Month in the life of an urban gardener: February 2025.
The tasks, problem solving, wildlife spots, learnings and reflections from an organic food grower in a North London kitchen garden.
Welcome to this separate reflection — as part of the Food-Fibre-Fashion publication — on what it’s like to be an urban organic food grower. This started as short snappy videos to condense moments across a month, before realising that actually the narrative and context behind them could be useful, whether successes or mistakes.
As this is part of the wider Food-Fibre-Fashion publication that shares essays, articles and resource newsletters, there will be stories and musings to raise your awareness of how interconnected these systems are, even when we’re looking in small scale, such as an urban garden.
Watch reels of previous months here → January 2025. / December 2024. / November 2024. / October 2024. / September 2024. / August 2024. / July 2024. / June 2024. / May 2024. / April 2024. / March 2024. / February 2024. / January 2024. / December 2023. / November 2023. / October 2023. / September 2023. / August 2023. / July 2023. / June 2023. / May 2023. / April 2023. / March 2023.
This is the sixteenth in this series of articles — A Month in the Life of an Urban Gardener. To read about the context of where I work, head to the first article.
Watch February 2025 in the form of a reel here.
You can also listen as a podcast on Spotify, Apple Podcasts — and below →
Images: 1. Up and hugging an apple tree; 2. Practicing a wood hurdle using apple, mulberry and hazel prunings; 3. Someone (or something) keeps leaving oyster shells all over the garden; 4. View across the garden at sunset.
Sowing.
While there still isn’t much daylight at all, and warmth of course, the benefit of a glasshouse is that you can give plants a head start. And some like the cold anyway, as is typical of a lot of flowers requiring cold stratification. We have a heat pad and an exceedingly bright lamp on a timer, so every year we do trick the seedlings slightly.
Lettuces — Around the end March when things start warming up, the lettuces and mustards start bolting with a sudden influx in temperature and light. This means they start flowering and so all the energy is being drawn up there rather than into the vegetation, but we want the leaves to be tasty not bitter or proper fiery. By growing crops that you can constantly cut yet will bounce back, you really can extend your “hungry gap”. However, it gets to a point when the plants are like no more, and they need to be replaced. So starting lettuce and mustard seeds off in February means come a gap in the frost in March, we can remove and replace.
Flowers — This was my main focus. Getting a head start on flowers meant that space was available before main annual veg crops were sown, and there was additional head space to even figure out what they needed. I’d organised the seed packets in January into what months they should all be sown in, and whether some needed heat or cold so that I could quickly ascertain on a workday what was possible. I really did take up a lot of bench real estate with the flower trays, but after last year’s success on Herb Terrace, wanted to make a proper go of having a surge in colour and nectar availability. I sowed seeds of scabiosa, tagetes and wallflower. Others like echinacea were old seeds and refused to come up, but considering how finicky I’ve found flowers in the past, I was so pleased with the speed and strength of the ones that quickly germed. Also, tagetes seeds have got to be one of the maddest designs (delicate two-toned woody sprigs), plus scabious, which look like shuttlecocks.
Herbs — A lot of our herb seeds actually were old and so didn’t germinate, such as the sage. That’s why propagation from cuttings is useful! I’d sown the sage, some randomly acquired herbs that didn’t come up, and the chives and garlic chives necessary to make the Herb Terrace beds proper. They’d germinated by the end of the month and were little sprigs of hope. I’d also sown spring onions, which take ages to reach a height and bulb big enough to plant out; don’t know how it’s managed on a field scale (maybe they still do modules and drill out). Come end of April and they’re still in their potting trays.
Images: 1. Tagetes seeds are woody two-toned sprigs that don't make sense as a seed; 2. Roots coming out the bottom of a partially-germinated tray of tagetes; 3. Tiny seedlings of wallflower 'Fire King'; 4. Module tray of seed medium after sowing various spring onion varieties; 5. Trays of seed medium with seeds of lettuces and mustard greens "broadcast sown"; 6. List of "herbs to sow" and their niche instructions (with a Celebrations chocolate box on the table used to store seed packets).
Harvesting.
