The wild service tree is one of the really special trees we plant here at Sun Rising. Another of its common names is the checkers or chequers tree. Sorbus torminalis, it’s in the same genus as the rowan and the whitebeams, but it is quite a different creature. Although native to England, and particularly the heavy clay of South Warwickshire, many people have never heard of this magnificent species.

Its blossom in spring is not extraordinary: handfuls of little white flowers, often high in the canopy. The trees don’t start flowering until they reach around seven years old, and it takes another year or so of maturing for the tree to set its blossom, growing the equally insignificant berries. To me they look like tiny little apples, in a rich nut-brown. If the summer is hot enough to ripen them fully, apparently they can taste rather like dates – I’ve not yet tried one, but the birds seem to like them late in the year.  When the tree really comes into its own is in the autumn when, more extravagantly than any of our native trees, its large palmate leaves can break into a thousand hues of gold, through bronze and maroon, to shameless scarlet.

More importantly, and fascinating as a history of this tree, before hops arrived from the continent, it was these little brown berries that were used to flavour our beer.  There’s a debate as to whether the common name of checkers tree was taken from the name of old pubs, or if pubs were named after the checkers trees that were so integral to the beer: I like the latter.  The patterning on the silvery bark can look wonderfully checkered as the tree matures.

Centuries ago, it was a common tree in this landscape, but as old woodlands were felled, it was one of the species that wasn’t readily replaced. It has a beautiful fine wood for timber, and can grow to 10m – 25m tall.  But the truth is that it just didn’t grow as easily as the Warwickshire weed that was the English elm, nor as readily as ash, maple or oak.  Across the continent, in warmer climes, the berries ripen sufficiently each summer to set their seed, but in England the wild service tends to spread through suckers. Once you’ve cleared the old wood, there’s no chance for those suckers to grow.  With hops taking over its role in brewing, there weren’t enough reasons to keep replanting.

Its importance in Warwickshire, however, is now becoming clearer.  With the large elms lost, and ash die-back killing these beautiful trees too, and with the oak under threat, some tree experts wonder if the wild service tree may be the next significant large tree of our countryside.  It does need a little help to get going from seed, and it can look a little straggly in its first decade, getting its roots established in the soil.  But we are hoping you agree, this tree is really worth the time and trouble: perhaps one day it will be bringing its glorious autumn colour to fields and hedgerows all over Warwickshire, and who knows, perhaps some small brewer will again try the little nut-brown berries to flavour a local beer …

The summer is over, harvest coming to its end and autumn most definitely creeping in.  As the guelder rose leaves flush to scarlet and burgundy, and the silver birch pale to yellow, the meadow has been transformed – from a thick brown tangle of seedheads to fresh stubble.

All the main areas we have planned to cut have now been cut.  This includes the wildflower meadows and specific sections of grassland.  There are short stretches of ruderal and tussock margin around the edges of the field which will be cut back to allow space for regeneration and fresh growth next year, and most of the woodland burial areas will be tidied up with another strim before winter.  But otherwise we are done.  It feels tidy and clear.  The summer was wonderful, but there is a relief too in feeling its heavy growth lift and go.

A quick thank you to the sturdy volunteers who came – at very short notice – to rake the last of the hay off the wildflower meadows before this rain set in on Sunday.  That was hugely appreciated!

If Sun Rising were a part of a mixed farming concern, all the grassland would have been cut back in July, producing a crop of hay or haylage that would have been fed to livestock through the winter.  At the latest, the wildflower meadow could have been left until mid August: at that point, what we cut would have been of some value to horses, or (the extra chewy bits) donkeys.  In previous years we have taken bales up to Redwings Horse Rescue Centre. 

This year, however, we made a decision not to cut until September: we wanted to ensure the maximum seedfall.  It means that what we have cut is too thin and dry to be fodder.  A good deal of it we are composting onsite: it’s an experiment, to see if we might create a larger amount of compost than we do from tribute flowers in the compost bins.  We’ll let you know how it gets on.  You can certainly see the heap steaming on a cool day!

Back in the spring, a large wasp was seen buzzing around the cabin.  A queen of our most common social wasp, Vespula vulgaris, she was looking for a place to start a nest.  When she had made her decision – between the oak boards by the back door of the cabin – we debated whether we should let her stay.  We decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Wasps approaching their Nest at Sun Rising

They have such a bad reputation, but these social wasps really are wonderful!  Along with many other insects that we civilized humans don’t like, they play a crucial role in our environment.  The adult wasps only eat sugars, where possible wild sugars from flower nectar (but any sugars will do), and in their search for flowers they act as pollinators in the same way that bees and other insects do.  They also capture a huge number of small spiders, greenfly, aphids, caterpillars and other insects, which they feed to their young in the nest.  They play a crucial role in balancing our ecosystems: they are one of nature’s pest controllers.

