Of ants and men

I grew up in north Surrey, where despite urban sprawl there are priceless, remnnant patches of lowland heath. When I was little, these places seemed of little interest; but my understanding of them grew along with society's. A heath is not a wasteland, fit only for dirt-biking and landfill; it is a unique habitat, created thousands of years ago, on sandy soils, by the slash and burn agriculture of our forbears. Over the centuries, plants and animals have adapted to this ecosystem and many now exist nowhere else. Only on our heaths will you hear the electric static song of the Dartford warbler, or the call, like two flints being knocked together, of the stonechat. In summer, you can listen to the weird churring of nightjars - a species of ground-nesting bird that migrates every year to and from sub-Saharan Africa. The list of special creatures continues, rendering these squat treeless places a treasure trove for biodiversity. Sand lizards, natterjack toads, raft spiders, woodlark, hobbies: all depend on the fragmented heaths for their survival in Britain.

I know a little about all these species; but I must confess that I knew nothing about the red-barbed ant (Formica rufibarbis) until I came across this article on the website of the Surrey Wildlife Trust:

http://www.surreywildlifetrust.co.uk/

"This ant, named because of its red dorsal hairs, exhibits unusual and incredible behaviour. During courtship female winged ants (young queens) will climb to the top of a blade of grass or tall plant stem to attract the attention of males by emitting a scent. The ants also possess an amazing sense of sight and will proceed to their nest entrance in a dead straight line even if obstacles are in their path. Foraging red-barbed ants will also challenge other ant species for food, gripping on and tussling until it can decamp with the prey."

Chobham Common, which boasts the only known colony of these ants in mainland Britain, is a gem of a nature reserve. It is probably the most important area of heath in the southeast (especially after Thursley NNR was devastated by arson last year) which, notwithstanding the affront of the M3 ploughing straight through it, offers a rare taste of wilderness in this most populous of counties. I have walked and birdwatched here for years, and seen how much work it takes to maintain an ecosystem under constant threat from fire, development and litter (let alone the rampant growth of Scots pine). Still, the Surrey Wildlife Trust keeps valiantly at the task of stewardship, and it gives me real pleasure to learn that the ant rescue project being undertaken by the Zoological Society of London will seek to establish new colonies in other areas that are intimately familiar to me: Wentworth Nature Reserve, Lightwater Country Park and Sunningdale Golf Course.

The funding for the species rescue plan is coming from the Heritage Lottery Fund. It may seem a strange investment. Compared to the plight of the Giant Panda, or the Bengal Tiger, a species of ant is hardly likely to set the public imagination on fire. And yet it is a tiny marvel of evolution: a unique and irreplaceable piece of the jigsaw of life. I, for one, will be delighted if the project succeeds and I have a chance - no matter how remote - of seeing a young queen climb to the tip of a blade of grass and lure a male with her siren scent.

Serious Things

Groan - another doom and gloom post about climate change?

Not this time. Serious Things is the title of my new novel. I finished it on Monday. It now goes through the mill of early readers, who will doubtless inform me that it's incoherent, psychologically implausible, and full of factual errors.

These early readers are important people. The first are my parents. My mother reads slowly and with great precision; she is the more literary of the two. My father, a doctor, comes at things with a scientific mindset. His task is to submit my writing to the Narcolepsy Test. Let me explain. At the end of a hard day at the surgery, my dad is tired. He falls asleep in front of the accumulated atrocities of the 10 o'clock news. I don't blame him for this: I would nod off, too, if I had to apply myself to a proper job. Still, it means that something - a news report or a book - has to be fairly riveting if it is to keep his eyelids parted. My father's task is to see whether my writing can keep him awake. If it succeeds, I'm on to a winner.

My third reader is my girlfriend, who has the unenviable task of reading the typescript in close proximity to its author. Her only consolation is said author's servile, fawning behaviour throughout the ordeal. I am always at hand with cups of tea, pieces of toast smeared just so with butter and Marmite, vigorously fluffed cushions, earnest and thorough foot rubs. Emma puts up stoically with these ministrations. As an academic - and an accomplished writer - she has a great ear for cliches, stock phrases, muddled metaphors. She can sniff out a bum note like the most efficient truffle-hound in Perigord. I am hoping she will not find too many horrors in Serious Things.

After these intimate readers comes the next wave: my agent, Isobel Dixon, who in the gentlest manner possible takes no prisoners, and a barrister pal of mine who is also writing a novel and will no doubt point out to me that the police procedure and legal stuff at the end is all a pile of tosh.

My gratitude goes to these dear people. Along with a plea for pity.

Once I have market-tested my novel, it will be sent to my editor for a final pummelling. And then begins the year-long wait for the indifferent shrugs of reviewers.

For more information about Serious Things (you know, its plot and stuff) please visit my website at some point in the near future.