Early in February it was possible to do the first harvest of the greens that had been patiently awaiting their turn. Kale, mustard greens and three-cornered leek all went to a customer who lactoferments them. It’s said that the frost brings out the sweetness in leafy greens, and we’d had some real random frosty mornings. We sow mustard greens like the frills indoors, as they seem to be more frilly and less tough when undercover, along with some more delicate winter lettuces. Chicory varieties, hardy winter lettuces and other mustards go outside where they can handle the cold. Those that are indoors though are the ones more likely to bolt, as mentioned above, because they’re cosy and warm and are suddenly like ah it’s time to reproduce!
Rhubarb was checked on mid-month for size as the roots had started leafing, but were still a good few weeks away. Easy does it. I’d actually just been to a grocers craving rhubarb, and of course only the pink stalks of forced rhubarb was available. They were going to charge me £9 for about 4 stalks and I was like nah, I’ll wait for the real thing!
Images: 1. A variegated curly kale; 2. Polystyrene boxes of three-cornered leek, kale and mustard greens freshly harvested; 3. Rhubarb stalks growing in the patch.
Pruning.
Pruning was a huge undertaking for February. There were still so many trees to get through, in particular the apples and pears, of which there were around 15, plus some others still to tackle before sap rose and all their buds burst.
As I was on a Level 3 Community Orchard Management course, I wanted to be leader, I guess, of the apple and pear pruning this year. In the previous year I’d created a database of all our trees where we could note down actions taken. The majority of our trees and bushes were planted in late 2008, and there’s minimal information. What we see in front of us is what we’ve got to work with, and that’s fair enough, it’s how it normally goes, but when it comes to planning over a number of years or signs of disease, there needs to be a paper (or digital) trail. Really, there’s never been a method to the fruit tree pruning, and I wanted one, especially as I’d been learning about this. However, I struggled with managing on the managing because I still wanted there to be a sense of experimentation and autonomy, and yet in this instance, I should’ve put my foot down and given clear instructions. We just have to see how the trees react and then adapt accordingly next year.
Apples.
It wouldn’t have been possible to prune them all myself. I spent one single garden workday pruning only two trees. It was difficult to see what the decision-making in previous years was (because no one noted it down, and it wasn’t me who had participated) and so for some time I stood and observed and considered the plan for following years.
Herbistan — There’s two trees that border Herbistan, but varieties were never noted. We think one is a Cox’s Orange Pippin, the other, who knows. Come fruiting time, I’ll save a fruit and do an ID after learning this on the course. The Cox one had it’s stake moved with some wiggling help from my colleague, a couple lower branches removed to better it’s framework, and then some water shoots. The unnamed one was essentially two trees, after it was initially trained as an espalier (yet not against a wall, and not tall enough to be pleached). In coming years we’ll have to make a decision about the shaping, but as you can only take up to 30% of vegetative growth off in order to avoid disrupting vigour, I made the decision to keep both contrasting bits and simply tidy it up. This was also staked in multiple places.
Images: Cox's Orange Pippin: 1. A before showing wayward branches; 2. Detail of trunk base where there's some rot and instability; 3. After pruning. / Unknown apple in Herbistan: 1. Before shot with lots of random branches; 2. From below after pruning showing elephant's foot shaped trunk base and new ropes tied; 3. From top of the slope looking down after pruning with way less branches.
Swale — There’s two trees on the Swale too. These can be overshaded by the cherry plums behind, and they’ve never been properly managed, so they’re wayward. Truly Scrumptious planted in 2012 actually has a nice upward habit, though rootstock isn’t noted. I removed two lower framework branches to reset it, pruned off a couple less healthy branches, and that was about it. The D’Arcy Spice is all over the place, both bending forward and backward. It’s been recorded as having been moved, and it’s on a MM106 (medium) rootstock, so potentially that’s a reason for its habit, but decisions had to be made about what to do regarding the balance. I pruned a couple lower branches in view that in coming years helping to stirrup the tree would provide balance, and help us navigate around it while being able to harvest on a slope.
Blenheim Orange — This has struggled (or we’ve struggled) in recent years because the lower branches were crossing with Raspberry Row. It’s also got a massive redcurrant underneath, and competition with raspberry vines. So I was quite hard with this one. I reduced a limb, took out a limb completely and removed the majority of its water shoots, but did leave some epicormic growth in view that they could eventually replace the limb hanging over.
Images: 1. Truly Scrumptious after pruning with lovely open centre; 2. Nice clean cut showing apple heartwood; 3. D'Arcy Spice after pruning but still looks wayward. / Blenheim Orange: 1. Pre-pruning with limbs in all directions; 2. Post-pruning with some limb reduction and water shoots pruned out; 3. Prunings on the ground in a pile.
