Elliot Lane, Beth McFarland and Geraldine Blake respond to an article on how to make your outdoor space into a diverse habitat

I couldn’t agree more with your article on bringing wildlife into your garden (Build a hedgehog highway! 33 ways to welcome more wildlife into your garden, 26 June). If all of us who own a garden or other outdoor space could do one or two things to encourage wildlife, it would have a huge impact. There is a difference between gardening for wildlife and rewilding, and that is scale. I don’t have a large garden, so planting needs to earn its place. The trees I planted have blossom and fruit; I have three ponds, birdhouses and bee hotels; and I make sure I plant open flowers for pollinators. I was amazed how quickly the wildlife came.
Elliot Lane
Brighouse, West Yorkshire

• I live in Germany and have a garden that was a haven for my daughter and her friends growing up. I can’t bear imposing a hierarchy of my own devising on it, so I only subdue the real bullies such as ground elder and ground ivy. There’s wildlife, and I needed to make a pact with the voles. They can eat what they want after it has flowered, not before. Once they have munched their way across the garden, the ground is perfect for replanting.

The 10,000 miles of coastline host a stunning variety of creatures, so put on a diving mask or just a pair of wellies and go on the hunt

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If you go down to the sea today, there’s a good chance you will find something you’ve never seen before. With more than 10,000 miles of coastline and a rich mix of habitats, the Great British seaside is the perfect place for wildlife encounters. Whether you fancy a spot of beachcombing, rock pooling, bird watching or fish following, there’s plenty to keep you busy. With a few simple pointers on where and how to look, there are hundreds of coastal species to find. Grab a pair of wellies or a wetsuit and dive mask and the British coast is all yours to explore.

Study shows population on Arctic island was stable until sudden demise, countering theory of ‘genomic meltdown’

The last woolly mammoths on Earth took their final stand on a remote Arctic island about 4,000 years ago, but the question of what sealed their fate has remained a mystery. Now a genetic analysis suggests that a freak event such as an extreme storm or a plague was to blame.

The findings counter a previous theory that harmful genetic mutations caused by inbreeding led to a “genomic meltdown” in the isolated population. The latest analysis confirms that although the group had low genetic diversity, a stable population of a few hundred mammoths had occupied the island for thousands of years before suddenly vanishing.

After being introduced to the state in the 1970s, there are now more attacks by moose than by puma and bears combined. Has the species become too successful?

One morning in the winter of 1978, a handful of state wildlife staff huddled together in the Uinta Mountains in north-eastern Utah. Deep snows coated the peaks and filled the valleys. A pair of helicopters cruised over the frozen landscape, helping those on the ground search for their prize: a cow moose in a snowy meadow.

Crouched in one of the aircraft, a man aimed his rifle: there was a sharp report, and the cow took off at a run. Within minutes her legs went wobbly as the tranquilliser in the dart took effect, and the crew landed and got to work.

Walking a 100-mile stretch of coastline reveals how a pioneering project is transforming the seascape, rivers and land

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On a blustery morning in May on Shoreham-by-Sea’s west beach, Eric Smith and George Short are pointing out treasures the waves have left on the tideline. Cuttlefish bones and balls of whelk eggs, they say, are evidence of recovering marine habitats.

“Just give nature a bit of space and it will come back,” says Smith, 76, a former lorry driver by trade, freediver by choice. He first started diving off the Sussex coast at the age of 11, and still recalls the underwater “garden of Eden” of his childhood, a kelp forest teeming with bream, lobsters and cuttlefish that stretched for 25 miles (40km) between Shoreham and Selsey Bill. It vanished after years of intensive trawling, a destructive form of fishing involving dragging heavy nets along the seabed.

Whelk eggs and seaweed. Photograph: Urszula Sołtys/the Guardian

We asked a naturalist, a writer, a champion surfer, a walker, a forager and a yoga teacher to tell us what makes the seaside so special

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Steve Backshall – Sandaig Bay, Scotland