It all feels so good and so fragile. This strange, dangerous summer our small woodland part of Scotland stayed green and seemingly positively throbbing with healthy wildlife. Do we know how lucky we are?
An early morning cup of tea in what I now call the Morning Garden. The bench faces East, it’s a good place to catch the autumn sun and I’m in the best of sunshine company.
Birds are singing even as we enter September and Merlin (the Bird App wizard) identifies what my ear cannot. Ah, so that’s a goldfinch among the more familiar sounds of blackbird, buzzard, wren, thrush, willow warbler. Goldfinch: “Beautiful little finch” says Merlin, “often detected by pleasant bubbling and twittering calls.”
A bee joins us in the fragrant purple spikes of Agustache. Butterflies too. So many I lose count. Lots more on that anonymous mint and the extraordinary bright blue knapweed from St Andrews Botanic garden with an elusive name. And the positively glowing Michaelmas daisies. (I really must get down to compiling a plant list). On an unusually warm morning, late summer flowers are full of feeding red admirals, peacocks, and painted ladies too.
Suddenly a painted lady settles on my hand, happily basking in the sunshine. So close I can see the furry body and fine lines on the antenae. Six legs firmly fixed on my finger, so light yet I can feel them. This morning I don’t have a phone in my pocket and that is a good thing. I just sit and look and feel like a chosen one. A moment of pure magic.
Do we know how lucky we are?
It all feels so good and so fragile. This strange, dangerous summer our small woodland part of Scotland stayed green and seemingly positively throbbing with healthy wildlife. Do we know how lucky we are? Listening to birdsong, I remember reading a powerfully simple description of the wildfire destruction of Dunwich nature reserve [Recovery expected to take 25 years, the BBC story is HERE]. An entire ecosystem burnt out – birds, butterflies, flies of all kinds, grasses, trees – all gone. The haven for migrant species now charred like a war zone. What will happen next spring when a new wave arrives? Untold consequences for the future. And that’s just part of this year’s mayhem after wildfires swept across Europe, people and animals together fleeing their homes.
A breeze ruffles the plants round the bench. A jay calls among trees down by the stream. A crow mocks. I look up. A swallow flies high in the blue sky. Sun breaks through a passing cloud. ‘Chances of light rain in the next hour’ said the weather app on my phone indoors. More rain tomorrow. Do we know how lucky we are?
Looking down, I see something has been eating the blue flowers on the tiny campanula, a rockery treat specially bought for Ray last year. This is meant to be a rabbit-fre zone. Come friendly buzzards! Long may you safely fly above our green, green grass.
The engraved stone, I caught this morning, morning’s minions, was a gift from an old friend in Edinburgh. Rita Kirk gave us the stone beautifully engraved by her husband, the talented silver smith Bill Kirk. We miss Rita and Bill who died before we left Edinburgh.
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