| Where memory meets evidence |
| Episode X Within Living Memory What one lifetime has taught me about the natural world. |
| I sometimes wonder what the ten-year-old boy I once was would make of the man I have become. Not necessarily the jobs I have held, the places I have lived or the decisions I have made along the way, but the way I now look at the world. Would he recognise the same curiosity that sent him wandering through the Australian bush or exploring the monsoon drains of Malaysia, fascinated by the insects, animals and strange little discoveries waiting around the next corner? I think he probably would. The difference is that the boy looked at the world with an almost limitless sense of wonder, while the man has learned much more about what human beings can do to it. At sixty-three, I still try to see nature through those childhood eyes. I still find myself fascinated by the ordinary things that many people barely notice, and I remain capable of becoming thoroughly absorbed in something as apparently insignificant as an insect, an unfamiliar plant or the behaviour of a small animal. Yet I cannot pretend that the world looks quite the same to me now. It is more governed, more politically complicated and, in many respects, more environmentally damaged than the world I remember. Some of that difference comes from the knowledge accumulated over a lifetime, and some from changes that have genuinely taken place. Childhood wonder has not disappeared, but it now shares space with an understanding of consequences. That is perhaps the most significant thing I have discovered while writing Within Living Memory. The natural world has changed, certainly, but so have I. It would be impossible to separate those two developments, because everything we experience shapes how we understand our surroundings. My childhood in Australia and Malaysia, my return to Britain in 1977, my years working with animals, and my more recent career as a professional gardener have all shaped how I interpret what I see. I haven’t abandoned childhood curiosity. I have accumulated more knowledge, more experience, and occasionally more reasons to question what I once accepted without a second thought. What memory gives us One of the more enjoyable aspects of researching this series has been the chance to revisit memories I hadn’t properly examined for years. Some were remarkably clear, while others became more complicated when I looked at photographs, historical information or scientific evidence. That doesn’t mean I have suddenly lost confidence in my memory. On the contrary, I think my memory is generally pretty good, although I recognise that remembering something vividly doesn’t necessarily mean remembering every detail correctly. What the process has taught me is the value of returning to memories and keeping them alive. A photograph can bring back the atmosphere of a place, an old map can remind you of a road you haven’t thought about for decades, and a conversation can uncover something that has been sitting quietly in the back of your mind for half a lifetime. Revisiting those experiences doesn’t just preserve them; it sometimes lets you understand them differently. When we explored my childhood home in Springvale South, Victoria, for example, I initially remembered the Australian bush as being directly opposite the house. Photographs from the period showed houses opposite, with bushland further along the road. The memory of exploring that environment remained perfectly real, but its precise geography needed correcting. I liked that discovery because it showed how a memory can retain its emotional truth while losing some practical detail. The same principle applies to the natural world. I remember an abundance of insects, birds and small creatures during my childhood, but those memories cannot tell us exactly how many there were or whether every species was more numerous than it is today. For that we need evidence, preferably gathered over many years and across different locations. Sometimes that evidence supports the general impression, as it does with the long-term decline of many British butterflies and birds. Sometimes it tells a more complicated story, and occasionally it challenges what we thought we knew. I don’t find that disappointing. If anything, it makes the process more interesting. There’s little point in asking questions if I only want answers that confirm my existing beliefs. Curiosity ought to lead us somewhere, even when the destination isn’t quite where we expected to arrive. A world that knows more but doesn’t always do more Humanity understands considerably more about the environment today than it did when I was a child. We have sophisticated monitoring systems, decades of scientific research, international agreements, conservation organisations and an extraordinary ability to share information. Climate change, biodiversity loss, pollution and habitat destruction are no longer subjects confined to specialist discussions. Most people have at least heard of them, even if they disagree about their causes, consequences or the measures required to address them. But awareness and action are two very different things. I sometimes feel that we have become extremely good at discussing environmental problems without becoming equally good at resolving them. People are more aware, certainly, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they are happy about what they hear, willing to change their behaviour or satisfied with the solutions being offered. Environmental discussions can become political almost immediately, with arguments about responsibility, cost, fairness and inconvenience overshadowing the original problem. Sometimes those arguments are necessary because environmental