Wednesday wildflower: old man's beard.

“Old man’s beard must go,” said the not-so-young bearded botanist David Bellamy some years ago on TV, and we all knew this was a serious weed that threatened to smother our native forests.  Since then, it’s not as common as it used to be.  The efforts of the Department of Conservation, local and regional councils, community groups, and individual landowners have largely seen off the worst infestations in many places.  But around Wellington city, and probably many other places, there are little pockets of old man’s beard everywhere.  My guess is it’s waiting for our vigilance to let up and it’ll be back with a vengeance.

Old man's beard fruits, Northland, Wellington.

Old man’s beard is called traveller’s joy in England, which goes to show that one country’s wildflower is often another’s weed.  The local name refers to the fluffy white plumes on the seeds.  More accurately (with my pedantic botanist’s hat on) these aren’t seeds but fruits, each bearing a single seed inside a loose-fitting fruit wall.  The flower, like many in the buttercup family, has multiple separate pistils, each with its own ovary, style and stigma.  After pollination, the pistils from a flower mature into a cluster of separate 1-seeded fruits, each with the fluffy remains of the style to form a plume that assists in wind dispersal.

One of the practical problems with a public eradication campaign is that people need to be able to recognise the target weed, and not try to eradicate look-alikes.  Many people worry that they might be pulling up one of the native Clematis instead, so I thought this week a few notes about these plants might be useful.

First, old man’s beard (Clematis vitalba) is one of just two species in New Zealand with once-pinnate leaves; they have a central axis with a terminal leaflet and two pairs of lateral leaflets.  The other species that’s characterised by once-pinnate leaves is C. maximowiciana, but its leaves are more leathery than the leaves of old man’s beard; also it has larger flowers, 30–50 mm diameter.  Most of the other species have three leaflets although these can be quite finely divided.  Two species, C. tangutica (yellow flowers) and C. flammula (white flowers), have twice-pinnate leaves (the pinnae [leaflets] are themselves pinnately divided).  The native C. afoliata has no leaves at all, just the leaf stalks that twine around supporting shrubs’ stems.

Old man's beard flowers, Kakariki, Manawatu.  They are mostly 12–25 mm diameter

Secondly, the introduced species mostly have 4 sepals in each flower, but many (not all) of the native ones have six.  All the introduced Clematis have hermaphrodite flowers (with functional stamens and pistils) whereas the natives all have unisexual flowers on separate plants (flowers have either stamens or pistils, but never both).

Clematis forsteri, a native species.  Pale yellow male flowers with 6 sepals.  If you see these, don't just look, sniff too: many are sweetly scented.

Most of the native Clematis flower in the springtime or even late winter (some plants of C. forsteri are in flower now in late July).  Old man’s beard is a summer-flowering plant, mostly from December to May.

Clematis paniculata, another native species, male flowers.

Old man's beard flowers are greenish white.  Most natives have pale or greenish yellow flowers, although the large (and unisexual) flowers of C. paniculata are pure white, C. marata and C. marmoraria are white or greenish, and C. marata quadribracteolata (corrected 4 September 2013) brown or purplish brown.  Finally, the introduced Clematis are all deciduous whereas the natives are all evergreen (except poor C. afoliata, which hasn’t got leaves to lose).

Old man's beard still must go, but let's hope no native Clematis get pulled out instead by well-meaning weed-busters.  The Flora treatment for their identification is on line at Landcare Research's website and you can find pictures identified by botanists at the Naturewatch site..

Wednesday wildflower: Red carpet, brown carpet

When I use the term wildflower, it's often to avoid the judgmental term "weed".  I like most plants, and if other people have species they don't like, well, that doesn't necessarily stop me enjoying them.  Furthermore, plants we designate as weeds are often biologically very interesting.  To a botanist, the term "weediness" has an ecological meaning that signifies more than a nuisance plant.

