Richard Jefferies Society : Election to the Executive Council

After what I think is about seven or 8 years it was wonderful to be back at the Richard Jefferies Museum at Coate, on the outskirts of Swindon, Wiltshire. Though this time in a different capacity to my former visits.

Marble bust of Jefferies recently arrived at the Museum on long loan from The Mercer Art Gallery in Harrogate. Bust created in 1904 in marble by W.J.S Webber.  

Around a decade ago I found myself spending a lot of time at the Richard Jefferies Museum. Then I was a Trustee of the Museum Trust. The Museum is housed within the birthplace of the influential natural history writer Richard Jefferies. At the time of his birth on the 6th of November 1848, his parents had the farm here, though in reality as the farm was less than 40 acres this was a large smallholding and by all accounts not that successful. However this farm, Coate Water which the land backed on to and the surrounding Wiltshire countryside had a profound influence on the young Jefferies and cemented his pragmatic view of natural history observation at a time of great change. In many ways his writing is as relevant, if not more, in 2023 than it was 150 years ago.

My visit was not to be involved with the Museum, but as a potential member of the Richard Jefferies Society Executive Council. In late January of this year I received an email out of the blue, within which was a question "Would I consider being nominated and proposed as a member of the Executive Council". 

At the Executive Council Meeting of the Richard Jefferies Society a week or so before, my name had been suggested as one who may be willing to replace one of the vacancies now created given a couple of members of the Council planned to step down later in the year. Initially, though honoured and thrilled, I hesitated to accept, for a short while at least. I'm not a scholar of Jefferies work. I've read many of his essays and books but would consider myself a reader rather than a knowledgeable devotee of his work. He is however a massive influencer for anyone who writes about English natural history, not just back then but today. Therefore after a quiet and brief discussion in my head, I replied that I'd be delighted and honoured.

Which is how (and why) I found myself walking through those familiar yet oddly different Museum grounds on a glorious sunny spring day on April 29th to attend the Annual General Meeting. I entered as a member of the Society. I left a few hours later as an Executive Council member.

Sometimes I worry that Richard Jefferies is encumbered with a noun ascribed to him every time he is written about. Victorian nature writer Richard Jefferies.  

Certainly he was a Victorian,  his short life ended before his fortieth year in 1887. However his writing has a timeless sense of place for those of us today reading his canon of essays, books, journalism and an astonishing Utopian novel about London after a natural disaster renders it unliveable. His influence continues and crosses genre, art, music and a mindfulness psyche of what it means to be in an English countryside. Edward Thomas, a huge admirer of Jefferies, wrote a perfect biography of him. The author W.H. Hudson who knew Jefferies work, so admired him and wanted to be buried next to him (some sources say with him). Modern day writers like Henry Williamson, John Fowles and Robert Macfarlane all quote Jefferies influence. Yet for the wider public he is somewhat unknown.

His thoughts in Victorian times really do resonate in the 21st Century, but for different reasons. Unlike writers such as Thomas Hardy or W.H. Hudson who looked backwards at a vanishing way of life in their writing, Jefferies was a realist, an acute observer, a pragmatist but not one who versed himself in some bucolic idyll. While he discussed the changes in the customs, ways and fashions of his nineteenth century countryside, and as a journalist in his early career wrote about the need to provide agricultural labourers with a better standard of living, he also embraced the new. He wrote about the railways then sweeping across the landscape and the benefits they should bring, neatly exemplified at the Museum which now has its own 'HALT' on the recently constructed Coate Park miniature railway at the boundary of what was once the Jefferies farm. Jefferies would I'm sure see the visitors who alight here to enter the museum as a positive reflection in the modern world.

