Ivy an unsung hero of our environment
In the recent incessant storms, we are fortunate in being sheltered from almost every direction, but last night a stray gust sent a balcony chair cart-wheeling the length of the wooden deck on the second floor, creating a racket that woke my wife. Discombobulated though she was, she resigned herself to wakefulness rather than disturbing me or rushing out to capture the chair at the risk of being blown sky high. However, the wind’s sport suddenly stopped and quiet descended but for rain pelting the windows like a mad creature trying to break in.
In the morning, we found the chair on a sloping rockery, standing on all four legs as if to provide accommodation for a poetic soul who might wish to sit and contemplate panoramic views of the bay.
Where do birds find refuge in such weather, what with the trees bare of leaves and the fields flooded, so that huddling down in the tall grass is not an option. For the small birds, ivy-clad walls and trees offer a haven. Ivy keeps walls 15% warmer in winter, 36% cooler in summer. Yet, well-meaning but misinformed persons insist upon cutting it down in the belief that its growth saps the strength of a tree and undermines the mortar on walls.
An Oxford University study funded by English Heritage, and conducted on the ivy-covered walls at three of the university’s colleges and at buildings elsewhere, concluded that ivy’s interwoven web of dark green, waxy leaves acts as a ‘thermal shield’, insulating plasterwork from the extremes of temperature and moisture that cause cracks. It also protects walls against abrasive air-borne pollutants, such as smoke or soot. For birds, bees, insects and small mammals, ivy offers nesting sites, refuge from predators, shelter from the elements and a food source.
Where walls are sound, ivy will not cause damage. Similarly, where trees are healthy, ivy puts them at no risk. Trees on their last legs — or rather, last leg — may have their tenuous grasp of life foreshortened if they carry mantles of ivy sufficient to catch winter gales and add a ‘sail factor’ strong enough to knock them over.
Readers will know that ivy is not a parasite but an epiphyte — a plant that grows on another without deriving nourishment from it. The tree supports the ivy, but the ivy does not feed on its sap. However, contrary belief persists, and on forest walks I sometimes see trees where would-be civic-spirited folk have taken a blade to ivy growing on robust tree trunks that do not belong to them. The result is a sad-looking tree — it certainly does not seem to be exhilarated by the result. It blooms no greener, nor grows no stronger. For a year or two, it has the indignity of being dressed in rags where its companions shine in the sun.
While ivy contributes valuable practical resources to the natural world, it also contributes aesthetically. In winter sunlight, it glistens like silver. Stirred by a breeze, it shakes and flashes like a coat of mail or strings of silver doubloons. In the deep forest, an ivied trunk caught in a shaft of sunlight has a shimmering brilliance that easily explains why Hedera helix was revered as a symbol of reincarnation by our Celtic ancestors, a vision of the forest God shining life and light into the encroaching darkness.
Holly or ivy picked out by sunlight engenders wonder. Years ago, walking with a child on a forest path between towering Norwegian spruce whose canopies blocked out the sun, we rounded a corner where a sunbeam pierced the darkness and spotlighted an ivy-bedecked tree. The child stopped half in wonder, half in fear, and grasping my hand firmly asked me if there were angels in the wood.
As well as its other positive attributes, our familiar ivy is, apparently, a useful animal tonic. Some farmers swear by it for sickly lambs and, it seems, also for kid goats. The old song tells us so.
Mares eat oats and does eat oats, And little lambs eat ivy, A kid will eat ivy too, Wouldn’t you?
CONNECT WITH US TODAY
Be the first to know the latest news and updates
