MY COUNTRYSIDE Poet Pam Ayres
The poet and presenter on simple summer holidays and the plight of the hedgehog
As a child, I remember a big elm tree outside our house in Stanford in the Vale in Oxfordshire.
I found it absolutely terrifying at night and during high winds, when it would roar and thrash. The noise was overwhelming! But it was beautiful, too – sending down papery seeds with a little red dot in the middle. My dad made a lovely swing, which he hung from its lower branches, so the elm was a friend as well as a somewhat scary monster.
Our house was rather crowded, with eight of us living there in three rooms upstairs and three downstairs.
There was no bathroom and we had no hot water until I was 14. It was a very happy childhood, though – wherever I looked, be it the schoolyard or the village green, I would see someone from my family.
Growing up, my siblings and I were very much influenced by the seasons.
In September, we’d go ‘nutting’ in and around the hazelnut trees, and in winter we’d make a long slide along the frozen pond and go hurtling down it at great speed. In summer, I remember, when the farmer had cut the hay, we’d rearrange the bales into little houses – much to his irritation – and would spend hours paddling in the river or brook, which is where I learnt to swim. We were inseparable from the countryside.
The furthest afield we went was White Horse Hill, six or seven miles away.
We’d often jump on our bikes and ride up there. It was strenuous work, I can tell you!
Our summer holiday was an annual trip to the coast.
We’d all pile into a minibus and go to Weymouth, where we’d stay at a caravan site called Guppies Camp – pretty spartan it was. But if you walked two miles, you could spend the day by the seaside. It was so exciting for us, even if they did use newspaper in place of bedding from time to time!
I like visiting the Lake District very much – the lovely scenery and the reflections of the rugged hills in the water.
The first time I went there, I visited Wastwater, which has these massive screes along the sides where boulders have tumbled down towards the depths below. If you take the road opposite, it’s thick with rowans, with their ferny leaves and brilliant red berries. It’s breathtaking – I’ve never seen anything like it. Everywhere you go, you can hear the trickle of water and the bleating of sheep.
If I have some spare time, I don’t want to run off anywhere, I want to spend it out in my garden.
In my last house, I kept rare-breed cattle, pigs, sheep and chickens, but since we moved I’ve been focusing on building up a wildlifefriendly pollination plot. I only sow things that are attractive to butterflies, bees and birds – plants with pollen, nectar or berries. It’s a lovely way to narrow down what you grow.
One of the first poems I wrote was called In Defence of Hedgehogs.
A favourite line was ‘It is statistically proven in chapter and in verse, that in a car and hedgehog fight, the hedgehog comes off worse’ . Although the tone was a bit flippant and jolly, I was trying to say to people, ‘Slow down.’ Even so, I could never have foreseen how drastically hedgehogs’ numbers would decline. It’s such a shame because they do so much good: everyone likes them with their little black noses and round button eyes. But they can’t really cope with modern conditions, so my new book, The Last Hedgehog, helps to promote the small things we can do that will make a big difference to them in the long run.
The Last Hedgehog by Pam Ayres, illustrated by Alice Tait, is published by Picador, £6.99.
I only sow plants that are attractive to birds, bees and butterflies