I however came by car, and after my 65 mile journey upon entering the Museum, the first person I saw was John Price, the erstwhile chair of the Society. It was a lovely reacquaintance with an old friend. Immediately I felt at home. During a break in the proceedings later in the day John showed me his latest personal acquisition, a 1st Edition book of Jefferies Red Deer published in 1884, inside of which was written a short but loving inscription to E Jefferies, (Richard Jefferies mother), from the most loving author. I held that book, a tangible handing down through the eons of time. Jefferies, then living in Surbiton will have handled that book while writing the inscription to his beloved mother.  Now 175 years after his birth and with thanks to John, I too handled this book, albeit quite carefully it has to be said.

Although we were meeting at the Museum, which provided light refreshments, the Museum is run by the Museum Trust. The Richard Jefferies Society, whose membership is global, has a small influence in the Museum but is separate to it, and having been formed in 1950 the Society's main remit is, to quote from its literature  

" To promote interest in, and respect for the life and works of Richard Jefferies."

The Society does this through individual membership, meetings, regular Society newsletters and a journal, social media, research and maintains a book collection of Jefferies' output and more recent works on the author. The Society also does what it can to maintain physical links to Jefferies such as maintaining his grave in Broadwater and Worthing Cemetery in Worthing, and his memorial plaque in Salisbury Cathedral. All for an individual membership cost of £12 a year, which I feel is a bargain. 

And of course the Society hosts an Annual General Meeting for its members, the very reason I was there siting amongst fellow members watching a large screen. I sat there watching the faces on the screen again thinking what would Jefferies make of these Zoom members streaming into his childhood home via Wi-Fi, modern technology connecting a global audience to the home of a writer who spread his thoughts using the works of his pen. One of the ladies there was Jefferies great, great, great, granddaughter (I think I have the number of greats correct) who happily sacrificed her breakfast in California to take part.

In due course the AGM got onto electing new members to the Executive Council and after a show of hands, thankfully unanimous, I was voted in for a three year term. What I hadn't expected was after the vote Colin the vice-chair turned to me and said "Andrew, would you like to say a few words to introduce yourself". Caught off guard I rambled on incoherently for what seemed hours, but in reality was less than a minute, and having completed my rambling discourse a lovely chap called Roy sitting next to me whispered, "well done and you're very welcome". I must have made some sense then, that's a first.

With the AGM concluded members had time to fill before the afternoon lecture. Time for lunch. I popped out into the garden to look at the mulberry tree Jefferies used to sit under and think. It looked a little older than I remember, but, like the Red Deer book earlier, a tangible link back to the author. Those of us having lunch outside had a discussion about this theme of tangibility over our home provisioned picnic fare. It went along the lines of - with the advancement of on-line and digital storage, in 150 years time, what will people interested in history actually have to physically connect with? Will emails, e-books and documents be available, be readable or will the technology of today be as obsolete as wig powder and quill pens of the past.  It is an interesting topic for discussion.

Ahead of the afternoon lecture; A Sweet View : The Making of the English Idyll, given by its author  Malcolm Andrews via Zoom, I explored the grounds a little more. On one of my last visits to the Museum, we trustees were involved in a discussion about what to do with the farmyard. There are larger plans which one day I'm sure will be fulfilled, in the meantime the area provides fresh food for the Museum café. It still feels rural and unspoilt from this direction, in reality however Swindon has now all but encircled the farm. Sprawling residential areas built in the last few years now cover the fields Jefferies once walked over towards Liddington Hill, one of his favourite walks.  

While I personally find it sad that the uninterrupted view from the farm over the fields to Liddington has gone, a view I remember well myself, maybe given Jefferies himself had a pragmatic approach to change, it may be fitting that progress is not arrested just because of one man's legacy, a man who himself decamped to live near London to earn a better living. Once he had moved away he was only ever to return to Wiltshire three times before his death, yet while away from the land he loved, he wrote some of his best works.

And for me Jefferies legacy is what inspired me to accept the invitation and why I felt deeply honoured to be asked to be on the Executive Council of the Society. At the close of the afternoon lecture a question and answer discussion took place. One member piped up with this reminder of how important Jefferies is to nature writing and our views on the natural world. He continued by noting that Rachel Carson who in 1962 wrote her seminal conservation work Silent Spring, herself said she was mostly influenced in her thinking by two colossus of natural history writers. W.H. Hudson, and yes, a Wiltshire lad who wrote some of the most influential natural history books ever, Richard Jefferies. 

