Inspired by Ladybirds

A neighbour handed two second-hand books into my gran’s house.

‘They’ll keep the wean entertained when she comes tae visit, Mary.’

Gran, an established member of the hand-me-down generation, accepted them with thanks, adding them to my reading pile on her bookshelf.

The books, both published around 1961 – The Ladybird Book of Trees and What to Look for in Spring (a Ladybird Nature Book) – fascinated me from the moment I flicked through their well-thumbed pages. I was hooked by the bright illustrations and engaging text. I yearned to be able to identify trees. Know when to listen for willow-warblers and where to look for blackthorn blossom.

Even at eight years old I realised the books’ content and tone were aimed at a Famous Five kind-of-child. A 1950s girl from “doon south”, who enjoyed spiffing adventures, drank lashings of ginger beer and ate something mysterious called radishes with her salad. Not a wee 1970s lassie fae an Ayrshire lace toon, who kicked about the swing park, drank red kola and ate chips with her salad. Some of the idyllic landscapes portrayed on the pages – marshlands, downs and canal-banks – would not be discovered on my doorstep. Lombardy poplars were hardly flourishing in my local woods. Reed warblers and sandpipers were unlikely to be nesting along the nearby river… or were they?

Undeterred by these minor concerns, I took the books home, rounded up four pals and organised an expedition for Saturday. The plan was to explore our Irvine Valley “backyard” searching for the trees, plants and wildlife described and illustrated inside the Ladybird books.

So, on a fine spring morning, our own little Famous Five gang – Lynn, Cathy, Ann, Beth and myself – set out with my books shoved in a duffle bag, along with a handful of Highland penny caramels for sustenance.

Our first foray into the wilds took us to the woods on the bank of the River Irvine, just a stone’s skim from the village centre. Eyes alert for signs of wildlife, we meandered through the trees, studying bark and leaves, comparing them with the drawings in the books. Someone had brought a small magnifying glass to help. Soon, we were identifying beech and sycamore trees, spotting blue tits and chaffinches flitting among the branches, inhaling the oniony scent of wild garlic and spying grey wagtails bobbing about stones at the river’s edge.

We followed the path to Newmilns Dam. On previous walks there with my parents, when the river had been in spate, I’d caught glimpses of sleek silver skin and thrashing tails in the frothy waters, as salmon struggled to loup the dam, battling to reach their spawning grounds upstream.

But that day, the river was low and calm. All we saw in the shallows beyond the dam were darting shadows of brown trout.

Over that spring and summer us five explorers rambled around the countryside surrounding our town. We hunted for wildflowers, finding red campion and marsh-marigolds clustered on boggy ground, where, to great hilarity, Beth lost a shoe and gained a muddy sock. We were stung by nettles. Searched for soothing docken leaves. Shins and calves stained green, we stripped off socks and shoes and paddled in the chilly crystal waters of a burn. Pebbles jaggy beneath our toes, tiny fish tickling our ankles. We roamed Big Wood, renowned in late spring as a bluebell paradise – and nicknamed locally as Bluebell Planting. Thousands of the iconic flowers were spread like a violet cloak across the woodland floor. An abundance of bluebells can indicate ancient woodland, dating back centuries, and certainly Bluebell Planting has a strong connection to Ayrshire’s past. Deep among the trees, alongside a burn and being reclaimed by nature, are the ruined remains of the 12th century motte and bailey of Arclowden Castle – reputedly the home of Lady Margaret Crawford, mother of William Wallace.

Folklore suggests that bluebell woods are enchanted; bluebells are said to ring to summon fairies. But we never heard any bells or saw any fairies. We only heard beautiful birdsong and saw squirrels scampering up oak trees to hide in foliage and the white scuts of rabbits disappearing among the flowers.

Fifty years on, and I still walk these riverbank and woodland paths. Not much has changed. Some trees have gone and the dam has long since been demolished, but the bluebells blossom at Big Wood – still a magnificent blue-purple haze stretching as far as the eye can see.

Nowadays I take my camera with me on my rambles, snapping shots of snowdrops and thistles, herons and hares, flowering hawthorn and ripe brambles. Only last week, I was overjoyed to capture my first image of a kingfisher, vivid amber and teal, regally perched on a low branch overhanging the Irvine, a fish clamped in his beak.

Without doubt, those old Ladybird books sparked my curiosity, inspiring a lifelong love of nature and I’ve happy memories of our innocent childhood treks of the 1970s, when we experienced a taste of freedom and independence our own children a few decades later would not be allowed.

And what happened to my Ladybirds? Well, I still have them. And treasure them. My own kids enjoyed them too.

Today, their dustcovers are long missing and their yellowed pages exude a slight musty odour. But they are tucked away, top shelf, on my hall bookcase.

Patiently waiting to be handed down to my future grandchildren.