I was checking the beans at the Glebe when something else caught my eye; a newly hatched migrant hawker dragonfly, so new that the veins on its wings were not yet full of blood and traceable. The wings themselves seemed as delicate as a bubble but they would soon be taking this creature at high speed around the garden and riverbank, snapping up mosquitoes.
Welcome, Mr Dragonfly!
The catalpa in the Park is especially grand this year.
When we looked at the bug hotel the other day, we saw this scattering of wood dust, a sure sign that some creature has dug its way in, or more likely its way out of, one of the logs. We’ve also seen spiders’ webs, so it looks like some residents are ready to eat other residents.
I don’t fancy going on holiday to stay in an hotel like that!
Here is a post about the old and new bug hotels.
It was already warm at 10.00, so we took our walk early. I had a foraging bag in my pocket and spent a few minutes in the scented shade of a lime, or linden, tree, gathering the blossom to dry for tea – a soporific I’m told – and working alongside the bees, hive and humble.
I’m always reminded of a primary school teacher who insisted, heavy-handedly, that there were no green flowers, but see above; and that grass was always green. See above and below. Use your eyes!
Use your eyes? It was our ears alerted us to the peacock, but he is surprisingly well camouflaged in the dappled shade below. His markings effectively break up the outline of his body; he looks like part of the tree and part of the shadow.
Final picture, another bird whose camouflage is effective. This wood pigeon is sitting in next door’s birch tree; the passageway between the two human houses channels and increases whatever wind there may be. Pigeon is probably enjoying a gentle breeze.
The first ripe blackberry today, only a few days later than usual.
Mrs Turnstone’s proposal of a few days in Sussex was inspired. We went to Pett Level, long a family favourite beach. The pebbles are relaxing to look at, relaxing to lie upon.
The south-facing beach can glow in many shades of blue;on this warm day, following rain, clouds were forming on shore and at sea.
Looking inland from the same spot; Romney Marsh is protected by the sea wall, so high that not even top deck bus passengers can sea the see from the road just below us. Romney Marsh sheep and red Sussex cattle grazing. A little along the coast and the dunes were held in place by a miniature forest, largely of elder. At the base we found stonecrop, poppies, ragged robin and viper’s bugloss.
In a wet woodland we were surrounded by orchids, yet more beautiful when seen in close-up. The resident wild boar did not disturb us.
Usually I am cycling when I pass this tree, so despite going by for decades, I never till now looked, nor noticed the nuts forming, probably a week behind in size.
We’ll probably refrain from foraging here, as this tree grows near the top of the city wall. Nuts are accessible from the wall path, where there is exposure to traffic fumes day and night. Those protected by the wall from pollution will be beyond our reach!
But we know where to look!
Let’s have a little poem to celebrate the great outdoors. Sadly, the number of thrushes seem to be declining fast in Kent, though I came across a thrush’s anvil yesterday; there was one in our garden, many years ago. If you never saw it, you won’t know you’ve lost it. A thrush’s anvil is the stone s/he uses to bash snails against until the flesh can be extracted. This one was on gravel, so the shells hardly showed against the pebbles, of a similar shape, size and colour to the shells, so I brought two smashed shells home. I hope the thrushes’ chicks prosper and restore their fortunes in Kent.
The poem was probably written in Florence, where Walter Savage Landor had gone after quarrelling with most of his friends and enemies in England. Robert Browning took him under his wing.
Damon was sitting in the grove
With Phyllis, and protesting love;
And she was listening; but no word
Of all he loudly swore she heard.
How! was she deaf then? no, not she,
Phyllis was quite the contrary.
Tapping his elbow, she said, ‘Hush!
O what a darling of a thrush!
I think he never sang so well
As now, below us, in the dell.’
Imaginary Conversations and Poems, A Selection, by Walter Savage Landor via Kindle
I’m reminded of George’s primary school teacher, who complained that at the end of a difficult lesson when she had been introducing a new maths topic, she saw him looking out of the window. ‘There’s a female blackbird on the grass, Miss.’
When he got home, he said that he had stopped paying attention once he understood the maths, and got on with birdwatching.
Will Turnstone 