was not the most direct route towards the basin.

I killed the flatworm and continued to hunt for slugs. I was really surprised to find a small earthworm under a black plastic flower pot. This was 1m from where I had put A. triangulatus No 20. Travelling at 17m per hour, the flatworm could have found both shelter and a meal in 3.5 minutes. It seemed unaware of both.

It seems unlikely that the flat worms, on their journey to the plastic basin, cross the steps, and more likely that they travel over, or through, the liverwort, silky wall feather moss and the small, prostrate, white-flowered weed which I am unable to name, at the edge of the bottom step.

More About the Mysterious Alien

Each time I find a New Zealand flatworm, or more usually two, under the plastic basin that sits on mossy tarmac at the corner of the house, I want to reinstate the Theory of Spontaneous Generation. Before resorting to this a few other theories need to be ruled out. One is that the moss conceals the opening of a tunnel which leads through the centre of the Earth to New Zealand. Another is that a Terricolan Internet exists through which A. triangulatus can book a few days in a quiet spot for undisturbed copulation. The most difficult theory to rule out, but which still stretches credulity, is the one woven from the available scientific facts: the flatworm manages to find the basin using its sense organs, nervous system and muscles.

A triangulatus can move at 17m per hour using the layers of circular and longitudinal muscle which lie beneath its thin ciliated epidermis. The slime it produces protects it from abrasion so it is undaunted by rough tarmac. I suspect its forays take place mostly at night. Because of its disgusting slime it appears to have no Irish predators apart from ground beetles, rove beetles and humans, but it depends on maintaining a moist epidermis to absorb oxygen and to eliminate the waste products of its metabolism, viz carbon dioxide and ammonia.

With their small pigment-cup eyespots we can’t expect flatworms to have a pictorial view of the world, although they can, presumably, distinguish light from dark. They have sensory pits on either side of their head, so it is likely they are attracted to earthworms by their irresistible aroma. What attracts them to moss under basins with leeks growing in them is anybody’s guess.

Once A. triangulatus finds itself in contact with its prey, out comes the reversible, muscular, pumping, enzyme-producing pharynx which until now has lain sheathed on the ventral side of the animal. The unfortunate earthworm is wrapped in a sticky secretion that is derived from slime and, perhaps, from the rhabdites, dark-staining, rod-shaped bodies found in the epidermal cells. This secretion is slightly acid and its enzymes may soften the earthworm’s cuticle and begin digestion before the prey is sucked into the flatworm’s three-branched, cul-de-sac of a digestive system. The mouth of A. triangulatus also acts as its anus.

If food is unavailable, flatworms begin to consume their own organs, starting with unlaid eggs, proceeding through the yolk glands to the rest of the hermaphrodite reproductive system. Next to provide sustenance is the parenchyma, cells that lie between the epidermis and the gut. After that the gut is broken down, then the muscles. The epidermis and the nervous system alone are spared. In this way A. triangulatus can survive for a year without food. When this becomes available again the lost organs regenerate and the flatworm returns to its normal size.

A lesser degree of specialisation can have its advantages. 

How to make life easier for yourself and your earthworms

‘Lawn’ is a euphemism for the grassy area that almost encircles the house where we live. It is not the uniformly green carpet woven from one family of plants that is the ideal of perfectionists. Moss competes with grass for the available space and is sometimes pulled up and left in withering heaps by exploring magpies, but I welcome the primroses that have managed to establish themselves, the violets that grow abundantly, the white centred  baby blue flowers of germander speedwell, daisies and white clover with its nitrogen fixing root nodules. I look forward to the edible fungi, the penny buns and the puff balls, and the toadstools that slugs find more appetising than our lettuces.

We used to treat this green like a lawn, mowing it regularly and emptying the contents of the lawn mower basket on to a compost heap. This inevitably led to a deterioration in the condition of the grass, so we fed it using mineral fertilizer. The result was almost miraculous, as I realised when I staggered under heavier and more frequent loads of potential earthworm food to the compost heap.

At a time when it was beginning to dawn on us that the Earth’s resources of fossil fuels were finite, I was struck by the absurdity of using fossil fuel dependent mineral fertilizers to grow luxuriant grass which would need even more fossil fuel to cut. The lawn was put on a no-fertilizer diet, but gradually moss and lichen succeeded the thinning grass. After wet weather the lichen became slippery, and I was only saved from an undignified slide by John’s impatience with all things horticultural. When he volunteered to endure the boredom of mowing grass, it was on condition that the basket was removed from the mower. The result was a revelation. Most of the grass dried quickly and soon disappeared. I could see that this was the way forward. We now leave the cut grass to the decomposers, the condition of the green has steadily improved, and if there are any earthworms thrusting below the surface, they should find palatable food.

