INTRODUCTION

Some ofmy fondest memories are centred on a small, unremarkable pond on the edge of a garden in Oxfordshire. I’m with two young children and we are passing a long-handled fishing net between us, taking turns to sweep it through the water, concentrating on the deeper parts of the pool and the places beneath the thickest weed.

Young children have an inbuilt fascination with nature. They love being outside and can while away hours turning over stones, or dipping a net into water. Apprentice humans are hard-wired to love, and want to learn about, the wildlife all around them. For most of our history, when we lived more intimately with the natural world, this knowledge would have been carried into adulthood and used on a daily basis. These days, children soon lose their love of wildlife amid a swarm of competing interests. Perhaps by the age of ten (or maybe younger), the lure of the screen and the promise of unlimited connection to a wider universe online take over. The newts can rest easy again in their pool, at least until the next generation of young apprentices comes along.

Throughout this book, I’ll follow convention in talking about humans as if we are separate from the rest of the natural world, though clearly this is not the case. We represent just one species among many. We have been moulded by the same evolutionary pressures as all other life on Earth. Thinking that we are somehow ‘apart’ from other creatures is simply a habit we get into - and a rather dangerous one at that - influenced by religion perhaps and by the achievements of modern technology.

There are times when thinking of ourselves as detached from the rest of nature is unavoidable. When I think of protecting ‘natural’ habitats, humans are, necessarily, outside my thoughts. For instance, I value the surviving areas of pristine forest in the Amazon basin because they have escaped the damaging influence of humans up to now. I view them as ‘natural’ because humans are not part of the picture - at least not in a way that damages the habitat around them. In that sense, a perceived separation between us and everything else is meaningful. The American ecologist and philosopher David Abram coined the term ‘the more-than-human world’, meaning everything in nature excluding humanity. It’s a useful phrase, but a bit of a mouthful for everyday discussions. So, we continue to lean on terms such as ‘wildlife’ and ‘natural’ as shorthand when referring to everything on the planet other than ourselves.

There is another reason why it’s easy to forget about our past. Although we have been shaped, as have all species, by evolutionary forces over immense periods of time, we, and we alone, have broken free from many of the pressures that once ruled our lives. Most of us no longer struggle to find food, or to keep warm and dry. We can treat diseases and injuries that would have finished off our ancestors. In Britain, we have eliminated the predators that once threatened us. And we live in a society where, by and large, we agree not to settle day-to-day disputes through physical force. In that sense, we can indeed be viewed as different from wild animals which still face a daily struggle to survive and reproduce.

It was once suggested to the author Helen Macdonald that ‘every writer has a subject that underlies everything they write’. If that’s true, then the common thread running through the chapters that follow is this: all aspects of the ways in which we interact with wildlife and wild places are influenced by our evolved, instinctive responses. The great American naturalist E.

Though many of us now live largely isolated from the rest of nature, our evolutionary heritage still governs the way we function. I am spooked by large house spiders, even though I know they are harmless. I’m unnerved by walking outside in the dark, though I know the local countryside has lost its large predators. I can tune into my hunting and gathering instincts when searching for things to eat in the local countryside. And the same traits are apparent when watching wildlife. My desire to search out new species has, I’m sure, been co-opted from a will to hunt. I’m questing for ‘ticks’ - to use the birders’ jargon - and I relish the pursuit. Others don’t bother with that extra step and enjoy hunting for real. The intrinsic thrill of the chase is still there within us, even though we no longer rely on the end product to sustain us.

The way we appreciate the very fabric of the countryside is likely to be governed by predisposition too. Various surveys have suggested that most of us prefer open, lightly wooded, landscapes with water present. Such places provide all that we would once have needed to survive - food, drink, fuel and shelter. We appreciate the open nature of landscapes because we can see a long way and can glean useful information about potential prey and predators from a safe distance. We are less keen on the aesthetics of dense scrub, probably because it obscures sightlines, renders us vulnerable to ambush and makes it more challenging to move around. Water is highly valued because we need to drink regularly, and it attracts other animals that might, in turn, provide us with food. Although these expla­nations may seem irrelevant to our modern lifestyles, the wiring in our brains is long established and remains with us today; homes beside rivers, lakes and the sea still come at a premium.

A love of visiting and exploring new places is another part of our survival instinct. When we were dependent on wild landscapes, knowledge of as wide an area as possible would have been invaluable. If food dried up, or an influx of predators put us at risk, it would have been important to know where else we could go. For that reason, exploration was useful even if we were settled in a place that, for the moment, offered us all we needed. That urge is still with us today, though modern travel options have vastly extended our reach.

We also have a deep-seated love of the rare and the unusual. A new animal in our garden or local countryside is appreciated more than the common species we see day in, day out. We may admonish ourselves for taking commonplace animals too much for granted, but from an evolutionary perspective it makes perfect sense. There would not have been much point getting worked up about creatures that were ever-present and familiar. But something new would have been worth noticing. It might have indicated a subtle change in the local conditions, an impending seasonal shift or even a new source of food.

Frequently these connections are obvious, if only we pause a while to think about them. They make intuitive sense. Sometimes, though, the way we respond to the natural world is harder to fathom; the connections with our deep past have become hazy and difficult to reconstruct. Almost every March, there will be a day or two when I feel powerfully tuned in to the changing conditions - but I’m not quite sure why, or what to do with the feeling. It’s usually around the middle of the month. It’s always a day when the wind is light, the sun is out and the temperature has nudged a little higher. The sun feels warm on the skin for the first time in months. It’s an odd feeling, broadly pleasurable, but with a strange, melancholy undercurrent and a slightly unnerving sense of urgency about it. It’s as if I’m receiving invaluable, privileged information and should be doing something in response - but what?

