Farmland The Nature of Britain

If a James Bond villain tired of his struggle for world domination

this is the sort of tomato-growing business he might set up.

A sea of glass where light, heat,

even the mix of gases in the atmosphere is computer controlled.

Inside, 53 million tomatoes are cultivated every year.

But space-age science aside, for a tomato flower to turn into a tomato,

it needs a good shake.

Only then will pollen be released and the flower fertilised.

And to do that to so many flowers

you'd expect a gadget worthy of 007 himself.

The truth is far simpler.

The thing that came to the tomato grower's aid

was something all this technology couldn't hope to match.

Something that was turning flowers into fruits

when it was just dawning on us

that coming down from the trees might be a good idea.

And that something is in there.

BUZZING

The humble bumblebee.

Every time you bite into a cheese and tomato sandwich,

chances are you have one of these to thank.

Without them, most of Britain's tomatoes would wither on the vine.

The secret is in the buzz.

When a bumblebee visits a flower, it disengages its wings

and runs its powerful flight muscles in neutral,

becoming...the perfect vibrator.

Listen...

pollination.

VIBRATING BUZZ

These enormous glasshouses were built partly to exclude wildlife.

And yet the success of Britain's hi-tech multi-million pound farms

relies on bringing it back in!

Every year, two and a half million bumblebees are set to work

in Britain's glasshouses to make tomatoes for us.

The bee and the tomato show us how vital wildlife can be for farmers,

and yet with changing farming practices

wild creatures have often suffered.

But if we can't find space for nature on our farms,

there isn't a lot of room left.

Farmland makes up at least three quarters

of the entire British Isles.

So join me, as we explore whether we can both grow food,

and find space for nature on our farmland.

Wildlife has had a place on our farms

ever since farming began in Britain, 5,000 years ago.

I've come to Norfolk to see a creature

that probably arrived following those first Neolithic farmers.

And with 40,000 about to turn up,

I'm afraid you, my friend, don't stand a chance. Evening...

Look at that.

It's a chilly November evening, the sun's just setting,

and I want to share with you one of the most overlooked

wildlife spectacles in Britain,

and a perfect demonstration of how tied up wildlife is with farmland.

The only thing is,

I'm not quite sure where they're going to come from.

The sounds of November twilight in Norfolk. Listen...

pheasants going to roost over there in the woods,

-but over there behind me...

-CAWING

..far more birds, making a far greater sound. A crowd's gathering.

Now then, look, just spotted a load over there.

By that big old oak tree.

D'you see? To the left. Whoo! They look like starlings but they're not.

They're much, much bigger than starlings. Now, we're in Norfolk.

And there's a saying in Norfolk.

"When thass a rook, thass a crow,

"and when thass crows, thass rooks."

What that means, in Queen's English, is that if you see one,

it's likely to be a crow,

and if you see a great flock of them they're rooks, cos rooks flock,

and these rooks are flocking like no rooks you've ever seen.

They're all gathering.

And I promise you, when this happens...

it's a spectacle to remember.

Rooks are birds of open country

so as ancient farmers cleared the woodland, they flourished.

They spend the day feeding in the fields.

But as dusk falls they fly in to their night-time roost.

And this is one of the biggest in Britain.

Some people think they gather like this to share information,

somehow letting each other know about the best winter feeding spots.

It really does sound as though they might be chatting!

But before long they fall silent.

They're waiting for a signal...

and so am I.

It's hard to believe anything's going to happen at all.

But listen.

FLAPPING AND CAWING

ROOKS CALL

A swirling mass,

thousands of them.

You can almost hear their wings beating the air.

You CAN hear them.

Goodness me.

Can you hear it building and building?

There's more and more. Thousands of them.

It's astonishing.

Just astonishing.

What a noise!

And still they're coming.

They're still flocking in from behind this big oak tree.

Look at that. Have you ever seen anything like that?

They'll wheel around over these trees, then suddenly,

they'll drop and roost for the night.

What a noise, eh?

They're all going down now,

nestling down into the trees.

20 minutes to five. Bedtime for them!

I think I fancy something warming.

The rooks have only flourished because of farmland,

feeding on insects and worms

found in the pasture and revealed by the plough,

and the seed the farmer sows to grow as crops.

But it's not just planting crops that has a big impact on our wildlife.

