What lies beneath

August has a reputation among followers of the natural world for being something of a non-event, but, with a sickle in his hand, John Lewis-Stempel is granted a glimpse of a magical underworld in a field of ripe wheat

- John Lewis-Stempel

'I am no lover of August as a month' BB, 'The Idle Countryman', 1943

NO one stands before me in appreciation of BB (or, to use his real name, Denys Watkins-Pitchford), the greatest countryside writer of the 20th century (Legacy, July 23). He was to his age what Richard Jefferies was to the Victorian era, John Clare to the Georgian. With The Little Grey Men and Brendon Chase, BB can also be counted into the pantheon of children's literature; Wild Lone, a fox's view of life, ostensibly for the young, is wisdom for all ages.

However, about August, he was plain wrong, although the depth of his dislike for it was clearly sincere; in Letters from Compton Deverell, his diary of a Northamptonshire year, he omitted the eighth month entirely. He found little of note in August's countryside, but 'tis a familiar lament among Nature lovers. After all, the birds have largely stopped singing then, even the Duracell chiffchaff. Indeed, a definition of August might be 'bird songlessness'. The wildflowers also seem to have passed their peak, their petals tired and library-dusty. Even the air of August is weak and languorous. BB was correct, too, that 'aftermath', the new green grass following the haycut, has something false about it, 'like a pathetic attempt to recapture youth'.

All this acknowledged, I think I know why BB went awry on August. It's in his remark in