Put a cork in it.

When you're tugging out your plastic corks and unscrewing the caps of those so satisfying bottles of wine, give a thought to the cork forests of the Alentejo. Portugal's cork oaks are threatened each time you buy a bottle of wine that isn't stoppered by natural cork.

If the local communities can no longer make a living through harvesting cork, other less environmentally sound uses for the cork forests will be found. If cork groves are abandoned or ploughed up for intensive agriculture, vast species rich areas will vanish. Acres of flower dappled grasslands, home to a unique eco system, will simply disappear or be swamped under invasive scrubby vegetation.

Cork has been harvested for at least a thousand years, many of the cork forests of the Alentejo may be hundreds of years old and are one of the few truly sustainable forms of agro forestry; it's an indigenous resource that is used without disturbing the natural biodiversity. Cork trees flourish without irrigation, fertilizers or chemical herbicides, and they regenerate after harvesting.

If cork can't be sold the local communities will have to find other less environmentally sound uses for the land, bringing the added risk of wild fires or the creeping desertification now present in Spain.

So spare a thought for the cork and when you next buy a bottle of wine. Make sure the wine produces have 'put a cork in it'.

The photographs were taken in the Alentejo, Portugal, May 2008

Monserrate Gardens

I first visited the town of Sintra in Portugal nine years ago. Then I was avoiding a significant birthday, working on the principle, if it happened when I was out of the country it wouldn't count. On that day I stumbled across a gift wrapped palace in a garden every bit as secret as Helligan.

At the time the Monserrate Gardens and their crumbling palace were teetering on the edge of ruin or restoration. Once the home of the louche gothic author and friend of Byron, William Beckford, its elegant filigree plaster walls and ornate marble staircases showed many years of neglect.

Though officially open as a public park, few people ever went there. The paths were broken and it was hard to find a way through all the overhanging greenery, but the romantic hidden treasures were well worth the struggle: a strange semi Christian temple locked tightly in the grip of a banyan tree, elegant groves of tree ferns, towering palms and bird of paradise lilies sprouting weed like out of every crevice.

This time, instead of wandering in through a broken down gate, I paid a fee at a neat little kiosk, Well scrubbed lavatories and even a few plants for sale indicated a whole new order. Would E.U. funding and renewed civic pride have robbed this horticultural gem of its secret and brooding beauty?

The morning may have been overcast but the garden was the same; as mysteriously lush and green as ever, slightly more accessible but still bewitchingly beautiful. As the heavy rain started the tiny number of other visitors vanished and once again Monseratte Gardens were mine.

On my first visit the palace was wrapped bizarrely in polythene pending restoration. Then the careless guard had allowed us in and we wandered around in secret, marvelling at a fairy tale beauty, even half fallen ceilings and damp green walls couldn’t disguise.

Now the outside is repainted and a polite attendant checks tickets as you enter, but even E.U money had its limits. It will be while before tasteful restoration takes over completely and turns it into a splendid teahouse or museum. Give me romantic decay with a hint of decadence anytime.

What Would You Do With a Flat Iron?

What would you do with a flat iron?

My mother, a lady of some eccentricity, possibly bordering on madness, always preferred to use a flat iron rather than an electric one, insisting,

'You get a much better finish on your linens.'

'Yes Mum. Yawn!' At the same time vowing never to buy anything that ever needed to go near an iron, least of all one that my mates were only ever likely to see in a museum.

This was the same woman who owned curling tongs that had to be stuck in the fire to be warmed up, then tested on a piece of newspaper. As a small child I went to many birthday parties smelling of slightly singed hair. Once, in a moment of abstraction, and to my great glee, she frazzled my sister's hair so badly a huge clump had to be cut off.

Let me explain. I was seven the year electricity came to our house and by then my mum, in her late forties, was very set in her ways and saw no need to make any alterations to domestic arrangements that had seen her through over twenty years of married life, three children and a world war. She was also seeing visions in the trees, but that's another story entirely...

I've just come back from a few days visiting my big sister. Even before I'd undone my coat and sat down to the statutory tea and cake, she's a stalwart member of the Scottish W.I. and proud of her baking, a competitive sport in her village, where cake mixes are the equivalent of performance enhancing drugs, she dumped a flat iron on the table in front of me.

'There you are. You said you wanted one.'

My man turned towards me, his eyebrows raised in enquiry and surprise.A little wide eyed myself, but ever the adept liar, I smiled brightly and said,

'Great, thanks.'

Then it dawned, many years ago, after Mum had gone into a nursing home and we girls had to clear out and pack up her cottage, I was mildly annoyed when another sister grabbed the old iron griddle Mum had used to make wonderful drop scones. When I unearthed the family recipe for 'scotch pancakes' a couple of months ago, I asked my sister to look out for an old iron griddle, just like mum's. She's always involved in bring and buy sales and, as these griddles were once an essential tool in every Scottish kitchen, I thought it likely one would turn up.

