Ramblings from Finemere Wood

"The scythes swish rhythmically, and the tall grass tumbles. It is hushed as the volunteers are lulled into a meditative state by mindful activity and gentle melodies of bird song."

The scything season is upon us and sharpened, sickle-shaped blades shimmer under the subdued summer sun.

Grass must be cut to keep the wood walkways accessible. The grassy woodland rides and meadows will not be cut until later in the summer once flowers have bloomed and seed produced.

Clumps of lesser stitchwort (Stellaria graminea) are abundant in Finemere Wood’s ancient meadow and open woodland areas. The grasslands are speckled with thousands of delicate, small white star-shaped flowers, eye-catching and delightful.

Growing to 30cm tall with grass-like leaves, Stellaria graminea will continue blooming into September, providing valuable nourishment for many bees, butterflies, moths, and small mammals. Its larger relative, greater stitchwort, flowers earlier in the year putting on a glorious show interspersed between bluebells in the wood during April and May.

Stitchwort was once used as a herbal remedy for stitches (the pain in the side from exercise), hence its name. Folklore warns that picking stitchwort will induce thunder; maybe some of us are prepared to risk that. But be warned of the more sinister portent; fairies and elves may lead you astray.

Person standing on top of a large pile of grass cuttings — The meadow cuttings are gathered into a large pile! Photo by Charlotte Karmali

The scythes swish rhythmically, and the tall grass tumbles. It is hushed as the volunteers are lulled into a meditative state by mindful activity and gentle melodies of bird song.

There is usually much chatter in this garrulous group, but scythes force them apart. To venture within earshot of another could result in an unfortunate accident. Hence a mountain of grass is cut in the day.

The volunteers are rewarded with lashings of tea and lemon drizzle cake, over which they can break their silence.

As far as I know, not a stitchwort morsel was cut. There was no thunder, despite the threatening skies, and I counted out the same number of workers as I counted in. But time will tell whether any scything souls fell foul of the omen, and are to be befuddled by those fairyfolk of Finemere Wood.

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