Ashmead’s Kernel — My colleague did this one, and it’s where I struggled with instruction. My vision was that it’s a vigourous tree so we didn’t want to take too much; this would mean it would react in the same way again and actually we want fruiting spurs not vegetative water shoots. But, after removing the important limbs that were crossing Raspberry Row or too low over paths or causing internal congestion, and then really needing to be careful so as not to take much more, he went heavy on one side with water shoots rather than doing a bit all over, and consequently had to go heavy on the other side too. So, we’ll have to see how this one does. It’s very close to a cherry, so the canopy is quite dense and though this is only on an M26 (semi-dwarf) rootstock, it is vigourous, so needs to be controlled some more.
Lord Hindlip — I’d had a punt at this the year before, not knowing at all what I was doing but aware that this was an unruly tree on a slope with two elaeagnus competing with it and shade from a hazel. My previous year’s work was fairly useful at the time with a lot of young limbs bent with rope to support harvesting, yet I made the decision to go heavy on this one in regards to a staged reduction over a couple years. There was simply too much congestion and limbs going all over the place so it wasn’t aesthetically-pleasing and don’t even think it was fruiting well. An issue with harvesting is that amounts aren’t ever recorded, so I’d really like to be on it this year with recording so we can get an accurate picture of what the trees are doing. Felt much better about this shape once I’d finished.
Images: 1. Ashmead's Kernel being pruned by my colleague with some reduction already underway; 2. View of the dusk sky and moon with some stark wintery apple branches silhouetted; 3. Lord Hindlip before, with ropes tied up every which way, lots of water shoots, and congestion; 2. Lord Hindlip after, with some reduced branches, removed ropes, and bit less water shoots.
James Grieve — I saved this one until second last. It has pride of place; when you walk out into the garden this is the one you see, with it’s proper nice dwarfing (yet massive) canopy. I’d also just had a veteran tree care day as part of my course, where we’d learnt about compartmentalised canker, something I then was able to ID (I believe) on this tree, so that was useful timing.
Yard — I thought James Grieve was the last, until I remembered the yard apple. Always forgotten about, even for fruit, we don’t know it’s ID or rootstock. It slightly hangs over the pavement and is also hard to get up due to a builder’s scrap heap in the way. With some teamwork, some of the most annoying branches were reduced and it should be less congested and therefore healthier.
Images: James Grieve: 1. Standing in the centre of the tree; 2. Examples of canker on branches; 3. Example of compartmentalised canker on previously pruned limb. / Unknown yard apple: 1. Before with lots of congestion up top; 2. After with less congestion and some reduced branches.
Espaliers — I did want to have a go at these to extend my knowledge, but with too many others to do, another colleague (who’d done them the previous year) did these. All I know is that you have to be hard with espaliers so that they come back vigorously and you can train that new growth.
Pears.
We have three standalone pears, and two espaliers. Again my colleague did the espaliers.
Packham’s Triumph — Not such a triumph for us as this one has struggled. It’s by a path, it’s overshadowed by a plum and two elaeagnus next to it will be overcrowding. There’s also shade from two cherries and two apples. So it’s unsurprising. The stake had been tied with rope that rubbed the bark, so that had to go. The stake was moved, and no rope used to avoid the moisture (usually it’s inner tube rubber) and some minor branches pruned. It looked better — stronger — afterwards.
Louise Bonne of Jersey — This is a lovely proper pear-shaped pear, but last year was pockmarked, potentially a sign of calcium deficiency. Again there’s lots of shading, but on closer inspection it seemed that a rotting base from poor mulching (too close) was an issue. This was sorted, plus two very very low framework branches removed, some congestion altered and the stake also moved. Again, looked healthier afterwards.
Unknown — Moved from the entrance area in 2019, left in a trug of soil all through the pandemic, it was eventually planted out in a new home on the top of a bank in 2021. How it’s survived, I don’t know. Also, without knowing the rootstock, unsure — now I’m knowledgeable — why it was planted on the top of a bank when the roots grow horizontally. It wasn’t looking too bad, but clearly had never been formatively pruned. I tied down a few branches while they were still bendy in order to create a proper framework. I also made a heading cut on the leader to see if it’ll bush out. Figured it would be too late in its life to attempt nick-knocking (which prevents a leader from occurring) but we’ll see what it does and adapt next year.