There was something else I needed to remedy, the pH of the soil. A light dusting of lime should not go amiss. That done, and by continuing to search for New Zealand flatworms in their favourite congregating place, I hope I done a little to help earthworms in their battle for survival.

Arthurdendyus triangulatus

When I wrote the last piece I had seen A. triangulatus only a couple of times in my entire life, and not recently. It was when Arthurdendyus was still called Artioposthia triangulata. Then, on an expedition to find out what was eating my pansy buds, I found one among assorted slugs, woodlice, millipedes and ground beetles under a plastic basin. It was curled up like a miniature slice of frilly edged, grey Swiss roll, about a centimeter and a half in diameter and with a dark filling. On paper on the kitchen table it uncurled. It extended its anterior (front) end, then its whole body, becoming a fast moving, narrow, flat band perhaps ten centimeters long. Its dorsal (upper) surface looked black, but was lighter at the edges. Its ventral surface was grey with numerous dark spots concentrated at the sides.

Under a second plastic basin, which was sitting on damp moss that had grown over the tarmac, I found another five. They are very well camouflaged. Sometimes only a thin slick of glistening mucus betrays them. Since early April I have found twelve, and not a single earthworm.

When did you last see a worm?

I saw an earthworm a couple of months ago. It was visible for a few seconds; a red, ringed anterior end withdrawing into a burrow which had become exposed after I shifted a log. Quickly I replaced the log. Earthworms are very precious in this part of the country.

Charles Darwin published his book, On the Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms, in 1881. Struggling against ill health, he devoted his final years to writing about animals which most of us regard as insignificant. The book sold well, better than The Origin of Species. The literate public as well as scientists, not only in England, but much further afield, were interested in worms which were plentiful at that time. Darwin describes how, all around him, he observed an abundance of worms. When he went out at night he saw them ‘crawling about in large numbers.’ If he took a stroll after rain had interrupted a period when the weather was dry, he sometimes found an ‘astonishing number of dead worms.’  On his uncle’s farm he had found ‘a cake of dry earth, as large as my two open hands, which was penetrated by seven burrows, as large as goose quills’. However, although he is sometimes given credit for it, it was not Darwin but Professor Hensen in Germany who made the first estimate of a worm population. He calculated that a hectare of land was home to 133,000 worms. You could expect to find over 50,000 in an acre.

From childhood I remember hours spent in a walled garden. It produced apples and berries and a great variety of vegetables. There were shrubs bordering a lawn, scented roses rambling along wire and a succession of flowers to brighten our days from January until Hallowe’en. In the rich loamy soil worms burrowed, and every cart load of farmyard manure that arrived brought robust immigrants to swell their numbers. Land in the north of Ireland is said to be too acid and too rich in organic matter to sustain a high population of worms, but this is a generalisation.

As the nineteen fifties became the sixties and then the seventies we became aware that worms were becoming scarcer, and began to speculate about the cause. Was it the constant cultivation, the regular digging and weeding, which was disturbing them? Were they filling their gizzards with pellets of the artificial fertilizers we were using instead of manure because they were more convenient and didn’t bring with them troublesome weeds? Was it the herbicides we used to kill the weeds, or the copper sulphate that was put on the soil to prevent potato blight, or the other fungicides and insecticides we sprayed? 

Answers to these questions can be found in the key text, Earthworm Ecology by Clive Edwards which is now in its second edition. In this book James P Curry from University College Dublin, has written an excellent chapter which is of great practical value  to farmers and gardeners.

Not surprisingly, farmyard manure is an unfailing method of boosting the earthworm population. The plants which provide their food need to have sufficient nitrogen available for their optimum growth, and organic fertilizers are the most natural way of supplying this. Some farmers blame the disappearance of worms on the spreading of slurry on land, but slurry is only toxic if it contains high levels of ammonia and organic salts and is applied heavily. A moderate amount can have an adverse effect after it had been spread, but this effect is only temporary. The worm population recovers and even increases in the long term. To complicate the picture further, pig slurry, like landspread sewage, may contain copper and zinc which are poisonous to most species of worm.

What about mineral fertilizers? Again, moderation seems to be the key. The increased yield of plants is followed by a rise in the population of worms, provided the application of nitrogen is not too heavy and it is remembered that sulphate of ammonia and, to a lesser extent, sulphur coated urea make the soil more acid. Irish worms avoid acid soils and are found where the soil pH ranges between 5.0 and 7.4.