So our busy queen laid her eggs, tucked away between the boards.  Soon, the first young worker wasps (infertile females) were buzzing around, and as the summer grew warmer we had a happy stream of wasps to-ing and fro-ing from the cabin wall.  Now and then they would buzz over, complaining about our proximity, but on the whole they got along perfectly well right beside us.  If we didn’t pay them much attention, they didn’t pay us much either.

Yes, they do sting, but only if they feel threatened or confused, only in defence.  We’ve been stung twice, and it’s irritating and itchy!  When a wasp stings, it emits a scent that other wasps will smell, making them alert to the possible threat, so it’s important to step away.  We may not understand why they feel threatened, but we have to accept when they do.  We adjust our behaviour, giving them space to feel safe once again.

Mostly wasps sting in late summer and early autumn.  This is because the nest’s social structure is changing.  As summer nears its end, a small number of the eggs in the nest will develop into fertile males, called drones, and fertile females.  The particular hormone that maintains the colony’s cohesion stops being produced, and these fertile wasps begin to swarm out of the nest.  There’s a feel of uncertainty around the nest: they need more space to explore, more quiet to feel OK.   

Once they’ve mated, the drones slip away to die, their work complete.  In the nest, as autumn chills arrive, the worker wasps and the old queen also die.   It is only the young pregnant females who survive: they will find somewhere quiet, alone, sheltered, to hibernate through the winter.  Not all will make it – but those who do will emerge in the spring to look for somewhere new where they might set up their own nest.  

Nature isn’t always easy, but learning how it works does help.  I’ve enjoyed our summer, with our busy, curious, helpful, beautiful – albeit sometimes grumpy – housemates.  

There comes a point in life when age creeps up and very few of us can maintain the elegance of younger years. As I look over the wildflower meadow now, into the woodland and along the hedgerows, it is clear that summer’s glory is now behind us. The meadow is going to seed and starting to look rather tatty. The dark green leaves on the trees are starting to lose their lustre. The paths, enjoying the mixture of sunshine and showers, are still lush and growing, but elsewhere the grasses are drying and falling. It’s all past its best and autumn is on the way.  I can relate to that very well …

This week the serious end-of-season clearing will begin.  The new wildflower meadow, between the roundhouse track and the pond, will be cut.  Although not everything has gone to seed, important for our timing is the need to cut the creeping thistle.  What has established well this year will come back next year.  Once the meadow has been cut, we’ll see the patches that remain bare, not having recovered from last summer’s extensive drought: we’ll reseed where it seems sensible.

The established wildflower meadow, together with areas of grassland, will be cut over the coming few weeks, in between the still-welcome bursts of rain.  Before we know it, September’s golden sunsets will be with us, with ripening apples and blackberries.  For now, though, in the midst of nature’s late summer tattiness, we continue to celebrate each little butterfly and hoverfly, dancing silently over the drying seedheads.

Throughout the year, our wonderful moth-ers (as opposed to mothers) come to run surveys at Sun Rising.  During the summer months, that is every month, the last one being at the end of July.  Everyone will be aware that there are far fewer moths than there used to be in this world, so every little whisper of good news that emerges from one of our surveys is well worth shouting out about.

Two moth species were found at Sun Rising that have never before been recorded in our little square of England!  The Pyrausta nigrata has a common name of the wavy-barred sable.  It’s a beautiful little moth, dark chocolate brown with tan flecks and a white wave across the wings, and we suspect it has been drawn to the site by the growing patches of wild marjoram.

Oncocera semirubella is an even more important find: the rosy-striped knot-horn moth, this is an exquisite pink and gold moth which feeds on birdsfoot trefoil and clovers.  This one is a Notable B species on a national level, which means it is really rather rare throughout the country.  We’re very happy to have it!  The photograph above was taken by one of our fabulous moth-ers, Peter Beasley.  Thank you, Peter!  It’s an exciting find and worth celebrating.

The first of the cereal crops are now beginning to be brought in around us.  Before long, the vast combine harvesters will be humming through the day and night.  The barley is almost ready, and some fields are already cut to stubble and dotted with huge round bales.   It is Lammastide – the festival when our ancestors celebrated the first loaf of the new harvest.

Harvest is reflected here at the natural burial ground and nature reserve: the high point of summer has now passed.  Over the past three weeks, we have been topping the grasses in new woodland burial areas where they were tall and thick, but most grasses have now dropped their seed and are naturally beginning to die back.  The same is true of the midsummer flowering plants, the oxeye daisies, vetches and trefoils, all of which are mostly gone to seed.  Later flowers, the knapweeds, betony, meadow vetchling and field scabious are still in flower, drawing in sunshine and rain amidst the browning meadow.  There are pockets of wild basil, lady’s bedstraw and the last of the roses are blooming.  In the newly developing meadow, the white and pink yarrow is vitalised with splashes of the last annuals – blue cornflowers, bright yellow corn marigolds and scarlet poppies.