Images: Packham's Triumph: After pruning, with stake moved to help the tree stand upright and lower central branch removed to support a better framework; 2. Clean cut showing pear heartwood and not many rings. / Louise Bonne of Jersey: 1. Before, with a super bent over branch, unnecessary lower branches and a wayward stake and rope not doing anything supportive; 2. After pruning with tidied framework and moved stake. / Unknown pear: 1. View through elder branches of the pear now tied down and to itself using bike inner tube; 2. Leading branch with young fruiting spurs.
Rose.
The rambling rose at the bottom of a slope, by a neighbour’s fence, had been bothering me for years. Another plant never managed, the canes were about five metres long and would always snag me if I tried to walk underneath. It had some nice hips, but swear I never saw it flowering. It needed drastic work. I was really cut up after this session, but there were now five or so canes of new growth, all dead stuff cut out, and it transpired there was a hazel plantling next to it that I tied to the wall to train it as a bit of a fan. Will see if hazels even adapt to that!
Images: Rambling rose: 1. Before pruning with many long and dead and old stems; 2. Pile of prunings next to the New Zealand Flax; 3. After pruning with just a handful of canes left for new growth.
Mulberry.
I couldn’t reach it any longer, and I get irritated by the sap, and I was doing other stuff, so my colleague did this one. I gave quite strict instructions though after my learnings from the apple when I recognised he tends to hack limbs with not-super-clean cuts. Unfortunately it’s another wayward tree, with half of it completely inaccessible due to a sloping wood store roof below, which is at the base of a slope. Without rope climbing access accreditation and learning, there’s no way we could sort it. So it’s a bit unbalanced. The prunings were sawn up into smaller bits as I wanted to attempt making mulberry paper, where the first step is steaming branches to loosen the lignin. As I write this in late April, the prunings have been sat in a trug awaiting some time in my life where I can deal with it.
Elaeagnus.
We’ve a few of these, because they’re known as a nitrogen-fixer, but also have really cute red or silver berries. And they’re an evergreen shrub. I’ll record the variety and someone will cross it out, and then I’ll cross it back with some new ID. I’m still unclear which we actually have; some with red berries (goumi) and some with silver berries (Ebbingei silverberry). The two in the Forest Garden competing with the apple were heavily tidied, especially as they also cross over paths. The two in the upper part of the Forest Garden compete with the cherry and pear, and are constantly hacked, but one was showing signs of scorching and chlorosis of leaves, so this got (or should’ve got) mulched and fed. The one I was focussing on was around in the yard; in order to get to the apple, and to stop it overhanging our wood chip storage area, I needed to go hard on this one. Quite cathartic actually, and required climbing into it. I discovered a sucker had grown upwards and into itself, out the other side.
Images: 1. Mulberry wood pieces in a trug; 2. Elaeagnus sucker had grown into and through itself; 3. Elaeagnus berries.
Maintenance.
Fixing stuff — I like the satisfaction of quick problem solving. But usually this stuff only comes to light when you need to do another job, obviously rather than as something you know about already. So there I am ready to make a new batch of seed mix and realise the cork had broken off in the coir (coconut fibre) bucket again and the seed trug handle had broken. Fortunately, I or a volunteer had done this before so I knew the method. For the handle replacement: scissors to poke a hole in the trug wall and new rope handle tied in. For the cork replacement, required so that water can be released from the trug if necessary when soaking coir fibre: a cork poked with a screwdriver then rethreaded with a cord that keeps it attached to the trug, and plugged into the hole. Job’s a good’un, as they say.
Filter bed workday — This happened on a Saturday volunteering session that I wasn’t around for. The entrance to the climbing centre is in development, and though it’s more of a landscape job than a food growing job, we’ve been tasked with sorting it out. For us, it’s an opportunity to bring the main garden space out into the open so that any passerby can reflect on certain ecological gardening principles. But, maintenance gardening like this requires a lot of labour. We’d already attempted to tidy in the year prior by digging up cornus and rose, and mulching and chipping to weed suppress, with picnic benches added to create a nice sitting spot. Yet without consistent work, it reverted to what it knows — and people were using it to hang out and litter. This Saturday there were around 10 people and they made quick work of rehashing the digging and mulching jobs, though additionally built a dead hedge and stumpery. It’s a patch that borders the filter beds for the New River, an industrial man-made river that runs from Hertfordshire through North London, so is rich with wildlife.