Weed killers? These do not appear to harm worms directly, but they can restrict their food supply, and by removing plant cover from the surface of the soil can make it more liable to dry out. Fungicides and insecticides can be even less innocuous. They vary in the effects they have on worms, but it is consoling to know that it is their repeated use over a long time that is really damaging, and not their occasional spraying.

To account for the almost total extinction of worms from gardens and garden centres in the north of Ireland we need to ask different questions. Have worms, perhaps been wiped out by a mystery ailment? Not much is known about the diseases from which these animals suffer, or the parasites which infect them, but although they play host to a variety of organisms, there is no evidence of a catastrophic epidemic.

There are, of course, animals and birds which feed on worms. Shrews, badgers and foxes include them in their diet, as do blackbirds, thrushes, starlings and magpies. Centipedes and ground beetles eat them too. Worms have co-existed with all of these for thousands, if not millions, of years and I very much doubt if any gardener or farmer considers any of these as a suspect. Sea gulls are also partial to worms. I have seen large flocks miraculously appear on fields over twenty miles inland, that have just been ploughed, but I can’t say I saw any recently. A gardener digging, if lucky, will be accompanied by a single robin.

Lurking in dark, damp places under flower pots, plastic sheets or logs is another predator, one that was first spotted in this country in 1963, after it arrived hidden in the roots of roses and in daffodil bulbs that we imported from New Zealand. It too is a worm, but of the flat variety, related to flukes and tapeworms and even more closely to the small black creatures that can be seen gliding up the glass of a jam jar in water fished out of a ditch. This New Zealand flatworm, Arthurdendyus triangulata, whose photograph and description are found on more than one website, feeds voraciously on earthworms but has been known to survive without food for over a year. So far no attempts to eradicate it have proved successful and it has spread to Scotland, the north of England and even the Faroe Islands. In Ireland it is widespread north of a line that stretches from Donegal Bay to Carlingford Lough. What limits its spread to other areas is the temperature of the soil. Soil temperatures above 23℃ are lethal to it. In its country of origin it is only found in South Island. The soils of North Island are too warm for it.    

Today I walked past a grassy place and noticed an abundance of Lady’s smock where previously it was very rare. Lady’s smock is an attractive flower and provides food for Orange-tip butterflies, but it is a plant that thrives in marsh. It is unwise to jump to conclusions, but I can’t help wondering whether the absence of worms and their burrows is having an affect on the drainage and aeration of this soil. Darwin had a great appreciation of the part these animals, play in maintaining soil fertility. Although they are small, he noted, they ‘possess great muscular power.’ He wasn’t the person who first estimated the number of earthworms in soil, but he did measure the rate at which they added vegetable mould to its surface. His figures are just as astounding. ‘In many parts of England,’ he wrote, ‘a weight of more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surface on each acre of land.’  I saw an earthworm a couple of months ago. It was visible for a few seconds; a red, ringed anterior end withdrawing into a burrow which had become exposed after I shifted a log. Quickly I replaced the log. Earthworms are very precious in this part of the country.

Charles Darwin published his book, On the Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms, in 1881. Struggling against ill health, he devoted his final years to writing about animals which most of us regard as insignificant. The book sold well, better than The Origin of Species. The literate public as well as scientists, not only in England, but much further afield, were interested in worms which were plentiful at that time. Darwin describes how, all around him, he observed an abundance of worms. When he went out at night he saw them ‘crawling about in large numbers.’ If he took a stroll after rain had interrupted a period when the weather was dry, he sometimes found an ‘astonishing number of dead worms.’  On his uncle’s farm he had found ‘a cake of dry earth, as large as my two open hands, which was penetrated by seven burrows, as large as goose quills’. However, although he is sometimes given credit for it, it was not Darwin but Professor Hensen in Germany who made the first estimate of a worm population. He calculated that a hectare of land was home to 133,000 worms. You could expect to find over 50,000 in an acre.

From childhood I remember hours spent in a walled garden. It produced apples and berries and a great variety of vegetables. There were shrubs bordering a lawn, scented roses rambling along wire and a succession of flowers to brighten our days from January until Hallowe’en. In the rich loamy soil worms burrowed, and every cart load of farmyard manure that arrived brought robust immigrants to swell their numbers. Land in the north of Ireland is said to be too acid and too rich in organic matter to sustain a high population of worms, but this is a generalisation.