Pōhutukawa flowers

One of the interesting things weeds do well is reproduce.  All that any plant or animal needs to do is to reproduce itself at least once, but because an outcrossing sexual plant or animal contributes only one of its two sets of genes to each offspring it must do it twice to break even.  Even then, reproducing a few times doesn't guarantee the survival of all your genetic material, because which copies of genes get into a sperm or egg is random.  But some plants seem to reproduce in overdrive.

Weeds often succeed because they out-reproduce other plants.  Some are long-lived and may spread vegetatively, but others produce huge numbers of seeds.

A few red stamens have accumulated in the gutter beneath these trees, but sometimes, if it's not windy, a thick red carpet can build up.

Today's wildflower is a weed in the biological sense, but to New Zealanders it's a much-loved native flowering tree, the pōhutukawa, Metrosideros excelsa.  Pōhutukawa puts a lot of effort into reproduction, and that's probably why it's an unwanted weed in some other parts of the world where it has been introduced as an ornamental, like South Africa and Hawai'i.  Some people also consider it a weed in parts of New Zealand that are outside of its native range, such as Wellington, because it's invasive and aggressive there too.

A cluster of pōhutukawa flowers; each individual flower has about 25 red stamens (with yellow anthers) and one red style.

Pōhutukawa reproduction seems wasteful.  The trees flower profusely around Christmas time in New Zealand and in the later part of each flower's life the bright red stamens fall to the ground where they can form a thick red carpet.  This isn't over-production particularly; it's just that the red stamens are so visible and there are so many flowers producing them.  They can be dispensed with once their pollen has been dispersed.  They're visible for a good reason: pōhutukawa is primarily pollinated by birds (tūī, bellbirds, but also silvereyes and starlings) and the red colour attracts them because birds see well in the red wavelengths.

A bit later in the summer, many of the old flowers themselves fall.  I guess these are flowers that aren't setting seed; they no longer have a function and the plant can discard them.  I don't know whether these are functionally male flowers or simply flowers that didn't get pollinated, but these form a pale grey-green carpet for a time.

Pōhutukawa seeds in the gutter, Kelburn, Wellington

The third big dump of reproductive material is happening about now in Wellington, and that's the dispersal of seeds in their millions.  Most of these are never going to germinate.  They pile up in gutters, on footpaths, and at the bases of walls.  I'd like to do a rough calculation of the weight of stamens, aborted flowers, and seeds produced by a large pōhutukawa tree in a season; I think we'd all be surprised.  Multiply that, whatever it is, by the number of trees in Wellington and that's a lot of biomass falling to the ground each year.

Pōhutukawa seeds.

This prodigious reproductive effort is one of the attributes that makes pōhutukawa such a successful plant, and it's a trait normally associated with weediness.  No wonder then that our Christmas tree has become a pest in places.

Lila's big day out.

It’s ANZAC Day, New Zealand’s day to remember the war dead.  It’s an important day for my family too, because we arrived in New Zealand on ANZAC Day (April 25) 1955 on the MV Ruahine. 

Today it rained on and off all morning, so when the sun came out after lunch we had to get out for a walk.  Rufus was happy inside, but Lila was out in the garden and decided to follow us.  We tried to outrun her, but in the end decided to give in and let her come with us.

So she tagged along quite happily for the first 500m or so and then seemed to get a bit tired.  She was very wary the whole time, probably because she was out of her territory and in a place of new smells and sounds.

You might feel it’s wrong to take a cat into the bush, especially so close to Zealandia.  First, she’s not a hunter (yes I know cat owners always say that, like dog owners say their dogs don’t bite).  Secondly, she was too busy keeping up with us and watching her back.  Thirdly, and I know it’s not a valid argument but I’ll make it anyway, lots of cat-owning households back onto that bush and people walk their dogs there all the time.  I agree with Gareth Morgan that cats should be enclosed so they can’t hunt birds and lizards.

It’s autumn now.  The drought is well and truly behind us and fruits and fungi were the features of this walk.

Favolaschia calocera

Favolaschia calocera is an introduced fungus that lives on dead wood.  It’s become very common around Wellington.  Under the cap are large pores instead of gills.

Under the cap of Favolaschia calocera are honeycombed pores.

Buds of kohekohe, Dysoxylum spectabile.

