Saving nature or saving money?

The government avoids more questions than it answers on England's woodlands.

Over the past month, opposition to the government's proposal to sell off up to 15,000 hectares of English forest and woodland has been gradually mounting. A few days ago, Environment Secretary Caroline Spelman responded to her critics in the Guardian, claiming to be "setting the record straight on the sale of England's woodlands". However, she avoids more questions than she answers.

She addresses the more sensationalist suggestions - namely that woodlands could be sold off in a "free-for-all of golf courses, holiday parks or housing developments" - but ignores the central issues: access to the countryside, tree planting, and how, if at all, her plans will actually help biodiversity.

Spelman says that a major motivation for the plans is the "need to enhance biodiversity", including planting more trees and of the right sort. However, she makes no mention of how exactly selling off the Forestry Commission's forests would help with this goal, and how new, private forest owners would do a better job.

She points out that "[a]round 70 per cent of England's woodland is already under private ownership - some of them already participating in woodland schemes that actively preserve the environmental and public benefits our woodlands deliver", but this in itself does not justify her proposals.

Moreover, while the new owners would still be subject to planning and forestry regulations, it is not at all clear how new forms of management would differ from that of the Forestry Commission. In particular, our Environment Secretary avoids mentioning how, if at all, public access to the woodlands would be altered. There is also no mention of how the sale would work: would conservation and other environmentally-conscious organisations be treated preferentially?

Earlier this year, a government economic study estimated that the Forestry Commission provides £2100 per hectare in value if benefits such as carbon sequestration, protection from erosion, and absorbing pollution are accounted for. The government needs to show that its reforms will not damage the natural capital behind these environmental services, and ideally that they will enhance it. So far they have done neither.

There is also the question of where the money for acceptable private management of England's forests is going to come from. Charities' incomes face heavy cuts over the next few years as a result of the coalition's austerity measures. Philanthropy cannot realistically be expected to take up all the slack left by the roll-back of the state.

Depending on who is willing and able to purchase the forests, there is no guarantee that the same levels of resources would be available to spend on conservation as the Forestry Commission lose their most profitable land.

Similarly, Spelman makes no mention of how, if at all, the taxpayer can expect to benefit. Before this year's spending review, the Forestry Commission received a £30m annual subsidy, but generated £63m income a year. If the organisation were stripped of its most profitable assets and its income fell, the taxpayer would have to step in to meet any funding gaps.

Indeed, she seems more interested in Cameron's ideological pursuit of a small state for its own sake than in pragmatic cost savings, saying that the plans are "no fire sale by a cash-strapped state". Instead, she suggests that, "frankly, those who live closest are most likely to protect it".

However, like much of the Big Society project, the benefits of her plans seem poorly specified, and based more on wishful thinking than anything else. It's not at all clear that those nearest to forests are the most likely to buy them. And, even if this were the case, it is something of a simplification to conflate geographical proximity with an affinity for conservation.

Spelman says that "[p]ublic is not always good, nor non-public bad.". Quite. But, by the same token, public is not always bad, nor non-public good. She and her ministerial colleagues need to make the case that selling off our forests is not pure ideology and will provide tangible benefits.

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Why is it called Storm Doris? The psychological impact of naming a storm

“Homes being destroyed and lives being lost shouldn’t be named after any person.”

“Oh, piss off Doris,” cried the nation in unison this morning. No, it wasn't that everyone's local cantankerous old lady had thwacked our ankles with her stick. This is a different, more aggressive Doris. Less Werther’s, more extreme weathers. Less bridge club, more bridge collapse.

This is Storm Doris.

A storm that has brought snow, rain, and furious winds up to 94mph to parts of the UK. There are severe weather warnings of wind, snow and ice across the entire country.

But the real question here is: why is it called that? And what impact does the new Met Office policy of naming storms have on us?

Why do we name storms?

Storm Doris is the latest protagonist in the Met Office’s decision to name storms, a pilot scheme introduced in winter 2015/16 now in its second year.

The scheme was introduced to draw attention to severe weather conditions in Britain, and raise awareness of how to prepare for them.

How do we name storms?

