A few thoughts on...: April 2021

It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact my first encounter with my local nature reserve, soon after moving to Chelmsford, was quite unpromising. I set off one afternoon in September 2015 on a borrowed bike, planning to follow the riverside path up the Chelmer and see how far I got. I’d been cycling for about five minutes when the path turned away from the river and spat me out into a suburban cul-de-sac. So much for that idea. My impression of the nature reserve on either side of the path was an uninspiring mixture of willows and poplars, all in the flat, dull green of late summer. The effect of the expedition was to make me – a life-long non-runner – take up running. My reasoning was: a) since the scope for cycling was so limited, I had to exercise on foot, but b) since the surroundings were so drab, I needed to pick up the pace to make them go by more quickly.

Five years later I’m still running, without great enthusiasm, but my attitude to the Chelmer Valley Local Nature Reserve has changed. Despite some residual moments of indifference, I’ve gradually developed an appreciation verging on affection for it. True, it couldn’t be described as an exciting landscape. It’s a long, narrow strip of land on the east side of the slow-moving, often weed-clogged Chelmer River; its best-known feature is the “Bunny Walks”, a wide, paved path linking the residential areas of The Avenues and Broomfield in northern Chelmsford with the city centre and railway station. It isn’t an especially peaceful environment either: the busy A1016, with its open-road speed limit, runs parallel to river and path for a while, crosses over both, and then runs directly alongside the northernmost and most isolated section of the reserve. If you get far enough away from the A1016 to escape the noise of traffic, you’re likely to hear the machinery of Marriage’s Mill instead.

And yet what the reserve offers is no more and no less than a bit of nature in the middle of town. Not untouched, untamed nature, but a co-production between nature and humans. The river has been slowed, its course altered, and then in recent years changed again to restore a more natural environment. Trees and wildflowers have been planted; others have been cut down or pulled out in an attempt to recreate treeless meadow habitats, or to encourage the growth of more desirable plants. In normal times when no pandemics are raging, volunteers come out once a month, under the friendly supervision of the council, to clear and improve paths, pick up litter, plant trees, rake grass and construct hibernacula as habitats for slow-worms and other creatures. These interventions aside, though, nature has ample scope to do its own thing. Wildflowers that might be classed as weeds elsewhere can flourish here; self-seeded trees spring up and thrive. Birds sing their hearts out.

I live in an unattractive street with few trees; I’m lucky enough to have a garden, but the only sizeable tree it contains is an aged and nearly leafless elder. Having a nature reserve nearby is a blessing: if I want to take a break from my work and stretch my legs I’m not restricted to urban streets. Instead I can cross New Street, walk down Hoffman’s Way past Marriage’s Mill, go over the humpback bridge above the weir, and suddenly, five minutes from home, I’m plunged into a world of greenery and birdsong. Don’t ask me what birds – I don’t know! The ones I can see and identify are those that move slowly or stand still in full sight: crows, magpies, and wood pigeons. Swans, ducks, and moorhens on the river. The occasional little egret. Gulls. But it’s the ones I can’t see that are the real delight. Unable to identify any individual voices, I hear nothing but a lovely soundscape. If ever I hear a sweet tweeting nearby and manage to spot the creature responsible, it’s inevitably a robin. The others remain invisible, or flit by too fast to be recognized.

At dusk, in the section of the Bunny Walks where the trees are tallest, the cheery twittering is drowned out by the cawing of crows. They settle in the tops of the willows and poplars, rise and circle around, then settle again. On a gloomy winter’s evening the effect of the dark birds on the high, bare trees under a darkening sky – to the soundtrack of their harsh, haunting voices – is hugely atmospheric.

