Crafting a call of the wild
Fewer than 50 people are thought to have walked on Sutton Fen, an area of pristine fenland nestled in the heart of the Norfolk Broads, in the last 50 years: less than have seen Earth from space. Nick, Alex and I are among them - that's what I call a perk of the job. My notes from the visit on a brooding, sultry day last summer, scrawled as we squelched through marsh, vegetation shoulder-high, record the barrage on our senses: "scent of watermint… bog myrtle… 'Sedges have edges' sharp ones!… waterlilies, ranunculus, crystal water… sound of insects, quiet enough to hear wings… red admiral butterfly sits on hemp agrimony… marsh harrier on v-shaped wings."
The brief was to raise more than £400,000 towards the RSPB's purchase of Sutton Fen at a total cost of £1.5million. After a string of similar land-purchase-based appeals, our challenge was to bring to life the truly immense conservation value of this place.
"Let's write a letter from the Fen!", said Nick. We were muddy, sweaty, covered in horsefly bites, and on the train back to London. I dismissed his outburst as the raving of a lunatic, or possibly heat-stroke. Back in the office, cleaned up and rehydrated, he remained adamant. I was, I admit, unconvinced, but willing to give it my best effort. But as our concept developed I saw a chance this approach could work.
Our client wanted to be challenged, frightened even, pushed to take a risk with the creative. We took him at his word. The RSPB responded magnificently, and their courage paid off: the appeal has raised almost £500,000 to date.
The outer envelope invokes the reader to 'Listen… can you hear my call?' Inside, supporting elements include a short letter from the manager responsible for the area, and a briefing on the decline of Britain's wetlands. But the main piece is a poster, the call from Sutton Fen, which you can read below.
Personally, I'm proud of everyone involved in the success of this piece. The visit to the Fen was critical – if we hadn't experienced this magical place for ourselves, there is simply no way we would have come up with this creative execution. Nick's idea trod the line between insanity and genius and together we tipped it over to the positive side of the equation. The RSPB trusted their donors to respond to a very different kind of mailing than they were used to - we tried to touch on the spiritual relationship that some people have with wilderness, balancing it against the risk of losing this unspoilt landscape.
I'll leave you with the call of the Fen, below.
Anna Crofton
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Before you ever walked on earth, I stood here. After you are gone, will I remain? I have marked the years since before anyone can remember with the boom of bitterns in spring, the coming and going of cranes with the seasons. Summer after summer, the air above me has buzzed and flashed with moths and dragonflies which dart in the soft breath of the fen, and butterflies danced in the scent of watermint and bog myrtle.
High above all a marsh harrier hangs. On v-shaped wings she scans her domain, my domain, our domain. We are not water, landscape, plants, insects, birds, species. We are one, one being, one fen: each depends on the other. Without them, I am only soil. Without me, they are nowhere.
Here, there is peace… a stillness which is never still, as a myriad of wings beat the passing of the years. A quiet which on closer listening rustles with the creepings and scurryings of uncountable lives. A quiet which hears the ruffle of a hobby's wing; the quiet splash of the otter as she dives in glassy-dark water beneath a water-lily's leaf.
Once, before anyone can remember, this fen stretched further than the birds could see. Mile on mile of sedge and helleborine, fen orchid and milk parsley. The people came, gradually, so gradually it seemed inconsequential, and after time their boats and buildings, their roads and cars, their factories and shops… they came around me but never found me. I was not trodden underfoot. Somehow here, around one corner too many, I was forgotten. All around me the fens disappeared under farms, ploughed and planted, edged by icecream vans and sunburnt backs but I – I am still here.
But I am not safe. When I am gone I will not return. Tell me: is there room for me, for wilderness, today? Is there space for a place untouched by time? In the race for the future will I, a rare and fragile corner, be crushed?
Lost?
Forever?