decisions affect livelihoods and communities. Other times, they seem to offer a convenient reason to do very little. Perhaps what frustrates me most is that many of the warnings we hear today are not particularly new. Scientists were raising concerns about the consequences of increasing greenhouse gases long before climate change became a regular feature of public debate. The understanding has developed enormously since then, and early projections were not all equally reliable, but the central concern did not suddenly appear in the twenty-first century. I wish governments and other influential organisations had listened more carefully when they had a better chance to act before so many consequences became apparent. It would be easy to turn that frustration into a sweeping condemnation of humanity, but I don’t think that would be particularly fair or useful. Many people care deeply about the natural world, and many dedicate their working lives or spare time to protecting it. Conservation projects, habitat restoration, wildlife monitoring and community initiatives demonstrate that concern can become practical action. Others have different priorities, feel overwhelmed by environmental issues, or resist changes they see as inconvenient or unfair. My impression is that most people possess some degree of concern, but concern doesn’t always translate into action. Sometimes people only become interested when a problem affects them directly, and even then they may be reluctant to accept the changes required. I suspect that is as much a feature of human nature as it is of environmental politics. We can be remarkably generous and cooperative, but we are also extraordinarily good at finding reasons to postpone uncomfortable decisions. Caring about what we can change When asked which environmental issue concerns me most, I find it almost impossible to choose. Climate change, habitat destruction, declining wildlife populations, pollution, the loss of healthy soils and the continuing pressure of development are interconnected in ways that make selecting one above all the others rather artificial. They all concern me, although I have also learned that trying to carry the emotional weight of every environmental problem is neither realistic nor particularly productive. Only so much concern can turn into useful action. If we attempted to feel the full consequences of every damaged habitat, every threatened species and every environmental injustice, I suspect most of us would become overwhelmed. That doesn’t mean we should become indifferent. It means recognising the difference between caring about something and being in a position to do something meaningful about it. For me, gardening provides one of those opportunities. I cannot personally reverse global climate change or prevent every development that damages wildlife habitat, but I can influence the way a garden is maintained. I can encourage healthier soil, recommend suitable planting, protect useful habitat features and explain why certain approaches may benefit the wider garden. I can also choose how I manage my own little pieces of ground, even if those decisions seem insignificant when compared with the scale of the problems we face. A single person can make a difference to small things. Many people acting together can make a difference on much larger scales. Governments and institutions have the authority to establish rules, influence industries and support changes that individuals cannot achieve alone. The difficulty, of course, is whether those powers are used effectively and whether the resulting commitments are properly implemented and enforced. I don’t believe the responsibility should rest entirely with individuals, any more than I believe individuals should wait for governments before doing anything themselves. Both levels matter, and their relationship is probably more important than either side sometimes wishes to acknowledge. Giving nature the opportunity Despite my concerns, I remain convinced that nature possesses an extraordinary capacity for recovery when conditions allow it. This is not the same as believing that every damaged ecosystem will repair itself or that extinct species can somehow return. Some losses are permanent, and others require decades of restoration, careful management and sustained commitment. Nevertheless, living systems can be remarkably resilient when the pressures responsible for their decline are reduced. We have seen this through the recovery of certain birds of prey, improvements in some rivers and the return of wildlife to places where suitable habitat has been restored. These successes do not cancel out the wider environmental problems, but they demonstrate that decline is not always irreversible. Human intervention can cause enormous damage, yet informed human intervention can also help repair it. The crucial words, to my mind, are when allowed to. Nature needs space, suitable conditions and the opportunity to function. Too often we deny it those things, either through direct destruction or through the constant expectation that every landscape must conform to our preferences. We clear, level, drain, pave, spray, prune and tidy, sometimes without considering what else depends upon the places we are changing. I see a smaller version of this attitude in domestic gardens. People can become so concerned with making everything look exactly right that they overlook the value of allowing a little natural complexity. There is nothing wrong with maintaining an attractive garden, but I wish we could become less pedantic about perfection. A fallen leaf isn’t necessarily a problem, an unfamiliar insect isn’t automatically a pest, and a plant that doesn’t behave exactly as expected doesn’t always