Leaves on the edge: finding hope
My recent walk through Becky Falls left me thinking about the state of our wildlife. The latest reports make for sobering reading. UK wild bird populations are at their lowest recorded level, with nearly half of species declining, while around one in six species in Great Britain are at risk of extinction, according to the State of Nature report. At the beginning of 2026, the Wildlife Trust set out five clear actions needed to help restore our natural world. The message is clear: we must protect and reconnect habitats, restore nature and make space for wildlife to recover.
As I wandered slowly through the ancient woodland at Becky Falls, I used Merlin to listen for birdsong. I detected robins and blackbirds, but saw and heard little else. In a space that is protected. It was unsettling, and my photos reflect my darkening mood: leaves on the edge:
Of course, one walk cannot tell us everything about the health of an ecosystem. These rare temperate woodlands have evolved since the Ice Age carved out the valley 12000 years ago. The gnarled old oaks are covered in lichens and mosses, and the forest floor is full of fungi and ferns. It is a rich environment for insects, birds and mammals. It is helped by having no sheep nibbling away the fresh oak saplings, needed to keep the forest regenerating. Much of nature exists beyond our awareness and we need to pause, watch and immerse ourselves fully:
Back in my garden, a tiny discovery reminded me how much there is still to learn. On the back of a fallen oak leaf in my garden, I found an intricate structure. Puzzled, I turned to the Seek app which identified it as a silk-button spangle gall, formed by the larva of a tiny gall wasp.
I had never noticed one before. Now, nearly 70, I was discovering another small wonder of the natural world. These tiny galls develop when a female wasp lays her eggs in oak leaf tissue. Each larva grows inside its own protective structure, which provides food and shelter, before the adult wasp emerges to continue the cycle.
Far from being a blemish on a fallen leaf, these galls are part of a much wider web of life. Gall wasps and their galls contribute to the food web, while oak trees support an astonishing diversity of species. Here was a whole world I had previously overlooked, right there in my garden.
It made me reconsider my walk through Becky Falls. Perhaps wildlife was not as absent as I had thought, perhaps I had glimpsed only a fraction of what was happening around me. Nature is full of intricate relationships and quiet activity that can easily escape our notice:
The discovery did not diminish my concern about the drought or the wider threats facing our natural world. But it did restore some of my sense of curiosity and wonder. It reminded me that there is always more to discover, even in familiar places, and that paying attention can deepen our connection with the living world.
Perhaps this is one way to keep going: to remain alert to what is changing and what is being lost, without losing our capacity to appreciate what remains. As the leaves turn, I have noticed some trees budding as if it were Spring, and there are catkins on the hazel and silver birch, perhaps responding to rainfall after the drought. Nature continues to surprise us, even in unsettling times.
Today, as I hunker down from Storm Austen, I have found another reason to feel hopeful. A project at Halnaker Hill Farm in Sussex has transformed a landscape impoverished by intensive farming through the restoration of hedgerows and woodland and the sowing of wildflowers. In a relatively short time, the farm has become a place alive with butterflies and other wildlife. It is a powerful reminder that damaged landscapes can recover when we give nature the space and conditions it needs.
Of course, planting hedgerows and restoring habitats will not resolve the climate and biodiversity crises. We also need urgent political action, systemic change and reductions in fossil fuel use. But practical examples of regeneration show us what is possible when people choose to act. The much-awaited 2026 England Trees Action Plan promises £1 billion pounds for tree planting and forestry support, with a target to increase woodland cover in England from 14.5% to 16.5% by 2050. Organisations such as the Woodland Trust and Friends of the Earth argue that there is the capacity to reach 20%, needed to combat biodiversity loss and to store carbon effectively.
After my visit to Becky Falls, I also came across the work of photographer Chris Harvey, who advocates a 'hyperlocal' approach: moving away from 'honeypot' locations and returning time and again to familiar places with which we have a personal connection. By revisiting them and building an intimate knowledge of their rhythms and changes, we can discover more than a single visit might reveal.
This idea resonated with something I heard last week when I had the joy of listening to Simon Armitage share some of his poems. He spoke about getting to know a place, revisiting and noting the changes over time, as he does in his work The Cemetery. He had also been commissioned to write poems about The Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall. Imagine his glorious Yorkshire voice reading this one:
Pond
If a pine cone
or seed propeller
splashes down
on the glassy water's
two-way mirror
the spell is broken.
But the skin mends -
the troubled surface
glazes over, resets
and forms a film
starring newts
and swallows.
The poem captures something I am trying to learn: that nature is never still, even when its changes are almost imperceptible. We have to return, look closely and allow ourselves to be surprised.
At Becky Falls, I also made a small threshold from sticks, leaves and feathers, pausing to reflect on what I wanted the coming season to hold. It was a simple, physical gesture, but one that connected me to the place and to the possibility of beginning again.
I am still left with conflicting emotions: sadness at the waterfall reduced to a trickle and fear for the future. Yet I am grateful for the time spent in such a remarkable place, for the tiny gall wasp quietly completing its life cycle on an oak leaf, and for the people working to restore damaged landscapes.
The situation is serious, and we should not look away. But neither should we lose sight of what remains possible. Perhaps the task is to hold both grief and hope: to acknowledge what is being lost, to keep noticing and learning, and to work together towards a more loving world.
There is hope among the despair. And there is still so much worth protecting.
PS This week, the Newton Abbot Constituency Climate and Nature Bill Group, of which I’m a member, won a Star of Teignbridge Award! We were recognised for our creative and innovative approach to climate action in our local community. We organised a People’s Climate and Nature Assembly, giving local people the opportunity to share their concerns and identify priorities for action. These were then shared with our local MP to help shape future action.
It’s so heartening to know that our work is valued and recognised. This award gives us a real boost and renewed encouragement to keep going.
Taking action on climate change is no longer a ‘fringe’ issue — it’s something that matters to our communities, and it’s wonderful to see that commitment being recognised. As Robin Wall Kimmerer reminds us in Braiding Sweetgrass: "Whatever our gift, we are called to give it and to dance for the renewal of the world. In return for the privilege of breath".
Read Guy Shrubsole's response to the proposed England Trees Action Plan 2026.
Read Agnes Becker's article on Moving from climate grief to a more loving, just world.
Thanks to Friends of the Earth, you can look up your local area to see how much woodland coverage there already is, and possibilities for rewilding.
Watch Chris Harvey’s video on hyperlocalism to discover how photographing the places closest to us can document change, raise awareness and celebrate the everyday wonders of the landscapes we know and love.
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