The timing of their growth is also critical.

The hare was a relative latecomer to our farming landscape,

appearing around the time of the Romans when much of Britain was already farmed.

In this Hertfordshire countryside, it's early spring,

and the crops are just pushing their new shoots through the soil.

That's when the hares' nerves start to tense, their pulses quicken

and they prepare to sort things out like gentlemen.

Queensberry rules?

I don't think so.

Hares are here in such numbers

because of the timing of the crops' growth.

Hares only eat the youngest and freshest shoots

so numbers have declined on farms with only one crop

as that soon becomes too old to eat.

Crucially, these fields are surrounded by a mix of crops,

ensuring that at any time of year,

there's always something young and tasty to be found.

On a traditional farm it's easier for the hare and other wildlife

to find food and shelter throughout the year.

And this patchwork quilt also has a beautiful impact on our British landscape.

The intense yellow of oilseed rape.

The oil from its crushed seeds is used in margarine, livestock feed

and more recently in biodiesel, fuelling the nation's tractors -

both the traditional and Chelsea varieties.

Golden fields...

of wheat milled to make flour.

Or barley, only the very best of which,

in true British fashion,

is used to make beer or whisky.

Then there's the delicate pale blue of linseed,

one of our oldest cultivated crops.

Its oil is used in paints, printing inks,

and of course, most importantly,

to keep the bats of our nation's cricketers well-oiled.

Then, just occasionally, if you're lucky,

a field of bright and vivid blood red.

A mass of poppies,

so striking you'd think it had been planted on purpose.

But what's so wonderful about our farming landscape

is the slow and subtle change in these colours

with the passing of the seasons.

It means that every time we stare out of a window,

go for a stroll in the countryside,

or glance out of a passing car, we see something new.

And when you see this colourful backdrop,

with smaller fields and hedgerows that have been planted or preserved,

it's more than likely that this diversity

is benefiting the wildlife, as well as being beautiful for us.

We've seen how crops and the timing of their growth have an impact on the landscape.

But there's another way in which scattering seed can influence the British countryside -

without it ever growing! Just come and look at this.

There's a little trailer on the back of this Land Rover and inside it is corn.

If I just pull that little trap door up there, and then turn on this.

Now watch yourself.

Out comes the corn.

Do you want to hop in and I'll show you what happens?

This vehicle has been specially modified to sow seed.

Not in carefully ploughed furrows or fertilised fields,

but just wherever it goes.

Every year, thousands of tonnes of seed is sown in Britain,

where it hasn't the slightest chance of growing.

It's scattered at the edges of fields and down country lanes.

Onto roadside verges and at the bottom of hedgerows.

In fact, on some farms, more seed is used like this, than is sown to grow as crops.

But this seed isn't being sown to grow at all.

It's being sown as feed.

It's for an creature that entire woodlands are planted for,

hedgerows are managed for,

and for which plants as alien as pampas grass are lovingly tended

in order to afford it some protection from the winter elements.

That ought to do it.

I'm waiting for a creature that's had an enormous impact on the British landscape,

even though it's nearest natural home is 2,000 miles away.

And if you wait a minute or two, you'll see it.

There you go.

The pheasant can seem impossibly exotic,

and yet its call is an evocative part of the British countryside.

PHEASANT CALLS

Most of us only get a glimpse as we swerve to avoid one in the car.

But let me share with you its secret life,

just beyond these Dorset hedgerows.

In March, you'll find the males crowing and strutting like the local landowners

as they attempt to woo a harem of broody females.

But not before they've seen off the local competition.

Once the hierarchy has been established,

the male approaches the female with his head bowed low.

He fans his showy tail feathers

and angling his body to show off his golden plumage.

The nearest natural home of this exotic bird is south-west Asia.

So how has it come to influence our British landscape so greatly?

Well, the fact is that large areas of our countryside

are managed or preserved to encourage pheasants for shooting.

Whatever your feelings about this controversial pursuit,

managing land for pheasants can benefit other wildlife.

The grain feeds songbirds, and cover crops ensure

that farmland birds have shelter and food during the winter.

Historically, pheasants have also been an important reason for planting and managing woodlands,

and their rides and glades

encourage butterflies like the silver-washed fritillary.