require immediate correction. Gardens are living environments, and living environments are rarely perfectly tidy. Learning to accommodate that reality might be one of the simplest ways to improve our relationship with the natural world. It doesn’t require abandoning gardening standards or allowing every space to become overgrown. It requires recognising that our idea of visual perfection isn’t necessarily the same as ecological health. The child who still wants to explore If I could return to childhood for one ordinary afternoon, I know roughly where I would go. I want to be that young boy again, perhaps five, seven or ten years old, exploring the monsoon drains of Malaysia or wandering through the Australian bush. I wouldn’t need an organised activity, a particular destination or even the promise of finding something extraordinary. I would want the freedom to look around, investigate whatever caught my attention and experience the world before I knew quite so much about the difficulties it would eventually face. Childhood curiosity is wonderful because it doesn’t always require a purpose. A child can spend an astonishing amount of time watching ants or examining a beetle without needing to justify the activity. The fascination is enough. As adults, we tend to become more concerned with outcomes, productivity and whether something is worth the time involved. Perhaps that is one of the less attractive consequences of growing older. I have been fortunate that my curiosity survived those changes. My working life has taken me through several professions, not all directly connected with nature, but I have continued to draw on the same interests and habits of observation. Working with animals gave me knowledge I didn’t possess as a child. At the same time, gardening has introduced another set of practical skills and a different understanding of how living things interact with their surroundings. What I wish I had understood earlier is not so much a particular scientific fact as the importance of acting upon knowledge before circumstances force us to. If more people had listened seriously to early warnings about environmental change, perhaps we would face some of today’s challenges from a stronger position. I cannot know exactly how different the world might have been, but I think it is reasonable to regret opportunities we let pass. At the same time, I wouldn’t want to exchange the wonder of childhood for the concerns of adulthood. The boy exploring the bush didn’t need to understand the full consequences of habitat destruction to appreciate the creatures around him. His curiosity was valuable in its own right, and perhaps it helped lay the groundwork for the concern that developed later. Between optimism and pessimism I have described myself at various times as an optimist, a realist and a pragmatist. I don’t think those descriptions are contradictory, although they can make answering questions about the future rather complicated. My natural inclination is to believe that people can solve problems, particularly when they have the knowledge, resources and determination to do so. History offers plenty of examples of difficulties that once seemed insurmountable but were eventually overcome through ingenuity, cooperation, or persistence. Yet optimism doesn’t require ignoring evidence, and the evidence surrounding many environmental issues is deeply concerning. I want to be confident that humanity will respond adequately to the challenges ahead, but I cannot honestly say I am. Too often we seem to recognise problems while continuing the behaviours that contribute to them. We make commitments, debate the costs, argue about responsibility and sometimes achieve meaningful progress, only to discover that the overall pressures have continued to grow. That leaves me in the slightly uncomfortable position of being an optimist who is increasingly pessimistic about the likely outcome. I still believe we can improve things, but I am less certain we will consistently show the willingness to do so. Perhaps that is the difference between believing in human capability and having confidence in human decisions. Growing older has made me both more concerned about the future and more accepting that change is an unavoidable part of life. Landscapes have never been static, species have always responded to changing conditions, and the natural world has undergone extraordinary transformations long before human beings appeared. But acknowledging natural change does not excuse avoidable damage. There is a considerable difference between recognising that ecosystems evolve and pretending that the speed or scale of human influence is therefore unimportant. I don’t expect the world to remain exactly as I remember it. That would be neither possible nor desirable. What concerns me is whether we are allowing future generations to inherit a world rich enough in life, variety, and opportunity for them to experience the same sense of discovery that shaped my childhood. A letter to somebody I will never meet I have wondered what a child born in 2026 might make of this series if they were to read it fifty years from now. By 2076, the landscapes I remember from childhood will be more than a century in the past, and even the gardens I work in today will belong to another generation. That child will have grown up with their own understanding of what is normal, just as I did in the 1960s and 70s. I would like them to inherit a world in which wildlife remains abundant enough to be ordinary, where children can still explore living landscapes and where nature is regarded as something to live alongside rather than merely manage, exploit or admire from a distance. I would like them to be able to say that earlier generations