A fitting end to my first 24 hours on the Executive Council as I begin to do my best, and to try and promote the life and works of Richard Jefferies.

Links : 

Richard Jefferies Society :  https://www.richardjefferiessociety.org

Andrews, Malcolm A Sweet View :  The Making of the English Idyll (2021). 

Richard Jefferies Museum :  https://www.richardjefferies.org/

Thomas, Edward, Richard Jefferies:  His Life and Work (London: Hutchinson, 1909).

List of Jefferies works (non exhaustive list of books published in his lifetime - from Wikipedia) : 

The Scarlet Shawl (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1874)

Restless Human Hearts (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1875)

World's End (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1877)

The Gamekeeper at Home (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1878) 

Wild Life in a Southern County (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1879)

The Amateur Poacher (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1879) 

Greene Ferne Farm (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Hodge and His Masters (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Round About a Great Estate (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1880)

Wood Magic (London: Cassell, Petter, Galpin & Co., 1881)

Bevis: the Story of a Boy (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1882)

Nature Near London (London: Chatto & Windus, 1883)

The Story of My Heart: An Autobiography (London: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1883)

Red Deer (London: Longmans, Green, & Co., 1884)

The Life of the Fields (London: Chatto & Windus, 1884)

The Dewy Morn (London: Richard Bentley and Son, 1884)

After London; Or, Wild England (London: Cassell & Company, Ltd., 1885)

The Open Air (London: Chatto & Windus, 1885)

Amaryllis at the Fair (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1887)

November has a sound; silence

Is there a sound to November? Or do I mean the month of November has its own sounds? I'm not sure as for me the dominant sound in November is silence. The dominant feeling stillness. On reflection November has a sound that no other month has. It is hard to explain but then on one day I realise that November has arrived. 

In his book The Quiet Fields, the writer BB describes this beautifully in his entry for November 2nd. He begins: [page 175] 

"The sudden arrival of true winter has taken me unawares. It seems only yesterday that the sun shone with warmth enough to tempt a late tortoiseshell to the fading Michaelmas daisies...." 

 He continues [p177] 

" Standing on the lawn this early evening - watching the last sad yellow leaves of the birches drift down to the dark sepia brown of the pond, I had a sudden surge of excitement that winter is almost here again - maybe it was an almost animal awareness hard to explain.... "

This still silent sound of the eleventh month appears as if by osmosis. A time when autumn has almost forgotten why it exists. Is winter here yet? Not quite, but I've lost interest and need to slow down. The sound of silence is accompanied by stillness which provides the release of an emotional connection in me at this time of the year. It's an emotion I love so much. 

Even in late October, although the days are short, the sun may still shine strong and warm, the last of the summer migrant birds are heading south, too soon yet for their winter replacements. In October the remnants of summer bounty cling on in the hedgerow larder, keeping harsh winter at bay much as lichen does on the lee of an exposed mountain wall. Then, on a single day, a day no official diary will note, the feeling changes. November is still autumn yet it cloaks this season of mellow fruitfulness with a quiet veil of wintertide.

As BB himself did 40 years ago I found myself, just a few days ago, standing in the garden at dusk. The silence alerted me to the suggestion of stillness. In reality it was already there, it waited patiently for me to notice it. The countryside felt suddenly expanded, opened out, my hearing became distant, as if the ambiance of silence was coming from somewhere unseen in the far distance. Of course partly this is a lack of foliage in November. October storms have laid bare many trees, the air has less to resit its passing than in high summer when the rustle of leaves dominates. But there was not a breath in the air, not a bird song, nothing, just November's presence. 