Mulching — Still mulching continued. A big job for volunteers was weeding, cardboarding and chipping Raspberry Row. It’s a haven for bindweed and cinque foil that’ll sneak up and out-compete or entwine new sprouting canes, as soon as there’s a bit of warmth. And yet again the random bank towards our wood store was weeded and cardboarded; this has happened thrice already. It really needs to be planted up properly, but it’s such a large area that needs to survive amongst bindweed, dead nettle, evening primrose rosettes and cinque foil, and so no amount of forest garden design or limited budget will prepare. So down the mulch goes for another year, just to make it feel somewhat temporarily tidier.
Shout out as well to one volunteer who just did a proper look, and found the hard plastic “hat” of the Ridan composter, in fact right next to it in the compost bay. It’d been missing since a storm in December, and a new one would be around £200, so we used a trug with rope attached instead. This worked fine, but we’re grateful the original was discovered.
Images: 1. Fixing the seed mix trug with a repurposed climbing rope handle; 2. Fixing the coir soaking trug with a new cork; 3. Delivery of wood chip from the local tree surgeon 4. Cardboard mulched bank with New Zealand Flax is in the centre (the only thing that out competes the weeds); 5. Stumpery and dead hedge around the Filter Beds entrance; 6. Raspberry Row with new layer of woodchip mulch.
Beekeeping.
It’s not yet warm enough for the honeybees to be out, so it’s useful that we have warre hives with a back window. This allows us to check inside without opening up the hive on a cold day. Majority of the time, if it’s a healthy family, some would come towards the window (see what the cold is about), but on both of these small hives there was no sign. There was a lot of comb, and even some dripping honey cells or what appeared to be freshly-filled honey cells, but a couple visible bees dead in situ, hanging on the comb. I find this jarring, that perhaps they’re like that because they simply ran out of energy or got too cold, unlike the ones that are swept out by other workers onto the outside ground. No change at all in what was observed in January. So it wasn’t looking promising that either were alive.
It wasn’t possible to view into the other because this is a different set up; the conventional — or national — style hive with no windows. For this one we’d have to wait and see if they survived only when the weather warmed.
On the sunnier days, however, foragers were going in and out of the log hive, and this was massively exciting. I spotted them in early February during an induction when showing new volunteers the apiary, and I got choked up with emotion because I hadn’t anticipated that they’d survived. On each sunnier day, they were bustling with activity, clearly very resilient and ready, and with enough honey stores to keep the brood going.
I was extremely conscious and overwhelmed at how much needed to be done in the Apiary before they properly arose and started growing their brood. It had just been too cold, and other jobs were more time-sensitive. We needed to weed and chop overhanging plants, level the terraces, find some paving slabs to put the stands on, build new stands, sort out the equipment, prune the fig some more, and tidy up all the existing boxes. That I thought two families were dead anyway halted me from doing this work, because it didn’t seem a priority.
Images: 1. Log hive fastened to the brick wall; 2. Inside a hive with honeycomb pressed against the glass window and showing liquid honey; 3. A dead bee on a wax comb.
Wildlife.
Pond — It was possibly just coincidental timing, when last year we’d spotted a dozen froggy couples in the midst of mating; heads bobbing above the surface and lots of scrambling. This time only the jiggling of the water was visible, but at least we knew action was occurring. We’d been better too at topping up the pond with water when it got low, particularly as February proved to be unseasonally dry with lots of frost pockets and the residents were trapped underneath sheet ice. A trio of frogs and toads were huddled under a log I happened to move to weed around; one green, one orange, one brown, and then a handful also squeezed into the cavities of the decaying log. An abundance in one stump, and that’s why we ask visitors not to move what appears to be just a piece of climbing furniture. I quickly did my weeding, showed people the amphibians, and replaced the stump.
Dog — A really really nice shepherd dog of some kind was visiting with climbing customers, and hung out by the main garden doors. Everytime I went past to go to the toilet, it’s tail would wag and I’d end up hanging there stroking this sweet chill dog. I find it a privilege when they’re so relaxed with you that they show belly and allow you also to have this time. I was due to go up north to collect my mum’s dog for a holiday so it was a lovely nudge of the joy to come.
