Layers of green blanket the West Dorset countryside. Jenna Nienhuis explores the perception versus reality of a visitor in this bewildering landscape.
I reach my hand out the passenger side window as our minivan weaves down the country road, grasping for strands of overgrown hedges as we pass. A rewilding mandate is great for the earth but not for foreign drivers. My husband and I gladly accept our penance in service of the earth; though my breath remains inward around every corner, eyes squinting for a truck or tractor barreling down the dirt path not much wider than a bicycle lane. Will they or won’t they?
Around this place, all I see is green. Romantic views of pastures unfold in every emerald hue split by hedges and groves of sycamores. Deep green moss and minty lichen blanket ancient oaks, and ferns burst from the earth.
We arrive safely, and I turn to say goodbye to my three daughters, who are perched in the backseat, still in their pajamas and wearing morning faces topped with unruly bedheads.
“Bye bye Mommy,” they say through a yawn, off for an adventure day with Dad. I feel a bittersweet ache mixed with excitement at being the one going off to work, a change from my usual role as the primary caregiver. I hope they miss me.
My fellow nature writers and I gather for fieldwork, setting out to explore the trails of Kingcombe Nature Reserve. It’s summer, but yesterday’s downpour made me question the season’s hope of sunshine. I am out of my California element, and my white active-shoes make that abundantly clear.
My feet wobble on the tops and sides of small boulders along a seasonally wet river bed. I spot a large tree trunk with several smaller branches coiled around it like veins as if the tree had flipped inside out. Two dead blackbirds from my walk yesterday flash into my mind. I thought they might be bad luck until a grasshopper landed on the cuff of my sweater and stayed for all of lunch.
Now knee-deep in a meadow, my mind and I wander through puffs of purple wildflowers, yellow buttercups, and the occasional meadow brown making a dandelion wish. Cows carry on in the background, while the buzzing hind legs of grasshoppers take the moment. Mine mostly just itch.
Thick wigs of matte green meadow grass cover badger holes, cover everything, and I wonder if I might fall into one like Alice in Wonderland. My oldest daughter wrote a story this past winter called “Rain Rain and More Rain” about a girl who jumped into a puddle and traveled to another world. I wonder if this is where she landed. Kingcombe seems like a wondrous stop on the other side of a puddle.
“Few butterflies this year,” everyone agreed as we struggled to observe a variety of insects. One student mentioned the grassroots efforts of “No Mo May.” Another story headlined the conversation about neighbors coming together to save a tiny patch of grass near their sidewalk. Thousand-acre farming estates are returning portions of their land to nature and transitioning to sustainable farming practices. Even our hobby-farm Airbnb host noted the thistle growing extra tall this year from all the rain and restoration efforts on their property.
These encounters, facts, and citizen efforts disagree with an outsider’s lens of this dense, wild landscape. Beneath the plentiful green is a deeper issue of biodiversity. Treated farmland is not equal to an untouched wildflower meadow or the depth of a wild forest. West Dorset’s wildlife has declined substantially over the last few decades, including butterfly species and bee populations by 20%. It’s tempting to be captivated by beauty and overlook the deeper truths beneath the surface; in Dorset, or wherever one ventures.
A green landscape is often mistaken for uniformity and vitality; some artists even dismiss the color as “boring.” But up close, there is dimension and depth to green, shades of truth hidden in the grasses and between the hedges.
I lay in bed that night and scrolled through photos of the day, the first of our trip to England. Amidst several images of cows, I spotted the coveted English countryside photo. Google would say I have arrived.
West Dorset as a traveler is a mixed reality experience, grids and layers of complex green. The heartache of habitat lost and vanishing wildlife contrasts with the area’s captivating beauty and the community’s commitment to let nature take the lead, restoring the missing shades of this enchanting landscape.
Jenna Nienhuis 