And the trees! While the poplars and willows dominating the Bunny Walks are still not my all-time favourites, I do appreciate their majestic size and the habitat they offer to birds and other creatures. And I’ve learnt that there are many, many other tree species in the reserve, each with its own moment of glory. First, in the depths of winter, the hazelnut’s long, slim yellow catkins; then from late February the gorgeous white blossom of the cherry plum, followed in late March and April by the smaller, but equally fragrant blossoms of blackthorn, tightly clustered along the twigs. At the same time a superabundance of catkins appears as the willows and poplars awaken. The poplars are a challenge to identify, and I’m not there yet, but the one with the most striking catkins is probably a hybrid black poplar. The male catkins, faded from deep red to purple, now litter the ground, having presumably carried out their reproductive task – or given it their best shot. The long, slender green female catkins still have their work ahead of them: producing masses of fluffy white seeds which will cover the ground like snow in June.

Of the maples, Norway maple is the showstopper right now, with masses of yellow flowers on leafless branches. Field maple is less showy in spring, but becomes one of the loveliest trees in the woods in autumn, clinging to its yellow leaves when other trees are already bare. Sycamore is at its most graceful now, its large, smooth, green buds opening to release large leaves and hanging clusters of flowers. This is also the season when elm is most distinctive, covered in what looks like pale green blossom, but is actually winged seeds. Hawthorn, well ahead of the rest, is already fully clothed in vibrant green, gearing up for its starring turn when it blossoms in May. Hazelnut, hornbeam and alder are just coming into leaf, along with white willow and horse chestnut. Others are slower to join the party. The peculiar-looking flowers of the ash are only now beginning to sprout from its black buds, and leaves are still some way off. Aspen and grey poplar bear inconspicuous catkins but no leaves. Limes and oaks are still tight-budded and bare, biding their time.

At their feet there are wildflowers to be discovered. Since early spring the fringes of the Bunny Walks have been brightened by the brilliant yellow and glossy green of lesser celandine, interspersed with patches of violets in various shades of purple and white. Two small ponds are adorned with clumps of bright yellow marsh marigold. Right now, in mid April, the first patch of white comfrey is blooming in the woods; later, by the river, there’ll be larger patches in shades of blue and pink, humming with bees. In recent weeks the small purple flowers of ground ivy have appeared in the woods and on the edges of the meadow under the blackthorn, even colonizing the crook of a multi-trunked ash. The spotted lily leaves of lords-and-ladies are visible in abundance, and I’m looking out for the strange rod-like flowers. Green alkanet, an unwelcome weed in gardens, comes into its own in the woods, its lush leaves and gorgeous blue flowers a joyous sight. Red dead-nettles start blooming early and keep on going for months, alongside the taller white dead-nettles. Cow parsley and jack-by-the-hedge are just beginning to bloom. Yesterday I saw the first cowslips of the year, and the first red campion, still low to the ground. I even found, in the aspen grove, a flower I’d never seen here before, pale pink, not fully open, with demurely bowed heads – a cuckooflower, I think. In parts of the reserve the ground will disappear under a sea of stinging nettles as the weather gets warmer, but in others a wide variety of flowers will appear throughout the spring and summer.

Of course not all the people who walk and cycle along the Bunny Walks have the time or the inclination to see all this. Strangely, I seldom see anyone else engrossed in nature study. For many it’s just a quick route from A to B, for others it’s a pleasant spot to walk their dogs or teach their children to ride a bike. But whether or not they seek out and notice the nature offered to them here, all of these dog-walkers, dogless walkers, cyclists, commuters, shoppers, school pupils and young families benefit from the existence of the reserve. They benefit because they’re walking or cycling instead of driving or sitting on a bus; they benefit because they’re escaping the noise and traffic fumes of Broomfield Road; and they benefit because seeing trees and hearing birds is good for the soul. As Chelmsford’s housing intensifies and increasing numbers of people live in apartment blocks, nature reserves like this are becoming more and more essential.

As for me, the nature nerd who actually leaves the path to examine trees and flowers, I’ve learnt a lot from the Chelmer Valley Local Nature Reserve over the last five years. I haven’t finished learning, either. Every walk throws up new questions. What are the dark, moss-like clumps high up in the willows? Are the dead trees surrounding one of the few elms along the Bunny Walks also elms, and have they succumbed to the dreaded Dutch Elm Disease? Will that family of ducklings survive the predatory crows watching over them?

In short, I’ve learnt that running faster isn’t always the solution, and that this small urban nature reserve is most rewarding when taken slowly.