In Pursuit of the Red Squirrel

 

Chapter 12: In Pursuit of the Elusory Red Squirrels

The Tourist Board may not milk the Vectis connection, but boy do they push the Red Squirrel thing. We get it - there are red squirrels here! For an endangered species they’re easy to spot - but only on signposts. ‘Red Squirrel trail’, ‘Slow down: Squirrels’, and so on; I defy you to drive more than a mile without coming across a picture of a cute little squirrel stapled to an unwilling lamppost entreating you not to use your car as a rodent flattener. If the red squirrels were as abundant as the myriad of references to them, you’d be drowning in them (if you can drown in squirrels - it’s a weird image). 

In fact, the blighters tend to keep themselves pretty well hidden from prying eyes. This is understandable. If there were pictures of yours truly plastered all over the island and the tourist board were persuading people to hunt me down with a mobile phone camera whilst making annoying cooing noises I’d probably keep myself to myself as well.

And no one has consulted the squirrels about all this: they certainly didn’t get the memo! Really, the head of the Tourist Board should have arranged a meeting with the chief of the red squirrels to make some kind of plan. (“Shall we say you come into view on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 2pm and 4pm?”) Whether through humour or irritation, the squirrels are determined to evade us, and it took until our third month here to catch sight of one, burying his nuts in Christine’s garden.

We’ve been invited to lunch or dinner a few times since moving here, which, you’ll agree, is nice. We think there’s some sort of sign up sheet on a notice board somewhere in Ventnor, and this particular Sunday, poor old Christine had drawn the short straw. Previously, we’d eaten at John and Karen’s, Chris and Maurice’s and Jenny and Kelvin’s, all of whom had shown commendable patience at my particular brand of fatuousness and the kids' refusal to eat anything remotely healthy. They also all had much nicer houses than ours; I’m not competitive but just once, I’d like our house to be more impressive than someone else’s. Is it really too much to ask? 

Dinner at Jenny and Kelvin’s was marked by the fact that I thought Jenny’s husband was called Kalvin, not Kelvin. I don’t know why I thought that - probably because as usual I wasn't listening properly; I hadn’t been sleeping well. Whilst enjoying Jenny’s delicious lamb pasta bake, I noticed with some confusion that Jenny seemed to be calling Kalvin Kelvin, so either she didn’t know her husband’s name, or I’d got it wrong. In their 25 year marriage, Kelvin/Kalvin would presumably have had ample time to correct her if she’d been getting it wrong, not least during the vows on their wedding day, so I suspected the latter was the case. It seems more likely, I’m sure you’ll agree.

When I realised my error, instead of immediately switching from Kalvin to Kelvin, I thought it a better plan to gradually morph the letter ‘a’ to an ‘e’, so for half an hour or so I addressed him as something like ‘Kealvin’, before eventually landing on the correct vowel. I’ve no idea if either of them noticed. Try saying ‘Kalvin’ out loud (not if you’re in public, maybe), and you’ll agree it can pass for ‘Kelvin’, especially if you have half a mouthful of lamb pasta bake in your mouth, so I think I may have got away with it; they both lack the frivolity and immaturity required to read this book so our secret should be safe.

Fortunately I was more confident with Christine’s name (Christine). After tucking into some roast lamb at her lovely house up the hill out of Shanklin, we spied our first red squirrel. He, or she, was burying nuts; some clichés are true. Unaware of our gaze, he scrambled up a tree, then down it, then ran about for a bit, before finally ascending the first tree again. Mrs. Griffiths has a particular voice she uses for cute animals, and she outed it immediately. It’s high pitched and irritating, and makes her sound as though she should be locked up in Broadmoor. If we pass a horse in a field (the horse is in the field, not us), she’s liable to howl ‘Horsey’. She’s in her 50s, but stills adds a ‘y’ to the end of an animal! We all find it very embarrassing.

Generally, they are best sighted at dawn or dusk (squirrels, not wives), and it helps if your garden backs onto a wood, which Christine’s does. They are wonderful, mercurial animals who as a species definitely have collective ADHD. Speaking professionally, I reckon they’d struggle in a classroom: for a start they wouldn’t cope with a seating plan. Then you’d ask them to get their textbooks out, turn around and find them charging about trying to bury each others’ pencil cases. 

The red squirrel population flourishes here because the Solent acts as a barrier, ensuring the big, nasty grey squirrels stay on the Mainland; despite an aptitude for cunning, the greys have yet to master the vagaries of the Wightlink app booking system. Basically, the survival of the red squirrel is dependent on keeping the grey squirrels out. The greys are the bullies of the squirrel world; their larger size and aggressive nature means they outcompete the reds for food and territory. As if that’s not enough, the greys shrug off the all too common smallpox virus as though it’s a sniffle; the same disease is fatal for the poor old reds. 