recognised the damage being done and took meaningful steps to address it. Whether that will happen is another matter. Some days, it seems the world of today is almost determined to destroy the possibilities of tomorrow. Development continues, habitats are fragmented, resources are consumed, and political arguments too often obscure the practical work that needs doing. It would be comforting to assume that future generations will somehow find solutions to everything we leave unresolved, but that would place an unfair burden upon people who have had no say in the decisions being made now. Perhaps the most useful thing I could tell that future reader is to remain observant and curious. Look carefully at the world around you, ask questions and resist the temptation to accept the first explanation offered. Follow your interests, keep an open mind and remember that no single source possesses every answer. Listen to people with knowledge and experience, but be willing to examine evidence and change your understanding when necessary. Above all, don’t lose the ability to be fascinated by ordinary things. The natural world doesn’t have to present something spectacular every day to deserve our attention. A garden, a patch of woodland, a pond or even a neglected corner of ground can reveal an extraordinary amount when somebody takes the trouble to look. What remains When I began Within Living Memory, I wanted to find out whether the natural world had changed as much as I thought it had during my lifetime. After exploring the evidence, I would say some of my suspicions have been confirmed, and others challenged. Genuine and substantial environmental changes have occurred, but there have also been occasions when my recollections needed correcting, qualifying, or placing into a wider context. I am quite comfortable with that outcome. The purpose was never to demonstrate that my childhood memories were infallible or that the world was unquestionably better in every respect when I was young. It was to ask whether what I remembered could tell us something useful about the changes that have taken place, and whether those memories might encourage a closer examination of the world we inhabit today. Writing these articles has also reminded me that curiosity doesn’t diminish simply because we grow older. The questions change, and our answers may become more complicated, but the underlying desire to understand remains. I am still interested in the insects that fascinated me as a child, the animals I worked with during other stages of my life, and the plants and gardens that now occupy so much of my working week. I may approach them with rather more knowledge than I once possessed, but I hope I haven’t entirely lost the willingness to be surprised. If there is one thing I would like somebody to take away from these ten episodes, it is the importance of being observant without becoming certain that observation alone provides every answer. Look at the world, remember what you see, ask why things happen and be prepared to discover that your first explanation was mistaken. Curiosity is most useful when paired with an open mind, and evidence becomes far more valuable when we are willing to follow it wherever it leads. I don’t know what the natural world will look like in another fifty years. I cannot tell you whether humanity will rise adequately to the environmental challenges ahead or whether future generations will look back upon our decisions with gratitude or disbelief. I hope for the former, although I fear there may be plenty of reasons for the latter. What I do know is that the world will keep changing, whether we approve of those changes or not. Some things will recover, others will decline, and new generations will inherit landscapes shaped partly by natural processes and partly by the choices we make today. My lifetime represents only a brief moment in that much longer history, though it has been long enough to witness changes that once would have been difficult to imagine. When asked to complete the sentence, After sixty-three years on this planet, the one thing I have learned about the natural world is…, I thought of something the American poet Robert Frost once said. When asked what he had learned about life, he replied with just three words: “It goes on.” There is something wonderfully simple about that observation, and I think it applies equally well to the natural world. Whatever happens to us, whatever changes we witness and whatever mistakes humanity makes along the way, life continues. The question is not whether the world will go on without us, but what kind of world we are allowing to develop around us while we are still here. And perhaps that is the most fitting place to leave Within Living Memory. Not with the certainty that everything will be all right, nor with the assumption that everything is beyond repair, but with the understanding that the natural world will continue beyond our individual lifetimes. What remains uncertain is how much of its richness we will allow to continue alongside us. I want to think that the curious boy wandering through the Australian bush would still recognise something of his world in the landscapes of tomorrow. Whether he does will depend, at least in part, upon what we choose to do with the world we have today. |
| About our writing & imagery Most articles are grounded in our real gardening experience, observations and reflections. AI may assist with research, drafting and editing, but the experiences, opinions and editorial direction are our own. Featured images may include our photography, original AI-generated visuals or, where stated, images credited to others. Earthly Comforts reviews and shapes all published content before publication. |