The Name our Storms initiative invites the public to suggest names for storms. You can do this by tweeting the @metoffice using the #nameourstorms hashtag and your suggestion, through its Facebook page, or by emailing them.

These names are collated along with suggestions from Met Éireann and compiled into a list. These are whittled down into 21 names, according to which were most suggested – in alphabetical order and alternating between male and female names. This is done according to the US National Hurricane Naming convention, which excludes the letters Q, U, X, Y and Z because there are thought to be too few common names beginning with these letters.

They have to be human names, which is why suggestions in this list revealed by Wired – including Apocalypse, Gnasher, Megatron, In A Teacup (or Ena Tee Cup) – were rejected. The Met Office received 10,000 submissions for the 2016/17 season. According to a spokesperson, a lot of people submit their own names.

Only storms that could have a “medium” or “high” wind impact in the UK and Ireland are named. If there are more than 21 storms in a year, then the naming system starts from Alpha and goes through the Greek alphabet.

The names for this year are: Angus (19-20 Nov ’16), Barbara (23-24 Dec 2016), Conor (25-26 Dec 2016), Doris (now), Ewan, Fleur, Gabriel, Holly, Ivor, Jacqui, Kamil, Louise, Malcolm, Natalie, Oisín, Penelope, Robert, Susan, Thomas, Valerie and Wilbert.

Why does this violent storm have the name of an elderly lady?

Doris is an incongruous name for this storm, so why was it chosen? A Met Office spokesperson says they were just at that stage in their list of names, and there’s no link between the nature of the storm and its name.

But do people send cosy names for violent weather conditions on purpose? “There’s all sorts in there,” a spokesperson tells me. “People don’t try and use cosy names as such.”

What psychological impact does naming storms have on us?

We know that giving names to objects and animals immediately gives us a human connection with them. That’s why we name things we feel close to: a pet owner names their cat, a sailor names their boat, a bore names their car. We even name our virtual assistants –from Microsoft’s Clippy to Amazon’s Alexa.

This gives us a connection beyond practicality with the thing we’ve named.

Remember the response of Walter Palmer, the guy who killed Cecil the Lion? “If I had known this lion had a name and was important to the country or a study, obviously I wouldn’t have taken it,” he said. “Nobody in our hunting party knew before or after the name of this lion.”

So how does giving a storm a name change our attitude towards it?

Evidence suggests that we take it more seriously – or at least pay closer attention. A YouGov survey following the first seven named storms in the Met Office’s scheme shows that 55 per cent of the people polled took measures to prepare for wild weather after hearing that the oncoming storm had been named.

“There was an immediate acceptance of the storm names through all media,” said Gerald Fleming, Head of Forecasting at Met Éireann, the Irish metereological service. “The severe weather messages were more clearly communicated.”

But personalising a storm can backfire. A controversial US study in 2014 by PNAC (Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences) claimed that hurricanes with female names lead to higher death tolls – the more “feminine” the name, like Belle or Cindy, the higher the death toll. This is not because female names are attached to more severe storms; it is reportedly because people take fewer steps to prepare for storms with names they perceive to be unintimidating or weak.

“In judging the intensity of a storm, people appear to be applying their beliefs about how men and women behave,” Sharon Shavitt, a co-author of the study, told the FT at the time. “This makes a female-named hurricane . . . seem gentler and less violent.”

Names have social connotations, and affect our subconscious. Naming a storm can raise awareness of it, but it can also affect our behaviour towards it.

What’s it like sharing a name with a deadly storm?

We should also spare a thought for the impact sharing a name with a notorious weather event can have on a person. Katrina Nicholson, a nurse who lives in Glasgow, says it was “horrible” when the 2005 hurricane – one of the fifth deadliest ever in the US – was given her name.

“It was horrible having something so destructive associated with my name. Homes being destroyed and lives being lost shouldn’t be named after any person,” she tells me over email. “I actually remember at the time meeting an American tourist on a boat trip in Skye and when he heard my name he immediately linked it to the storm – although he quickly felt guilty and then said it was a lovely name! I think to this day there will be many Americans who hate my name because of it.”

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.