2. British Lizards...
The
Common Lizard, Lacerta vivipara.
Female Sand Lizard, Lacerta agilis. Merseyside.
This page was originally a long,
rambling account of my (few) reminiscences of lizards. That text is still here,
below these new notes. But we begin with
these excellent photographs of the two species of lizard which occur on the
British mainland. Both photographers have kindly given permission for them to
appear here. The Common Lizard is to be found in suitable habitats, Google tells
us, all over the
When this page was first written, I
could find no non-copyright image of a Common Lizard, so left the space blank,
and went on to speculate whether a ‘green lizard’ I saw in Anglesey as a kid,
about 1950, might have been a Sand Lizard. It does not occur there any longer.
Helen O’Connell happened to find the web-page, and kindly sent the photo. on
the left which she took in
So everything’s fine, really. Still,
there’s no mistaking the two prominent light stripes down the back of both
sexes of the Sand Lizard – this is apparently a strong diagnostic feature for this
species.
These lizards, along with all other
life-forms, are lovely entities which we may – or may not – be lucky enough to
see. The work being done to preserve and conserve their populations is of
inestimable value, not only to prevent them from extinction per se, but also to help preserve the self-esteem
of the human race. Many would say that the priority lies with preserving human
lives. I strongly agree; but unless we can successfully preserve just the flora
and fauna of our world, how can we possibly hope to start on the far more formidable
task of preserving humanity itself?
I conclude with a 55-year old quote, a
doleful one, but which has been justified to an alarming degree. These are the
last lines of the text of Professor E B Ford’s book ‘Moths’ (Collins, London
1955):
“There can be little doubt how in the near future we
shall treat some of the butterflies and moths, in common with other
animals and with plants, which grace and glorify the
English landscape today. We shall destroy them.”
And so to the original and now-trivial text of this page…
I remember the first lizard I saw ‘in the
wild’. It was in
The next time I saw lizards must have
been nearly forty years ago in northern Spain. It was early afternoon in high
summer, and my friend and I were beginning to realise the truth in Noel Cowards
title: ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen…’ We were on a camping holiday, visiting sites
in south-west France and northern Spain where prehistoric cave paintings could
be seen. We were heading towards Altamira, but the afternoon was so hot we were
baking in the old van we were driving, and so we stopped and escaped from the
sun behind an old stone wall. Though still very hot, it was agreeable to lie
torpid in the shade, propped up against the wall. After a few minutes a lizard
emerged from concealment. It was soon followed by others, and eventually maybe
ten or twelve of them were slowly foraging for whatever they fed upon. But
these were drab coloured, sluggish creatures, and rather unprepossessing,
resembling tiny versions of the iguanas of the sort television documentaries on
the Galapagos Islands have made familiar. Though, of course, they were in no
way less adapted to their grey and dusty environment in northern Spain than my
original green lizard was to the verdant Isle of Anglesey.
The lizard with which this story is
concerned, however, did not make its appearance until about ten years ago.
Staying in Bed and Breakfast accommodation for several nights can be rather inconvenient
for a musician with much equipment and two or three instrument cases to cart
around. So I have long been in the habit of taking a tent and other basic
equipment, and camping out whenever I have to stay for several days in one
place. It was during one of these expeditions – to Bude, in Cornwall – that the
lizard was accidentally ‘gathered in’ while folding the tent &c. I had been
back at home for nearly a fortnight and in spite of my lackadaisical methods,
the car had long been cleared of all the camping impedimenta. But I needed to
consult the road atlas to plan the route to an engagement. So I went out in the
street to the car, where, as usual, the road atlas was lying on the passenger
seat. I picked it up, then put it back.
“That’s funny,” I said to myself. “I
could have sworn I saw something that looked like a lizard.”
I rather thought that lizards are not
usually found in densely populated areas three miles from the centre of
Birmingham. I gingerly lifted the atlas again. There was indeed a lizard there.
Its tongue flickered out and in, evaluating the change that had occurred in its
environment. I gently replaced the atlas, latched the car door, and went back
into the house to fetch an old polythene ice cream container.
“This lizard must have come from
Bude!” I muttered, “and has been stuck in the car for a fortnight! It’s amazing
it’s still alive; I hope it’s uninjured. In any case, it must be rescued from
this unfavourable situation.”
Returning with the container, I opened
the door and slowly removed the atlas altogether. The lizard glanced from side
to side, obviously concerned.
“Now look here,” I told it, “all you
need to do is to get into this admittedly not very prepossessing polythene box,
and before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ you will be much better off and…” But
the lizard, being active due to the high temperature in the car (it was only
September and sun was still high), darted away somewhere in the car
disconcertingly fast, and disappeared.
There was really nothing much to be
done, though I became mindful of the ‘urban legend’ of the couple who bought a
second-hand car that was all right at first, but after a week or two developed
a bad smell inside. After weeks of frustration and even worse smell, the
solution was found. The previous owners had lost their pet python, which had
snaked its way into the roof-space of their car, which they had already decided
to sell, and eventually died there…
Of course, I tried not to think of the
Cornish lizard, which had been so arbitrarily plucked from its domicile. But I
did leave the ice cream container in the car, ‘just in case’. Two weeks later,
I arrived at an engagement, and took the instrument cases from the boot of the
car. The lizard looked up at me. I called another musician who was unloading
his car, who held the polythene box while I ‘shooed’ the lizard toward him, and
he unerringly captured it, just as if he did that sort of thing all the time.
The following day, I took it, in a
small aquarium that I happened to have, to the Birmingham Nature Centre.
“It’s in the car.” I explained; “Can I
hand it over to you to look after?”
“It’s probably a newt.” observed the
functionary, affably, presumably long used to children bringing them in.
“No,” I replied sententiously, “it has
a forked tongue that goes out and in.”
I was almost tempted to add that I had
been long accustomed to observing lizards in the wild, but refrained from doing
so: for as well as being something of an exaggeration, it would also have been
facetious. I carried in the aquarium.
“Ah yes! A Common Lizard. And in
excellent condition too!”
At first I had an inclination to laugh
at the fact that the hapless creature had spent a whole month living in my car but
was yet still in ‘excellent condition’. But realisation soon came of the fact
that firstly: it would have had no shortage of drinking water. For over twenty
years I have only been able to afford very old cars, and puddles of rainwater
in them were commonplace. Secondly: moths, flies and other members of the insecta
were still abundant – even in a car – in early October. And perhaps, at a
pinch, a hungry lizard would not scruple to dine off bits of broken crisps and
the crumbs of sandwiches which musicians are often forced to eat en route
to an engagement when they know, as it all too often the case, there will not
be time for a proper meal, and still less chance of one being considerately
provided by the clients. No, the lizard’s greatest peril would have been during
the loading of instrument cases into the boot (trunk), or the flinging of music
cases onto the back seat.
“There are several colonies of the
common lizard in the Lickey Hills” the Nature Centre officer informed me, “and
when we go out there next, we’ll take this lizard along and liberate it in one
of them, and it will be all right.”
So you see, sometimes things have a
Happy Ending! I mean, the Lickey Hills population of Lacerta vivipara
would undoubtedly benefit from the input to their gene-pool of a far-distant
cousin.
The only thing I worried about for some
time was: how on earth would the Cornish
and ‘Brummie’ lizards, having mutually incomprehensible speech dialects,
communicate with each other?
In the
end, I decided that the Imperatives of Nature would undoubtedly overcome any
such trivialities.
Return
to Diary of a Musician.
Page revised
21st January 2010.