Like most things wrong with the world, it was all so avoidable. Grey squirrels were introduced into Britain from North America in 1876, in order to give the rich in their stately homes something to gawp at through their drawing room windows. Thomas V. Brocklehurst, a northern businessman, brought a couple over that year, and over the next 50 years, more and more were imported, until eventually, somebody somewhere noticed that actually, this wasn’t such a good idea after all, and it was made illegal to release them into the wild.

Unintentionally or not, we do like to interfere in nature, wreaking havoc wherever we go. Dr. Lisa Signorile, who is something of an expert in these matters and who compiled a DNA profile of nearly 1500 grey squirrels as part of her research, cited the 11th Duke of Bedford, Herbrand Russell, as probably being the biggest culprit. Thinking he was God’s gift to animal conservation, he made presents of them all over the country: ‘Happy Christmas, here’s a squirrel’,  kind of thing. One day he popped over to Regents Park with a sack of them, single handedly causing an epidemic in London.

During the week I was researching all this, a story appeared on the BBC website with the headline ‘Grey Squirrel may have taken train to home of reds’. BBC headlines can be bewilderingly unfathomable, tending to miss out various parts of speech, rendering them at best ambiguous, and at worst gibberish. I put the BBC headline onto Google Translate (it’s between Basque and Belarussian), and it turns out that a vigilant member of the public had spotted a grey squirrel on Anglesey and reported it. Self-evidently, the reds are more likely to thrive on islands - the Isles of Scilly and Brownsea Island Nature Reserve near Bournemouth being prime examples. For the same reason, Anglesey is also lucky to have some kind of red squirrel population whose preservation is dependent on the absence of the grey. 

This lone grey had somehow made his way across the Menai Strait and it wasn’t long before he appeared on wanted posters around the island.  Determined fellows, these greys! A certain Dr. Craig Shuttleworth - a doctor of rodents, not medicine, I presume - was quoted in the article as saying: “It is like Mission Impossible, whether they are swimming across large bodies of water, or boarding a train, nothing surprises me anymore.” 

The greys are somewhat demonised, but I confess to have a sneaking admiration for them, and especially our Anglesey invader. His initiative and cunning were laudable in their own way, and I was kind of rooting for him in this squirrel version of The Shawshank Redemption. Red squirrels all round Anglesey no doubt breathed huge sighs of relief when he was eventually captured, probably downing a thimbleful of Prosecco to celebrate. Dr. Shuttleworth was at pains to say how fascinating the greys were and they were always dealt with humanely, which must have been disappointing to the reds who, if they’d had their way, would have had their sworn enemy hung, drawn and quartered.

As a postscript, Dr. Lisa also found via DNA profiling that a grey captured on the Isle of Skye was found to have come from Glasgow, having somehow secreted itself under a car bonnet. And shortly after I wrote this, the Island Echo news website in a feature on the red squirrel, reported that in 1971, a grey squirrel boarded a ‘ferry steamer’ from Lymington and had to be arrested by a RSPCA officer after it was spotted having a high old time bouncing around Yarmouth Castle and generally taking the mickey! Sometimes our interference is unwitting.

Even though the greys are denied entry to these Islands, the reds survival isn’t guaranteed. Here on the Isle of Wight, the ‘Isle of White Red Squirrel Trust’ and ‘Wight Squirrel Project’ are two organisations who do their best to ensure these excitable creatures survive and flourish. Their work is genuinely incredible, and you can't help but be moved by their dedication and commitment.

The big cheese in the squirrel world here is Helen Butler, MBE, (she’s a human, not a squirrel, to clarify) who established the ‘Isle of Wight Red Squirrel Trust in 1993. In 2012, the squirrels themselves gave her a special award for looking after them, although true to form they didn’t turn up to the ceremony; the same work gained her an MBE a year later. (She has the MBE squirrelled away somewhere in her office - no?) There are all sorts of squirrel-based projects and initiatives on the Island, including National Red Squirrel week every October, during which the squirrels themselves again refuse to come out.  

Helen has written voluminously on the subject. In her book, ‘Red Squirrels on the Isle of Wight’, she writes that “With their bushy tails, inquisitive faces and naughty ways they are irresistible to most people.” This sounds like a description of Eve, even with the bushy tail thing, but in any event is self-evidently on the button. Their tails are remarkable; to revisit the school  metaphor, they’re like that kid in your class who can be a bit of a rogue but is lovable all the same.