Ah Well. At least I'll be able to get a good finish on my linens. If I had any...Could I use it as a camping iron? Perhaps not.

Where I Live - A village under threat

Where I live is under threat from developers. There are plans to build an unbelievable 1500 new houses not far down the road, tearing through our parish, bulldozing ancient woodland, blotting out tiny single track roads and tranquil green lanes, interrupting wild life corridors and filling in ditches and ponds.

The intention is to build on one of the few remaining areas for miles where it's possible to ride a bike in safety, where the only other traffic you'll meet is on horse back or the occasional tractor. Where it is possible to walk a dog or tramp footpaths far away from the noise of cars that threaten to swamp us all.

The fields destined for this outrage are home to a huge variety of flora and fauna. I know this as, for the past four years, I have been part of the village biodiversity survey. We've now surveyed 70% of our surrounding parish. No mean feat as the area is huge.

Our owl box project has encouraged barn owl and tawny owls into the area, we've discovered and recorded all sorts of rare and unusual plants and trees, including several previously unrecorded Wild service trees. We have ponds with crested newts and possibly even a colony of water voles. But when this large scale housing project goes ahead, and it’s likely it will, this will mean nothing.

This urban expansion isn't for local needs, there is actually a small surplus of homes in the local town; the people who will live in these houses are likely to work in an ever expanding area of urbanisation over ten miles from our parish. To get there they will have to drive on unbelievably congested roads as the trains are full and nobody relies on the buses.

We've wheeled out our local celebrities, marched in the rain, petitioned and written letters of opposition, now all we can do is sit and wait, dreading the result. Watch this space, you may yet see Lampie chained to a tree trying to hold back the bulldozers.

(The picture is of a Wild Service Tree, often an indicator of ancient woodland)

Strange Little Visitor

I spent last night paddling in fog shrouded backwaters narrowly avoiding crocodiles, snakes, rapids and creepy crawlies, deep in Africa's Heart of Darkness. Sadly it was only in my mind. As an avid reader of travel literature, I've been hooked by 'Facing the Congo', a brilliant account of paddling the Congo River in a hand built canoe.

My evening of sofa exploration had me curled up and shivering as fist sized beetles, electric catfish and whistling cockroaches the size of a baby's foot, coloured my imagination. ( Well I have actually stroked a cockroach that whistled, but that's a story for another time.)

On finishing a really squirmy passage where the author camps in the underbush full of snakes, ferocious bees, black flies that leave bleeding holes in exposed flesh and every other kind of predatory insect imaginable, I jumped up to make a cup of tea and gave the most almighty scream.

A scary beast was creeping towards me. Don't ask me why but somehow, after breaching two closed doors and a sleeping cat, a newt was heading purposefully across the carpet, heading towards the Turkish rug. Where the tiny creature came from is a complete mystery. There isn't even a pond in my garden and why it chose to brave the kitchen floor and start a journey across an expanse of carpet instead of a cosy night on the damp lawn is a real puzzle.

It can't have been brought in by the cat as he's not that gentle, and this little creature was completely unharmed. It's more than welcome. I'm wildlife friendly, but I want more warning next time. It took ten minutes before my heart stopped racing and I could repatriate it back to the garden.

A few things about me

Tagged by Elizabethd, so here they come:

I have a naturally indolent nature that's why I've taken so long to write my 7 'Things about me.'

I have often been accused of being aloof but really I'm just shy and reserved until I get to know people.

I'm a listener rather than a confider.

I always tend to think that I am right. (Well I know I am right, but if I'd written that you'd all think I'm big headed as well as aloof!)

I use exclamation marks too often in my writing!

I hate being the centre of attention. The thought of any sort of party in my honour fills me with absolute horror. (Don't worry, I've warned my large family.)

I HATE crowds and cities. I love high and wild places, particularly when I've walked there with my tent and my man of course, he has to carry the tent.

Daffodil Envy Strikes Again

It's a sad truth, but daffodil envy has struck again. It got me at the village show. Yet again my 'Pot of Growing Daffodils, division 1' got a 2nd place not the 1st it so justly deserves. I mean, what does a woman have to do around here to get first prize? Noooo! Have you seen the judges!

Two second and two third prizes and, well, my poor little camelia, the only one left on the bush after nearly a week of storms, didn't even get a second glance.

And if I ever find out where that old bloke in the checked shirt, who scoffed because my 'Bravore' have nibbled edges, keeps his polly tunnel, I'll be at his precious blooms with my pinking shears.

Competitive? Who me?