Moments earlier a weak yellow sun falling towards the horizon shone beneath steel grey clouds which had dominated the sky all day. For a minute or so, just beyond the garden, the yellow leaves of a field maple were illuminated into a fire-glow of colour. But what a colour! As only witnessed in November pale buttermilk hues, with the intensity of a watercolour wash, lit every branch, before, as if by the flick of a switch, the sun fell to earth. The sky itself now took centre stage, creating its own emulsion of orange and indigo; the countryside equivalent of following the harmonious suggestions of an artists colour wheel. Larger trees were now silhouetted, contrasting with the vibrancy beyond. Slowly that hue faded as dusk advanced, indigo deepened and I observed all was quiet, all was still, all was very November. 

A few days later, a number of starlings are chattering on the roof. Not the urgent banter of spring when all efforts focus towards raising a successful brood or two. In November their toil is over, simply the relaxed contact calls of adults and offspring,  like a gaggle of gossiping farmers in the auction mart weighing up cattle. Wheezes, shwees, sqwarks, high pitched rapid fire rattling chat, responding replies, all cascade from the rooftop. They nest and roost in the eves of the house and though I can't see them, there may be half a dozen birds. Starlings chatter and bicker all year of course, but in November their constant communication throws me back to winters in Newcastle, a time when thousands of starlings would come in to roost high above the Christmas shoppers below in Northumberland Street. As a child I would listen to this deafening chorus in amazement, a sound way  higher than the passing traffic, not knowing I was witnessing something which no longer occurs. Today town roosts are a thing of the past as health and safety took over the cleansing of the streets via the netting of the rooves.

Winter has always been my birdwatching season. Maybe that is it, my November moment, my own animal awareness triggered possibly with the first seep seep of redwing flying unseen overhead in a starlit sky, their calls heralding the glory days of winter wildlife watching to come. 

A few days ago with the bedroom window open I listened to a pair of tawny owls somewhere beyond the garden. It was 1.30am, pitch black of course except for the bright moonshine of a waning moon. These two males were twoo-hooting their resolve to claim and hold a territory. Possibly two young males eager to stake their claim (tawny owls can lay their first eggs in February).  One was much closer, maybe they had negotiated their patch and delighted in confirming their prize. Whatever the reason this went on for a good half an hour, in-between times absolute silence in the still and surprisingly mild night air. In spring a little owl calls in the same field, summer too, but I have never heard them in autumn. Whereas tawny owls only tend to be heard in autumn and winter - owl dynamics at play.  While listening to their contact chat minutes passed and I was lulled off to sleep, only later to be woken before daybreak by a robin.

There's nothing unusual in that, robins are early singers, well before dawn, often starting in July, so by November they've got into their stride and most mornings perform their duty as dawn-herald. This particular morning was different. Maybe the moonlight, maybe the mildness of the dawn,  or maybe just because I'd not noticed before, a hesitant dawn chorus seemed to briefly occur. As I listened to the robin, the tik tik of a blackbird, maybe two could also be heard, a tuneless mallard flew somewhere in the night sky, a wren erupted into song in the hedge boundary. Herring gulls and lesser black back gulls flew noisily from their roost in the Bristol Channel islands. Inevitably a carrion crow barked its morning command and was replied to by a grey heron. I often hear grey herons at night as they move about the landscape, avoiding potential predators, sometimes I think it is a vixen if I'm half asleep.

It was by now a half light which in turn disturbed a dunnock whose contact calling somewhere beyond the garden added to this false dawn chorus. It was a mild morning, there was a stillness, sound travels farther in the leafless countryside. 

By the time the sparrows in the eves began chattering it was almost light. They are lazy in my book, nearly always the last to emerge to feed, like teenagers after a late night. I looked at my watch, 06.50am, and as I did so a redwing overshot the house. In twenty minutes ten birds could be heard calling at different times. As dawn choruses go it was paltry, obviously, but the sound of awakening avian species, chatting and communicating before the foraging day ahead was a pleasing start to a November day. 