Helen has an army of helpers - not least the Island’s human population, who are encouraged to report on their squirrel counterparts. Continuous monitoring is vital, and without the general public, this would be impossible. Helen informs us this is called ‘Citizen science’, whereby ordinary, common as muck folk like you and me collect data and this helps inform the experts. Grimly, it’s vital also that sightings of dead squirrels are reported, to help ascertain the various threats the squirrels face.

I wonder how they’d view us if this reporting was reciprocated. There’s no evidence of the squirrel population reporting on the human population, but if they did, their findings might not show us in a good light, I’m sure you’d agree. It’s odd, isn't it, that our species can be both destructive but benevolent. 

Red squirrels are very ‘more-ish’, so a couple of weekends later we found ourselves at Alverstone Nature Reserve, which lies in a marshy area between Newchurch and Sandown. This is maybe  the sort of thing you only do if you live here -  unless your name is Chris Packham. If you want to see an animal while you’re holidaying on the Island you’re more likely to make your way to Sandown zoo and watch an elephant stare mournfully at you while it tries to defecate, rather than wander around a nature reserve, where you need patience and a little bit of luck to encounter anything of interest.

To maximise our chances of a sighting, I’d planned our visit to Alverstone thoroughly, sourcing a hide in the woods from where we’d look forward to feasting our eyes on hundreds of squirrels innocently bounding about. That, at least, was the plan.

“What’s a hide?” asked Freya, “as we drove up to Alverstone.

“It’s a wooden hut with peep holes where the animals hide from you,” I replied with great wit.

“Sounds a bit creepy,” was her response.

I’d been to hides in South African game reserves. These are normally located close to watering holes, where animals tend to gather to have a drink and a chat. Zebras, warthogs et al stroll up from stage left, casually glance to check you’re paying attention, and then put on a show for you. It’s part of the deal they’ve struck with the South African Tourist Board; in return, they aren’t killed and eaten, so it’s a pretty good arrangement for them all things considered.

As is clear by now, the red squirrels refuse to be part of any such deal, and yet again were conspicuous by their absence. We walked stealthily through the woods to the hide, stayed a while and then walked back, and the amount of red squirrels we saw throughout was one less than the amount of Premier leagues won by Leicester City. Honestly, they’re taking the piss! It’s getting beyond a joke. Someone needs to have a serious word with them. There are allegedly around 3,000 of them on the Island, for goodness sake - would it hurt a couple of them to pop out of the undergrowth and give us a cheeky wave? They’re wasting everyone’s time and as adorable as they are, I find myself beginning to hate them. 

Incidentally, the hide had a name, the ‘Bern Thearle Hide’, which was inscribed above the entrance along with a depiction of a red squirrel. No amount of Googling informed me who or what Bern Thearle was; maybe it was named after the one guy who’s actually spotted these wretched rodents. 

From our vantage point looking out to a marshy field, we did spy a number of birds: grey herons, mallards, robins and blue tits and an empty beer can. It was a most pleasant half hour, though I think Eve and I enjoyed it more than Ewan and Freya. I turned around after ten minutes to find Freya sitting on the floor reading her book. She’s such a philistine.

On the way back to the car we had to negotiate a couple of muddy sections. As usual I approached these sections with too much confidence, slipping over and landing on my backside. Eve and Feya thought this was hilarious of course, and laughed themselves silly until they were almost unconscious; I’m afraid they’re not very sophisticated. Whilst lying in an undignified heap surrounded by leaves and twigs, I took a picture of them chortling away which Eve subsequently uploaded to Facebook. I’m pleased to say that the ensuing comments were rather more respectful and supportive. 

‘I hope Francis is ok’ and ‘Wicked girls’ were examples suggesting that the wider community out there has more respect for the author than my wife and daughter.

Eve loved the experience (of both the nature reserve and my fall) and we vowed to come back, maybe without the kids; their commitment to the enterprise had been a little flaky. In Freya’s case, the lack of McDonalds in the reserve was a problem, and for Ewan, well he kind of pooh-poohs the real world, reckoning he can get everything he needs from the virtual one.

“What shall we do now?” I inquired, starting the car.

“Go home,” said  Ewan. Ewan always wants to go home.

“I’m hungry,” said Freya. Freya always wants to stop for food.

And so we went to the Garlic Farm nearby.