Kohekohe (Dysoxylum spectabile) is going to have a bumper flowering this year.  The sprays of small white flowers are produced on the tree trunks, and a number were quite low down.  When these open, I’ll easily be able to reach them and get good photos.  Individual trees are either male or female, although some males can set a few fruits.

Outside the bush, the track follows the Zealandia pest-proof fence alongside a clay banks with a nice range of mosses and lichens and a view of the harbour.  We didn’t go far along, because Lila was clearly getting tired by now.

Passiflora fruits, one eaten by birds

Native passion flower (Passiflora tetrandra) was in fruit.  Orange rinds littered the ground where birds had opened the fruits for their meagre pulp and few seeds.  I found one intact one.

Inside the Passiflora fruit are bright red seeds and pulp.

The fruit has three parts (carpels) and the ovules and (later) seeds are attached in three rows to the outer walls where they join.

Home at last, Lila staggered in the door and immediately collapsed on the cool wooden floor.  She’ll sleep well tonight.

45 years on—10th April 1968.

Forty-five years ago I was a first year student at Victoria University of Wellington, studying Botany, Zoology, and Chemistry.  On April 10th, I woke up early, before seven, to the howling of the wind and the house creaking and shaking.  It was a very strong single-story house – Dad designed it with earthquakes in mind and the builder claimed it was “overbuilt” – so it didn’t creak often.  I don’t recall if I was worried, but I was certainly surprised by the strength of the wind, the constant roar of noise, and the shaking.  In the hallway outside my bedroom I met Dad on his way back from the bathroom.  He told me the inter-island ferry Wahine was aground on Barrett’s reef, but that everyone was safe.  The wind is said to have peaked that day at 275 km/h.  NIWA has published a catalogue of weather extremes, damage, injury, and loss of life that day.  Our house in Linden was at a similar altitude and exposure to Kelburn, where they recorded just under 200 km/h.

At breakfast we debated about going in to work (Dad) and university (me).  It was probably after breakfast that the power went off, ruling out our usual transport, the electric trains.  Then a neighbor called to say her husband had tried to drive into town and had turned back because it was too windy on the motorway.  We decided to sit tight.

I guess it was mid-morning when the roof blew off the house next door but one.  For some reason, Dad and I were in the laundry watching the storm from there, so we saw the iron sheets lift off one by one and fly tumbling through the air towards us.  Dad had the presence of mind to get me out of the room and close the door; however no iron hit the house, but it did demolish our fence where some sheets embedded end-on 5mm into the wood.  Dad and I dashed across the intervening section to help our neighbors evacuate the house.  I foolishly sprinted through the swirling iron; he sensibly ducked around the back out of its flight path. 

Minor damage at home, 10 April 1968

At some stage during the morning our 5m Norfolk pine (Araucaria excelsa: Dad used to call it the Alka-Seltzer) tipped over at about 30˚ off the vertical.  We watched a tree across the road thrash itself out of the ground and then roll end-over-end down the street like a giant tumbleweed, never to be seen again.

Some time in the early afternoon everything went calm.  We thought it was the eye of the storm, and expected the wind to pick up again from the north, but it was all over.  I don’t recall hearing more about the Wahine until the TV news that night.  My memories of that are all mixed up with what I’ve heard since.  Fifty-four people died in that storm, 51 on the Wahine.  The display at Wellington's Museum of City & Sea captures it all; it still makes me tear up.

Students who did turn up for lectures had an exciting morning, they told me later.  Prof Gordon had valiantly tried to give the Botany I lecture, but abandoned it when slates from the roof of the Hunter Building started crashing through the lecture room windows.

Smashed pine trees, Colonial Knob, Wellington, 1968

 The following weekend was Easter, and I went tramping in the Tararuas with two friends.  Another friend couldn’t come because his cross country running club had volunteered to search the south coast for bodies.  On Cone Saddle we encountered a whole beech forest tipped over.  We ended up having to climb among the fallen trees to get through, sometimes walking along logs that were 5m above the ground. 