Worms — We’d essentially blocked off the entrance to our soil amendment corner (where the wormery and comfrey barrel are stored) behind the shed because we wanted the wheelbarrows outside not inside. But now it was warming up, the worms would be getting more active. If in fact they had slowed down… perhaps actually we’d just starved them over winter. Anyway, worms were present and they needed feeding, so they got a whole load of veg scraps and moist cardboard to eat up. Until the wheelbarrows find a more suitable spot, it’s a game of moving five barrows to feed them. Sort of like pets though, they’re worth it.
Images: 1. Pond with lots of mating activity going on below the surface; 2. Lovely collie-type shepherd dog getting a belly rub; 3. Reg wriggler worms in the wormery lacking in food!
Veteran Tree Day.
Full of cold I went along to what transpired to be Essex for an Orchard Management training day. Dick Turpin Orchard is about 100 years old and we were to look at veteran tree features and care, and we were being assessed. This was an incredibly interesting session that explained behaviour of own trees based on their reaction to planting and pruning and the ecosystem. The assessment was stressful, only because time was limited, but I understood the many decisions and options available when it came to tree care.
Though our garden orchard is young, I came away from that session much more confident. A key takeaway was fairly existential: that a tree will always try to be a tree. No matter how you prune or destroy it, it will always physiologically do what it’s supposed to, and that’s put out extension growth and create cells to transport water and sugar, and have a symbiotic relationship with mycorrhizal fungi for nutrients.
Images: 1. Veteran apple tree with features and care plan explained by arboriculturist Russell Miller; 2. Beetle gallery and compartmentalised canker on the veteran apple tree; 3. A phoenixed veteran apple tree; 4. One of the veteran apple trees we were assessed on in terms of management.
Seed Dating.
A friend — and one of our trainees — had started a seed reading group. Meeting once a month in a pub, there’d be mapping and chatting activities based on a reading on seed sovereignty to unpick issues, challenges and solutions. It was a truly wholesome session, super well facilitated, lots of intellectual discussions, but fun tales too. Though it’s invite-only, you can happily make your way through the suggested readings and activities carefully curated and compiled by following Seedlings on Medium.
Images: 1. First activity was responding to a question or statement made by another participant after reading that month's material; 2. The next activity of mapping key themes from the collated responses; 3. Closing activity was to write a monthly intention on origami paper that was then folded to make a seed packet.
Images: 1. A dried up and post-seeding mullein reaching to the sky; 2. Gorse flowers; 3. Rosemary flowers; 4. Double rainbow over the garden.
It’s nearing the end of April and I’m only just finding the headspace and mental energy to reflect back on previous months. The videos and photos are a very helpful reminder. I can look at the garden currently and know that we’ve been good this winter season with maintenance and planning because everything looks on track, when in the past I’ve perhaps felt more overwhelmed. With the dated digital reminders there are stepping stones out of one season and into another, whereas in the flesh, it all feels as if we blinked and suddenly we were there in spring. Looking at my photos, I remember that it was still cold in February, though it was a race to finish the pruning before everything budded. By the end of the month, warmth had arrived and sowing was on schedule.
I wonder if February is my favourite gardening month. You’ve a bit of everything; sowing, maintenance, pruning, Goldilocks temperature, also not too many people out. I recall observing the plants waking up, particularly come March when everything was suddenly bushy, so February holds its breath. Calmly and knowingly it releases.
Unfortunately I was in personal chaos. The house I share was undergoing person changes, and I was left holding all the responsibilities: of finding new people, of taking on bills, of opening a new bank account, of sourcing and buying furniture. The garden was beneficial through this, as a holding space. There was lots to do, though these were tasks that required thought and methodological approaches; not beholden to one disorganised obnoxious person clutching all the cards, but to someone willing to communicate and able to be present. I left February to enter March swathed in stress and triggers.
Reflecting now, it’s straightforward to disregard all the personal stuff in favour of the garden joy. It’s worth so much more attention. Though, it is the penchant of the real life headaches to provide perspective. These also require focus, yet the energy is adrenaline-fuelled immediate survival anxiety, rather than conscientious forward-planning anxiety. Am I knowledgeable enough to be making these decisions, and if not (or even if yes), who can I call on? Team work, over feeling lost and alone, even if that team is simply the wildlife or plant itself that you can speak to to gauge a reaction. I never feel lonely or alone in nature, regardless if it’s urban or rural, whilst it’s all too often a feeling brought up when not directly connected. This month, and this post, brought me back down to earth.