In the growing woodland, the guelder rose is starting to fruit, with rich deep orange berries.  Provoked too by the lack of rain over the last 15 months, the first leaves of the viburnums, cherries and birches are beginning to turn.  On wet days, with heavy cloud, we can almost begin to feel autumn coming.  But not yet!  We aim not to cut the meadow for another month, allowing all the wildflowers to go to seed, by which time it will look wonderfully tatty!

As July slips into August, it is a softer, slower time than the hectic growth of high summer, yet it can also be heavy and chaotic in places.  These are days when perhaps we must find extra patience with ourselves, and with others.  It’s a time to pause, watch the butterflies, and just let life be a little messy.

Once again, we are really pleased to be able to announce that we have been awarded a prestigious Green Flag.  This means that Sun Rising has been judged as one of the best ‘green spaces’ in the country, with the highest environmental standards.

We first won an award in 2015, and this year our scores are once again extremely high.  The Green Flag Awards have a meticulous process, exploring the whole management system of a site.  Two experienced judges go through the management plan, maintenance strategies, and ideas for the future.  They look at sustainability and measures to protect and improve the environment.  They are keen to discover the visitor experience, access, health and safety, and opportunities for volunteers.

Of course, there are always ways we can do better.  The wildflower meadow in the photo is still in development, the butterfly stones are being created, and infrastructure improvements are ongoing.  If you have any suggestions, we are always keen to hear!

In the countryside around us, the harvest has begun: meadows are now being cut, the long grasses strewn, turned to dry in the sunshine, then rowed and gathered into great big bales.  You can sometimes hear the whirring of the bale-wrappers as they cover the large bales in plastic for haylage.  Although the machinery is bigger, the process quicker and no longer labour-intensive, cutting the meadow for hay that will feed livestock through the winter is a practice that’s been going on for many thousands of years.

For the first 12 years at Sun Rising, we had an arrangement with a couple of local farmers: at some point between mid June and mid July they would come in and cut the main area of grass beyond the burial areas.  However, as we have developed new wildflower meadow, planted more woodland, put in tracks, set the standing stones and so on, gradually we’ve been taking land away from that hay crop, and this year we are beginning a different way of managing the site – without farming.

The grasses in the midst of Sun Rising, still uncut, are now taller than they’ve been for decades, perhaps even centuries.  And they are truly beautiful!  Many are hard to identify until they flower and seed, but if you walk along one of the paths now you’ll find a good number of species: the dusky pink Yorkshire fog, the tall and tatty false oat grass, the fanned-out crested dogstail, the long-awned meadow barley, the soft heads of meadow foxtail, the deep blushes of red fescue, the delicate sprays of common bent, the stiff stalks of perennial ryegrass, the slim green fingers of timothy … Of course, there are buttercups in there too, and the occasional patch of creeping thistle.  Grassland hasn’t the rich diversity of the wildflower meadow, but it is still a really valuable habitat that, if cut in June or July for hay, is effectively destroyed.

From hereon the grass at Sun Rising will be managed in cycles, small areas cut every 3 – 4 years and late in the summer. This will give the grassland birds, like the skylark, an extended season to breed more successfully.  It’ll give moths and butterflies, like the rustic shoulder-knot, common wainscot, and meadow brown, a chance to complete their breeding cycle in safety and peace.  It’ll give the wildlife generally a much larger area within which to forage, rest, hide and play.  We’ll keep you informed about the changes over the course of the year, and let you know the results as the seasons flow on.

With sunshine and showers, our areas of established wildflower meadow here at Sun Rising are now growing fast.  With half a dozen identifiable grasses, and more coming through, the yellow rattle is also at its height.  This little plant is crucial for meadows like ours: being semi-parasitic, Rhinanthus minor actually weakens the grasses.  In earlier times, it was a serious pest for farmers, reducing their hay crops significantly, but for us it is a blessing.  Taking some strength out of the grasses, it gives more space for the wildflowers we are looking to encourage.  This year, the yellow rattle is doing beautifully in the meadow.  After such a dry year, the grasses are not overwhelming, and it’s found its place. 

You’ll see more poppies (Papaver rhoeas) in the meadow this year too.  These are a most peculiar plant – however often we (or families) sow seed, it nearly always fails.  In some years, I can sow half a pound of seed and just a few will reluctantly germinate in the stony tracks.  This year, there are a few patches that have come through.  As an arable weed, poppies require disturbed ground to germinate, so where they’ve been sown on new graves they are unlikely to come back next year.  They give a lovely bright colour at this time of year, when the meadow is otherwise mainly green and yellow.

Look a little closer, and you’ll see the pink of the common vetch, and the deep red of the flower buds of the birdsfoot trefoil.  There have been brimstone and orangetip butterflies, peacocks, small tortoiseshells, small whites and small coppers, for a while; this week we spotted the first common blues.  In another week or so, the oxeye daisies will burst into flower, then the scabious, knapweeds, vetchlings and cranesbills.  It’s a wonderful time of emergence.  Even when the grey skies (and still very much needed rains) are leaving a dreary pall over the day, there’ll plenty to lift the soul.