They may invite controversy but the impact of country pursuits

on our landscape isn't always clear-cut.

Pheasants might have had a surprising influence on our landscape

but their impact is tiny when compared with another group of creatures

that have been slowly shaping Britain for thousands of years.

Without them, Vaughan Williams might never have composed the Lark Ascending,

nor William Blake penned Jerusalem.

And did the countenance divine shine forth upon our clouded hills?

You bet it did.

But who are these unsung heroes of Britain's green and pleasant land?

It's Britain's 10 million cows and 35 million sheep.

Without them, Britain wouldn't be a green and pleasant land at all.

The cows are brought into barns to spend the winter.

For months, they wait for the opportunity to be out in the fields again.

Until, in early spring, the day finally arrives

when they're let loose once again.

The cows are so excited that they gambol like lambs.

And all because of this - grass.

It's our livestock's need to eat fresh grass that creates Britain's pastoral landscapes.

And it's by eating nothing but this simplest of plants

that each cow is capable of producing

11,000 pints of milk a year.

To fill the new Wembley stadium to the brim,

it would take Britain's cows just over a month.

All these animals eating all this grass

has one inevitable conclusion.

Feeding the livestock ends up feeding the land.

Dung - it's amazing stuff.

I mean, you only have to crouch down by a fresh pat on a summer's day -

thank you - to understand why.

You'd probably rather go off for a brisk walk to get out of their way,

or tuck into a cream tea, but bear with me, it's quite gripping.

You wouldn't believe what lives on this stuff.

The whole pat is crawling with life.

On the surface, a fungal forest develops.

Who would have thought that dung could be so beautiful?

But by the time they're ready to shed their spores,

something rather unfortunate has happened.

Nourished by the dung, the grass grows tall and thick.

Anything wanting to escape finds itself surrounded by a wall of grass.

This fungus, barely a few millimetres high,

has to disperse its spores.

But now that this grass has grown, that would be like you or me

trying to throw a tennis ball over Blackpool Tower.

But this fine covering of velvet is no ordinary fungus.

This is the hat-throwing fungus.

Watch it and you'll see why.

On top of each tiny stalk sits a black 'hat'

containing the fungal spores.

And guided by a light sensitive 'eye' they take careful aim,

lining themselves up with gaps between the grass stems.

Inside, the pressure builds until...

Blink and you've missed it - even slowed down almost 500 times.

Spores are fired as far as 12 feet,

and even over the heads of nearby cows!

Once the spores have landed on fresh grass, they'll be eaten,

passed through the cow's gut

and deposited in their own personal pile of manure.

Hitting the ground growing, you might say.

If it weren't for the army of insects and fungi breaking down the dung,

then not only would we be knee deep in the stuff,

but crucially, all the goodness would remain locked up inside it,

instead of being released back into the soil.

And the impact of dung on our farmland wildlife

is further-reaching than you might think.

Britain's cows don't just provide milk and meat.

Their dung is also an incredible source of food for Britain's creepy-crawlies.

Each cowpat may nurture 1,000 developing insects.

And the constant drone of flies and sound of swishing tails

accompanies every evening spent in summer pasture.

Just through its dung every cow may increase the insect population

in its home range by up to three million.

Forget beef - in just four years

a cow can nurture its own body weight in mini-beasts!

And for some birds,

that's a feast worth travelling all the way from Africa to enjoy.

Where would our farmland be, without swallows hawking over the fields?

And on hot summer days, they'll wash down their meal

with a drink taken on the wing.

But dung doesn't only provide for these iconic farmland birds.

Without the right sort of dung

we nearly lost one of our rarest mammals.

But to see that, and to find out how,

we'll have to wait for nightfall.

These are the original dumbledores.

An old and often forgotten name for dung beetles.

At night, they take to the air,

in search of pastures new and the fresh dung they bring.

But beetles beware - hanging in the foliage

is something with a particular taste for dumbledors.

The greater horseshoe bat.

It sends ultrasonic squeaks through that horseshoe-shaped nose

then listens for the telltale echoes of its prey,

turning its head and scanning with its ears to pinpoint the smallest wing beat.

It's a large and reluctant flier.

And only when something passes by its preferred feeding perch

will it take to the wing in pursuit.

COWS MOO

It hunts a host of nocturnal insects in utter silence.