When you visit the Isle of Wight, there are certain places it’s compulsory to visit. You get fined if you don’t. These include the Donkey Sanctuary, The Needles, Blackgang Chine, and very definitely, The Garlic Farm. Situated in a valley near the village of Newchurch, The Garlic Farm is a must visit whether you’re a fan of the aromatic herb or not. There’s a shop, a restaurant and the business also runs holiday cottages and yurts, and hosts film screenings and opera nights - the enterprise seems to get bigger with each year. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to state that the shop sells garlic and garlic related products. Types of garlic on offer include black garlic, wonky wight rustic garlic, and elephant garlic, and if you are so minded you can throw into your basket garlic vodka, garlic beer, garlic chutneys - maybe even garlic toothpaste.

Generally, the modus operandi is to go into the shop, inspect all the types of garlic, not buy them, and then go and have a nice lunch in the restaurant, which is what we did. The restaurant, apparently, is ‘renowned’, whatever that means. It’s widely acclaimed (I’m not sure by who - maybe the same people who call it ‘renowned) and has a fantastic reputation (so the people who acclaim and renown it maintain). So it was wasted on Ewan and Freya, who are renowned and acclaimed as being notoriously fussy eaters. 

After Eve and I had enjoyed a light lunch including some garlic mushrooms and garlic hummus, and the kids had embarrassingly had something utterly unadventurous from the children’s menu (yes I know, they’re 17 and 18), we sat back contentedly and looked nosely around at the other diners.

“Know one will want to kiss us now,” Eve observed.

“Why?”

“Because we’ve had a load of garlic.”

She always trots this out whenever we’ve had garlic. It’s very predictable.

“No-one wants to kiss us anyway.”, I replied, taking a sip of my garlic espresso. “And anyway, if you like garlic, why wouldn’t you want to kiss someone whose breath smells of it?”

She couldn’t answer that. As usual, I was too clever for her.

We’d visited the Garlic Farm a few times, but it was on this occasion that I learnt from chatting to a charming and erudite garlic employee, that the Isle of Wight is one of only seven UNESCO Biosphere Reserves in the UK. I mean, I’ve not even heard of biosphere reserves. If you have, I commend you, and you can feel suitably smug. In fact you can have 10% off my next book. 

If you’ll permit me going off on a slight tangent, I’ll try and educate us all. The Isle of Wight became the latest British member of the elite Biospheres Reserve club in 2019. The other six are the River Dyfi Estuary, the Brighton and Lewes Downs, Galloway and Southern Ayrshire, the Isle of Man, North Devon and Wester Ross. 

The Isle of Wight wasn’t given this status because of a bet made by a drunken UNESCO official; when you read about it, it makes sense. Biosphere Reserves are all about improving the relationship between man and his environment.  The UNESCO website talks about finding ‘creative ways for people and nature to thrive together’ and ‘applying global principles of sustainable development…on a local scale’. The Isle of Wight was afforded Biosphere Reserve status, the website informs us, because ‘development pressures’ of south England have had less influence, so its unique and diverse ecosystems can be preserved’. You get the idea. 

I was also struck by the description of the Isle of Wight on the website as ‘the south of England in condensed form’. That’s brilliant. I’d never thought of that, but it’s absolutely true - woods, downs, rivers, cliffs, there’s an eclectic mix of scenery here. In fact I’d widen the comparison to more than the south of England. 

The advantages of attaining Biosphere Reserve status are less clear; a lot of the benefits seem reputational, with tourism and local produce being able to hoick their wares to the bandwagon. Education and awareness and pushing the sustainable development agenda are also part and parcel of the package. Specifically, the Isle of Wight biosphere folk advocate nine ‘Biosphere Principles’; they are all laudable and in today’s era, incredibly important. Now I don’t want to give you list fatigue, but I’m going to name them: value our island heritage, protect and sustain nature, restore island ecosystems, share biosphere knowledge, celebrate local distinctiveness, build a liveable island, embrace a new economy, take climate action and lastly, protect future generations.

I know that is all generic stuff, and by itself pretty meaningless. And you’d be right to say in response, ‘yes but how are they going to do that?’, but if I understand the concept correctly, it’s more a case of how are ‘we’ going to do that. UNESCO devolves all responsibility to its status holders. ‘You've got your toy - now go play with it’. This is what I teach kids about human rights. Who’s in charge of human rights? We all are. Eleanor Roosevelt didn’t intend that she and her friends would do it. So it’s about taking responsibility.

Which brings us neatly back to our friend the red squirrel and Helen Butler, MBE. This elusive creature (the squirrel, not Helen) encapsulates what the Biosphere Reserve concept is all about. Look at the nine principles above. The red squirrel and its preservation fits into most of them like a hand in a glove. Safeguarding what makes this amazing Island special is what it’s all about, and as much as I’ve only seen one of these blasted creatures, I desperately hope there are thousands of them for me not to see for generations to come.