As the nineteen fifties became the sixties and then the seventies we became aware that worms were becoming scarcer, and began to speculate about the cause. Was it the constant cultivation, the regular digging and weeding, which was disturbing them? Were they filling their gizzards with pellets of the artificial fertilizers we were using instead of manure because they were more convenient and didn’t bring with them troublesome weeds? Was it the herbicides we used to kill the weeds, or the copper sulphate that was put on the soil to prevent potato blight, or the other fungicides and insecticides we sprayed? 

Answers to these questions can be found in the key text, Earthworm Ecology by Clive Edwards which is now in its second edition. In this book James P Curry from University College Dublin, has written an excellent chapter which is of great practical value  to farmers and gardeners.

Not surprisingly, farmyard manure is an unfailing method of boosting the earthworm population. The plants which provide their food need to have sufficient nitrogen available for their optimum growth, and organic fertilizers are the most natural way of supplying this. Some farmers blame the disappearance of worms on the spreading of slurry on land, but slurry is only toxic if it contains high levels of ammonia and organic salts and is applied heavily. A moderate amount can have an adverse effect after it had been spread, but this effect is only temporary. The worm population recovers and even increases in the long term. To complicate the picture further, pig slurry, like landspread sewage, may contain copper and zinc which are poisonous to most species of worm.

What about mineral fertilizers? Again, moderation seems to be the key. The increased yield of plants is followed by a rise in the population of worms, provided the application of nitrogen is not too heavy and it is remembered that sulphate of ammonia and, to a lesser extent, sulphur coated urea make the soil more acid. Irish worms avoid acid soils and are found where the soil pH ranges between 5.0 and 7.4.

Weed killers? These do not appear to harm worms directly, but they can restrict their food supply, and by removing plant cover from the surface of the soil can make it more liable to dry out. Fungicides and insecticides can be even less innocuous. They vary in the effects they have on worms, but it is consoling to know that it is their repeated use over a long time that is really damaging, and not their occasional spraying.

To account for the almost total extinction of worms from gardens and garden centres in the north of Ireland we need to ask different questions. Have worms, perhaps been wiped out by a mystery ailment? Not much is known about the diseases from which these animals suffer, or the parasites which infect them, but although they play host to a variety of organisms, there is no evidence of a catastrophic epidemic.

There are, of course, animals and birds which feed on worms. Shrews, badgers and foxes include them in their diet, as do blackbirds, thrushes, starlings and magpies. Centipedes and ground beetles eat them too. Worms have co-existed with all of these for thousands, if not millions, of years and I very much doubt if any gardener or farmer considers any of these as a suspect. Sea gulls are also partial to worms. I have seen large flocks miraculously appear on fields over twenty miles inland, that have just been ploughed, but I can’t say I saw any recently. A gardener digging, if lucky, will be accompanied by a single robin.

Lurking in dark, damp places under flower pots, plastic sheets or logs is another predator, one that was first spotted in this country in 1963, after it arrived hidden in the roots of roses and in daffodil bulbs that we imported from New Zealand. It too is a worm, but of the flat variety, related to flukes and tapeworms and even more closely to the small black creatures that can be seen gliding up the glass of a jam jar in water fished out of a ditch. This New Zealand flatworm, Arthurdendyus triangulata, whose photograph and description are found on more than one website, feeds voraciously on earthworms but has been known to survive without food for over a year. So far no attempts to eradicate it have proved successful and it has spread to Scotland, the north of England and even the Faroe Islands. In Ireland it is widespread north of a line that stretches from Donegal Bay to Carlingford Lough. What limits its spread to other areas is the temperature of the soil. Soil temperatures above 23℃ are lethal to it. In its country of origin it is only found in South Island. The soils of North Island are too warm for it.    

Today I walked past a grassy place and noticed an abundance of Lady’s smock where previously it was very rare. Lady’s smock is an attractive flower and provides food for Orange-tip butterflies, but it is a plant that thrives in marsh. It is unwise to jump to conclusions, but I can’t help wondering whether the absence of worms and their burrows is having an affect on the drainage and aeration of this soil. Darwin had a great appreciation of the part these animals, play in maintaining soil fertility. Although they are small, he noted, they ‘possess great muscular power.’ He wasn’t the person who first estimated the number of earthworms in soil, but he did measure the rate at which they added vegetable mould to its surface. His figures are just as astounding. ‘In many parts of England,’ he wrote, ‘a weight of more than ten tons of dry earth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surface on each acre of land.’