As it became lighter, the daily flotilla of around 100 jackdaws passed over, noisily jak-a-jak-ing in their pairs or trios as they flew by. It amazes me how regular those jackdaws are, I can almost set my watch to their passing each day, heading south in the morning, and returning north in the evening at roughly 5 minutes earlier or later than the week before. Some days they fly so low over the garden, I'm above them if looking out of an upstairs window, today though they were high, noisily keeping the young birds in line. 

That hesitant dawn chorus is not the true November sound. What is are the myriad of contact calls as late afternoon merges into dusk. That is a favourite time of mine, to sit quietly and reflect on what is happening. Go for a walk across any farmland, ramble through a deciduous woodland, or sit on a hill at dusk and I can guarantee pheasants will call somewhere. There is something primeval in that pheasant call, especially if heard from a great distance. In the right habitat, blackbirds set up a continuous tik tik, or sep sep as they jostle and fidget before sleep. Robins of course who never seem able to sleep add to the melee, and wrens too. I recently watched the silhouette of a wren at dusk. Its diminutive plumpness shook with the effort of its song. Against a sunset sky this sound which has permeated down the centuries, spoke more to me of November stillness than I could imagine. But then it was off, into the hedge across the lane and out of sight, though not out of earshot.

I could suggest the November silence is also about corvids, rooks, carrion crow and increasingly ravens calling in the distant soundscape, their caws and chatter from an unseen stubble field, is of the season. If you are lucky on that wander, jays cackle alongside fieldfares high in the trees. It may be just here in Somerset, but I feel the once wary jay is becoming bold. I now see them flying over motorways with crops stuffed with acorns or in Bristol streets where they have always been a familiar sight and of course in the silent woods as they noisily fly away from you.  

It is the lack of other ambient sounds which heightens these and all bird calls. By November most insects have done their best, the woods and farmlands fall silent of their buzzing and stridulating. Summer migrants have left, taking with them their chattering and exotic song. Trees have mostly lost their leaves, hushing the gentle rustle of air through their branches. The ground is soft, footfall across grassland is mostly silent, the dry rustle of early autumn a faded echo. Sounds travel far, scent too in the all too still landscape.

At dusk there is that scent of November which is not replicated at other times of the year. Air inversions move moist aroma upwards from the still warm soil with the lightness of touches. It's a rich mix of earth-bound mycorrhizal, associations with dampness and the thousands of microorganisms decomposing the plentiful biomass of summer in readiness for the growth year ahead. There is nothing like it, especially if mixed with wood smoke from an unseen dwelling. That for me is November. To sit outdoors on a calm late autumn evening simply absorbing nature's bounty. Not every evening will have a robin sing, but I know it is there. Likewise the starling, sparrow and tawny owl. They'll be watching me, I am blind to them, and I simply watch the mist from my mug of tea, evaporating, spiraling upwards to oblivion, ever so quietly.

I began with a quote from The Quiet Fields by BB. At the end of his entry for November 2nd he references two giants of nature writing, W.H.Hudson and Richard Jefferies within the context and reflections on the changing seasons. 

[p178] "Certainly Richard Jefferies felt it, and Hudson also who was less of a dreamer than Jefferies, but with the same keen perception and with more literary skill"

BB's view is that to connect with this primitive 'outdoor' feeling, sudden and swiftly passing can only be felt by your true countryman - your sportsman - naturalist. That is the nub of all connection with nature, that connection, that primitive outdoor feeling none of us who feel it can really explain, it is simply primeval. Jefferies, Hudson and BB all came from that era of shooting game to becoming naturalists. It is a lost world to modern naturalists. Yet for centuries, longer maybe, people have listened to November's silence, watched the sun set and connected with the landscape and wildlife around them. It is thanks to BB and all those writers throughout history, who captured those long forgotten moments in November, that we the future reader can connect across time. As ever their writing stirs the soul into stillness, reflection and November.

Reference:

BB (1981) The Quiet Fields, illustrated by D.J Watkins-Pitchford. Michael Joseph. London