Presumably this feeling is connected with the turning seasons, and in particular the shift from winter to the promise of better conditions.

A little background information is always welcome when spending time outdoors. It’s satisfying to be able to put a name to some of the animals and plants we see. If our interest becomes more serious and involves recording the things we find, for our own pleasure or for the wider record, then knowledge is essential. One of the most satisfying ways of connecting with the natural world is to use it as a source of food, and here too a little knowledge is required to ensure that we avoid mistakes and their potentially deadly consequences. These days, technology means that information is easier to come by than ever. Out in the field a smartphone can be used to help identify unfamiliar plants and animals - even automatically, using a photo and an app. In a delicious irony, the very technology that draws some of us away from nature can be used to help restore the connection, if we are only open to the opportunity.

Knowledge is helpful, but it’s worth emphasising that it is not essential. Simply spending time in green spaces brightens our mood. It helps ease the strain of modern life. And that translates into better mental and physical wellbeing. Our immune system is boosted, blood pressure is lowered, energy levels increase, feelings of stress diminish, and our sleep is improved. Even a view of greenery through the window can help. A now famous study showed that hospital patients with rooms looking out onto trees recovered more rapidly from illness than those with no view or a view of buildings; they required fewer painkillers and developed fewer post-surgery complications.

Deep down, we’ve known this for hundreds of years. Towards the end of the nineteenth century, the social reformer Octavia Hill, who went on to help found the National Trust, wrote about her concerns for the mental health of London’s poor, packed together in noisy, dirty urban spaces:

it brings sad thought of the fair and quiet places far away, where [light] is falling softly on tree, and hill, and cloud, and I feel as if that quiet, that beauty, that space, would be more powerful to calm the wild excesses about me than all my frantic striving with it.

Victorian doctors dispatched their patients (at least those who could afford it) to the countryside to help with their recovery. More recently, there has been a rekindling of interest in this approach. In Japan, ‘forest bathing’ - a fancy term for a stroll in the woods - has been recognised as beneficial for human health since the 1980s. And in Britain, GPs are now, once again, prescribing time outdoors as a form of treatment, with no negative side-effects and little cost to the nation.

The health benefits claimed for these measures might sound far-fetched; they perhaps bring to mind the dodgy pseudo-science we are familiar with from TV adverts for cosmetics or anti-ageing products. But, in fact, they are supported by comprehensive research. Studies in many countries have confirmed that spending time in nature measurably improves our health and wellbeing. Research is now beginning to establish the mechanisms by which these good things come about.

When we walk in woodland we benefit from the exercise, but we also breathe in volatile chemicals known as phytoncides. These are produced naturally by plants to protect against attack from bacteria, fungi and insects. Some are obvious to us. The powerful aroma of Wild Garlic, for example, is (ironically) caused by a chemical designed to make the leaves less palatable. Mostly we remain oblivious to them. However, when phytoncides enter our bodies, they can boost the number and activity of white blood cells, which help to battle against infection. They may also have a role in preventing certain kinds of cancer. These chemicals are in the air, but the earth too provides us with health benefits. Increasing evidence suggests that microbes present in soil are helpful to us when we ingest them, for both our physical and mental wellbeing. They are ‘old friends’ that we have coevolved with over millions of years, and they provide us with various essential services once safely inside us. This helps to explain why so many young mammals, including humans, instinctively ingest soil. It perhaps also explains why I once fed soil (and an earthworm) to my baby sister in the back garden. Next time that story is told over a family meal I will have my defence at the ready.

Spending time in nature helps us live lives that are healthier and likely to be longer. We feel better after contact with the wildlife around us for one very good reason: we are better. If all this sounds too good to be true then we need to remind ourselves of our history and the fact that we have lived in close contact with other animals and plants for millions of years. It would be surprising if, in that time, we hadn’t developed intimate, complex relationships - which scientists are only now beginning to unpick. Equally, we should not be shocked to learn that lifestyles increas­ingly detached from direct contact with nature have adverse consequences for human health.

These days, not many of us retain the strong interest in nature present in childhood through our adult lives. But having taken early retirement a few years ago, I now spend as much of my time wandering the local fields and woods as I did when I was ten years old. I’ve never truly lost my affinity with the natural world, and so I’ve eased into this new lifestyle and immediately felt the benefits. I wrote a little of this in my previous book Human, Nature. Then, I was in the early stages of adapting to a different life and the book ended on a note of frustration:

Despite our [recent] move to Devon... I spend most of my time indoors, regularly checking in on the wider world through a screen of one sort or another. I remain more detached from close, meaningful contact with nature than I would like. I aspire to do better.

What follows is an account of the progress I’ve made during the last few years. It is about the various ways I’ve found to make the most of the wildlife and wild places that remain in the low hills halfway between Exmoor and Dartmoor where we now live. It ranges from the confines of home and garden, out into the local countryside and, finally, to the wildest corners that are still out there but require a little more effort to find. Along the way I have a few suggestions for how to maximise the benefits of time spent outdoors, whether by following a stream (wherever it might take you), picking a route across an unfamiliar, private estate, or heading out into the woods just as the light is beginning to fade.

There is no genuine wilderness left in Britain, it’s true, but it is still possible to get away from it all and become immersed in the more-than-human world. Despite the competing demands on our time, this is one of the most worthwhile and beneficial things we can do. After all, how many of us ever pause to reflect and think, ‘I wish I’d spent more of my time inside the house’?