No beetle or moth is safe.

Greater horseshoe bats had all but disappeared from our countryside

before it was realised how important the cows were to them.

When cows were routinely given drugs to cure them of worms,

the dung beetles were killed too.

And without the beetles, the bats starve.

But a growing awareness of the importance of beetles to bats

led farmers to change their practices,

hopefully ensuring their survival.

It's not just through their dung that livestock influence our farmland habitats.

One of our rarest species relies on farm animals in a way so bizarre,

you couldn't make it up.

For a few weeks each year,

Large Blue butterflies mate and lay their eggs.

Meadow ants nesting in the grass

are an irritant for the adults,

but an unlikely asset for their tiny caterpillars.

You see, the Large Blues have a rather interesting approach

to parental care. Their young are adopted by ants.

The caterpillar mimics the sound and smell of the ant's own young.

And, mistaken for a mislaid ant larva, is taken back to the nest

by the foraging workers.

But it doesn't repay the favour.

Once underground, the caterpillar leads a predatory life,

eating the ants' own larvae,

until one day it's ready to change into a pupa...

..and eventually emerges as one of our rarest butterflies.

Ants are vital to the butterfly

but they're very particular about the kind of grass they like.

Too long and they move out.

So without the sheep to keep the grass short, there would be no ants.

And without the ants, the Large Blue would be lost.

If allowed to overgraze, livestock can damage our farmland habitats

but the story of the Large Blue

shows us how carefully-managed munching is vital.

So livestock influences both our wildlife and landscape through its dung and grazing,

but our need to control farm animals also has an enormous impact.

To find out how, I've come to the remote island of North Ronaldsay,

home to the tallest mainland lighthouse in Britain

and a famous bird observatory.

All these things are worth travelling to the northernmost reaches of our islands to see,

but I'm here to see something else.

A wall. But not just any wall.

North Ronaldsay is home to Britain's very own "Great Wall".

It might not be a match for the Great Wall of China,

but at 13 miles long, this is the longest, continuous, dry-stone structure in the world.

It surrounds the entire island,

making it one of the most bizarre field boundaries in Britain.

But why was it built?

Well, the weather here can be merciless.

Gales rage in across the North Sea,

and on a spring high tide the water threatens to flood the low-lying fields.

A great wall is just what the local livestock need to protect them from the treacherous Orkney weather.

But you won't find them sheltering here in the fields.

The wall wasn't designed to keep them safe on the farm.

It was built to keep them out...

200 years ago the sheep were thrown off the fields to make way for more profitable cattle.

This need to control the livestock created a farm animal

that can survive eating nothing but seaweed.

And there's only one other large land animal in the world that can do that.

The marine iguana on the Galapagos.

In fact, these sheep are so used to eating seaweed

that if they eat too much grass it poisons them!

Banished by the boundary, their lives are dictated entirely by the rhythms of the ocean.

They graze at each low tide, whether it's day or night.

But it's not just here on North Ronaldsay

that the need to control livestock influences the landscape.

The entire British Isles is a patchwork quilt of fields defined by their boundaries.

Although perhaps less of a patchwork than it once was.

Walls and hedgerows have really suffered since the last war.

With the pressure on to feed the nation, field boundaries just got in the way.

Incredibly, since 1945, the length of the hedgerows

lost from the British landscape would stretch almost to the moon.

But the decline has now halted,

which is fantastic news for our wildlife.

Not least because, for many creatures, the hedgerow is home.

Fields are often difficult places to live.

Crops are harvested and meadows regularly mown.

But hedgerows, walls and rough grassland

provide opportunities for wildlife.

Including, pound for pound, Britain's most fearsome carnivore.

The stoat.

An old dry-stone wall provides the perfect den.

And the meadow attracts the prey.

SQUEALING

So field boundaries can be important homes for wildlife,

but they play another, very different role,

one that can directly benefit the farmer.

This young and succulent crop is about to come under attack.

And once the enemy arrives,

it's almost unstoppable.

This is a sight that every farmer dreads.

A winged aphid lands on a wheat stem and prepares to start a family.

A famous biologist once calculated that if they all survived,

after ten generations, a single aphid could produce a weight of insects

equal to 500 million people.

Like Russian dolls, an aphid develops inside its own grandmother.