At home, we fixed the fence and pulled the Norfolk pine upright again.  For me, the day had been pretty benign really, but I still think about it every time 10 April comes around.  For many people, I guess life took a sudden and unexpected turn that day.  People survive a lot worse—Christchurch earthquakes, the Sept. 11 attacks in New York, let alone the blitz, Dresden, or Hiroshima—but these things all leave their mark.

Bring the Aurora back to Wellington.

Wellington Harbour, from Johnson's Hill.

Wellington City curves in a gentle arc around its waterfront, a vast public playground that's the envy of many other cities.  Because of its almost land-locked harbour and its position on the southern tip of the North Island, Wellington has always been a maritime city and I think it always will be.

Sculptures make the waterfront an attractive and engaging place, but imagine a tall ship here!

On any fine day, the waterfront is thronged with walkers, runners, cyclists, skaters, rowers, fishers, swimmers, diners, and sightseers, all enjoying the cafes, museums, sculptures, wildlife, and the shipping.  But it doesn't have two facilities that many other waterfront cities enjoy: an aquarium and a tall ship.

Insert tall ship here.

Others have been busy working towards an aquarium, and although it looks like it's not going to happen on the waterfront it is happening.  But for a while now I've been musing about a tall ship for Wellington.  I don't have the personality or the connections to drive such a project, but after a few years of dreaming about this, I thought the least I could do was to write a blog post and put the idea out there.

Tall ships visit here from time to time of course, and in the old days the harbour was full of them (above).  In recent years the Spirit of New Zealand and the Spirit of Adventure have been occasional visitors, and the replica Endeavour and several naval training ships have paid us a call, to great public interest and enthusiasm.  Now I think it's time the capital city had a tall ship of its own.

The Endeavour replica in Wellington Harbour.

Our tall ship would be a link with our city's 19th century origins and would emphasize our maritime environment.  It'd be ideal to have a replica of one of our first immigrant ships, such as the Aurora.  The Aurora was a one of class of elegant ships called "Blackwall Frigates".  There are plans available for the class, if not for the Aurora itself.  Wouldn't it be an adventure to build it in New Zealand!

La Hogue, a Blackwall Frigate (The Illustrated London News', August 11th, 1855)

Our tall ship would be a tourist attraction.  It would add so much to the atmosphere of the waterfront, and it could be self-funding through cruises, much as tall ships are all over the world.  In my mind I can see it moored outside Te Papa.

Tall ships everywhere often double for youth leadership and confidence training.  That's a role Wellington could value too.  Sailing such a ship in Cook Strait has got to be character-building.  The Spirit of Adventure Trust has included Wellington youngsters on its cruises, but its ship Spirit of New Zealand is based in Auckland.

Last but not least, it'd simply be cool.

How much would a tall ship cost?

I've no doubt that building a replica Aurora would be an expensive proposition well into the tens of millions, but doing it would provide training and employment here in Wellington so a fair proportion of that cost would find its way back into our economy.  Buying an existing ship would be cheaper, although it wouldn't have the historical links with the city.  Look at this lovely steel brig for example: the asking price of 4.3 million euros would leave a little change out of NZ$7M.  That's not too bad.

Who would pay for it?

Personally, I don't believe it's the city council's role to bankroll items like this, but the council does support other projects, especially when they are tourist attractions or provide employment in the region.  Public subscription is another option, with different classes of donors promised something back: maybe a cruise if you give $2000, a free visit if you give $200 or pay an annual subscription to a trust.  There are probably groups in the city, service clubs and the like, who would willingly raise funds.  And corporate donations and sponsorship should be welcomed; at least one I can think of already has a close relationship with Wellington's winds.  Ideally, the ship would be self-supporting once purchased, but that might not be realistic.  There's plenty of experience around the world of running tall ships, and no doubt lots of enthusiastic people who'd be happy to help us get started.

So what do you think?  If you like the idea, pass it along by word of mouth and social media, comment below, or just click the "cool" box at the bottom of this article.  Let's get Wellington's wind in our sails!

Mast, top, shrouds, and yard.  Endeavour replica.