Lowest Of The Low

There used to be a wide, misty lake in Cambridgeshire, three miles across and surrounded by wet, marshy ground. There were sailing regattas in summer and ice-skating races in winter. Huge flocks of water birds made it their home. It was called Whittlesea Mere and it was finally drained in the mid-nineteenth century.

Even after the drainage, the village of Holme was still a difficult place for travel and the vicar came up with a novel way of reaching the more isolated members of his flock - a floating church that became known as the Fenland Ark. It had a font and a harmonium, and seventy-four baptisms took place on it. It's still fondly remembered on the village sign. But what's that in the top left-hand corner? 

Those would be Holme Posts. I've mentioned in previous posts that when the peat was drained it began to shrink; a problem that had not been foreseen when the first drainage schemes took place. By the time this area was drained it was a well known phenomenon, though no accurate measurements of shrinkage had been made. It was decided to bury an iron post up to its very top in the peat. Yes, believe it or not, that's how much the peat has shrunk! My brother Les is there to add both scale and style to the picture. A second post was added recently in case the original one is completely uncovered.

Although it's called Holme Fen, it's not really a fen any more. Drainage has meant that trees can recolonise the area, albeit trees that are well-suited to fairly wet conditions. It's now the largest area of birch woodland in lowland Britain. And when I say "lowland" I mean low; this, as intimated by the title of this article, is the lowest place in England, around 9ft (2.75m) below sea level.

I was really hoping for more fungi after the recent rains - and a little more Autumn colour would have been nice - but those subjects will have to wait for another day.

No matter, it was still a lush and tranquil place for a short stroll.

Some of the bracken is changing colour, but even the green fronds look striking with the sun shining through them illuminating the structure.

We wandered on around the short Discovery Trail, for this was going to be just a brief getting-to-know-you visit and we wanted to check out another nearby nature reserve. Both reserves are part of the Great Fen Project.

The aim is to connect Holme Fen with Woodwalton Fen by gradually acquiring farmland and restoring a wetland habitat. This ambitious plan is expected to take another 30 years to complete. The larger area of "natural" wetland should be able to attract and maintain populations of species, which small fragments of wetland cannot do on their own. 

It should also be possible to maintain a higher water table, though I hope that doesn't lead to a total demise of these fairytale birch woods.

Just a little off our track we located this. Not a cauldron for boiling up missionaries, but a charcoal kiln, left over from the Second World War when it was used for making charcoal (for gunpowder, perhaps).

Just to show you how random our weather and seasons are at the moment, here's a wild Foxglove still blooming in October.

Elsewhere things were looking a little more Autumnal.

There are some small bodies of water on the reserve where common ducks and geese were present. And those birch trees will shine like gold in just a few more days. But we're moving on now to Woodwalton Fen and a couple of other places, which we'll find out about in the next post. But on our way we stopped to have a look at an old lump of wood!

Before the birch woodland there was fen. And before the fen there was an oakwood. When the land began to become inundated with water the huge oaks succumbed and in time fell over into the water and were engulfed by peat. Here they were preserved in the peat below Whittlesea Mere till the land was drained. As the peat shrank farmers would strike these "bog oaks" with their ploughs. I remember seeing big heaps of them by the side of the fields, though there can't be many left buried now.

So just how old are these ancient timbers? About 5,000 years! That's something to think about as we travel across this very flat landscape on its incredibly bumpy roads.

Take care.