If you look inside, you can even see their eyes.

One winged individual arrives, and before you know it,

there's an army of clones sucking the life out of your crop.

But the secret to controlling them might lie in the simplest of things.

The field margin's flowers and rough grassland

attract one of our best-loved insects.

As every gardener knows, there's nothing better than a ladybird to keep the aphids in check.

Or is there?

Ladybirds and their larvae do eat aphids,

but many fly in from the continent each year,

arriving too late to have a real impact.

And when they do arrive, they scare more aphids than they eat.

The pests just drop off the plant,

wait for the ladybird to bumble on,

and then return to feed.

Fortunately, there are unsung heroes on our farmland.

It's real saviour is an army of parachuting predators that are easy to overlook.

They're the money spiders,

and they carry a secret weapon

that allows them to attack from the air.

Other wingless predators have difficulty venturing far into the crop.

But clinging to lines of silk,

the spiders are boldly carried forth into the battle zone,

right into the middle of the field. When they land, they set to work,

spinning a silken safety net.

Once its done, they wait for the prey to drop in,

often aided by the bumbling ladybirds.

The hedgerows are strewn with their parachuting lines.

Each and every one representing an aphid-eating predator on the attack.

Our reliance on pesticides has made us forget the importance of the aphids' natural predators.

But planting field margins not only attracts and shelters

aphid-munching mini-beasts, but also bees

and other insects which pollinate our crops.

These flowers may never replace pesticides completely,

but where they do, our countryside is a far prettier place to be,

and a lot better for wildlife.

But field boundaries can also be made of water.

In some regions of Britain, these have a more important function

than simply controlling the livestock.

When the Anglo Saxons invaded this area in the 7th century,

they named it Somerset - "land of the summer people".

Not because the Celts they conquered were of a particularly sunny disposition,

but because the land flooded in winter and the only time the locals could cultivate it was in summer.

At that time, Glastonbury - just over there,

King Arthur's Isle of Avalon -

really was an island.

Over time, thousands of ditches were built to drain the land.

But after centuries of trying to exclude water,

man is finally allowing nature to take its course.

The land is only farmed in the summer.

In winter, it belongs to the birds.

On the Somerset Levels, water from the ditches is once again being allowed to rise and flood the land.

And this traditional farming practice gives us one of Britain's

most dramatic wildlife spectacles.

The water brings nutrient-rich sediments,

and they draw in huge numbers of wildfowl.

And all these birds in one place are bound to attract attention.

The attention of the fastest creature on the planet -

the peregrine falcon.

Its tapering wings give it incredible speed and agility,

but its feathers lack the oils which keep the water off the ducks' backs.

If it gets wet it'll be unable to fly, and in deep water could drown.

If they just take to the air, the ducks would be easy prey.

They know their safest option is to stay low,

and if they have to, dive for cover.

This kind of hunting is difficult.

The peregrine daren't risk a dunking.

Its only chance is to fly at the flock so fast

that the ducks take to the air.

If they're driven high enough, it can hit them from above.

But this close to the ground, it's a risky strategy.

Eventually, it picks a likely target

and turns to stoop.

At incredible speed,

it hurtles toward the water.

It misses, but in the confusion separates one bird from the flock.

As the dazed bird takes to the air,

the peregrine finally seizes its chance.

No matter how important our farmland is for wildlife,

we mustn't forget what it's for...

producing food.

And there comes a time when we all reap the benefits.

Harvest.

Farmers work around the clock to gather in a few days

what may have taken a year to prepare and grow.

For thousands of years, this has been a time of celebration.

A time when communities come together to give thanks

for the bounty of our British landscape.

Although, for our farmland wildlife,

there hasn't always been much to celebrate.

We all know farmland is a working landscape, not a nature reserve.

But now, as we no longer need to farm so intensively,

there's a growing opportunity to farm sensitively.

And understanding the relationship between the farm and its wildlife

can help ensure a place both for nature, and for food.

Farmland isn't just part of the British countryside,

it IS the British countryside.

So if we can't find space for nature there, well...

there isn't a lot of room left.

So the next time you tuck into granary bread,

a crisp Cox's apple or a proper Ploughman's lunch,

be thankful. But spare a thought.

On the land where our farmers nurtured our food,

was there room to be found

for the nature of Britain?