What grows on the verge of a nervous breakdown?

What grows on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Nothing; no Campion, no Stitchwort, no Vetch, no Jack by the hedge and most certainly, no caterpillars. The verges and hedge banks of the country lanes along which I familiarly walk are joyful, profuse flowers, dancing with life. At least they were until this morning when the growling, thrashing hedge bank monster (tractor with 'attachments') determined to peruse its territory destroying everything in its path. Callously it chewed up and spat out every living thing within reach of its jaws including the exquisite green caterpillars of the Orange Tip butterfly that I have been delighting in watching grow.

Earlier this Spring I followed the butterflies courtship dance; the demure female, with soft grey tips to her wings leading the amorous, orange tipped male along the garden path... and the country lanes before succumbing to his whiles... his pheromones or simply his sheer persistence! By and by she lay her precious eggs just below the flower buds of the Garlic Mustard plant, known as Jack by the hedge in country parlance. Butterflies are very particular as to where they lay their eggs, choosing specific food plants for their young. The Orange Tip is no exception, she seeks out plants growing in a sunny aspect, laying her eggs singly, a sufficient distance apart from one an other to ensure that in their appetite for life they don't consume one another. Their beauty belies a rather gruesome cannibalistic bent to their nature. When they hatch they feed on their nursery flower bud before moving on to the long green seeds that form as both plant and caterpillar mature. Their camouflage is perfect, emulating the colour and form of the long bean shaped seeds, making the joy of discovering them and watching them grow all the more fun.

If not, as melodramatically suggested 'on the verge of a nervous breakdown', I felt disconsolate, sulking for a while before realising that as I was being so negatively self indulgent, the hedge bank monster could still be heard, growling away in the distance, prowling its way back along the other side of the lane! Dashing out I gathered nine lives into an old ice cream box and out of harms way before the monster could be seen coming over the hill. They now reside in my caterpillar nursery (a bespoke, bijoux building that Neil made for me, worthy of ranking on a list of amazing small spaces!) in the company of Tortoiseshell chrysalis's and Peacock caterpillars. They are, I hasten to add out of harms way from one another too...mine is a respectable establishment, not a house of horrors, cannibalistic and parasitic behaviour is not tolerated!

...more from the nursery soon!

The Grand Surprise

I read, from my favourite butterfly book by Jeremy Thomas and Richard Lewington, that the 'The Camberwell Beauty' was once known as 'The Grand Surprise' and that it was prized by early dealers and collectors who suffered no qualms in pursuing, killing and pinning specimens in situ within their collections.

I have one such sad specimen, loaned to me for reference. As I gaze at it now my vision becomes more and more blurred with tears. This 'specimen' was once a vibrant living thing. How an individual could have pursued it, killed it and stabbed a pin through it's body is beyond me. I am, I must admit growing weary of the justification that some such specimens were collected for the advancement of science, particularly as I become more aware of the ruthlessness and greed of this era. I have referenced collections which have within their number dozens of any given species, many collected to the point of extinction, then arranged casually like postage stamps. It's deeply sad.

Of course these early collections did in part celebrate the beauty of butterflies. Their beauty is undoubtably what brought about their collection in the first instance. Many saw early butterfly collections as nothing more harmful than aesthetic arrays of such beauty. Beauty which beguiled so much so as to deny any consideration of the sacrifice which they also represented.

 We should continue to celebrate butterflies today with equal appreciation and enthusiasm but we must find new ways to capture and gaze upon their beauty that don't make our eyes well with tears. We have splendid books to reference. We have societies to join, which celebrate butterflies and pioneer their conservation. We have exciting new networks of enthusiasts growing through Facebook and Twitter and contemporary artists and poets continue to illustrate and describe their beauty, as they have since time immemorial.

Of course I hope that my artistic celebration of the beauty of butterflies delights the senses. But moreover I hope that unlike the collections of a bygone era, it contributes towards inspiring  realisation of the imperative to preserve our beautiful British butterflies on the wing before they pay the ultimate sacrifice; extinction. It is surely the shared hope of all who delight in butterflies today.

As I lift my tatty faded specimen back into its collectors case, I reaffirm the conviction that I feel towards this,'case for conservation', an artists celebration of the collective beauty of all 72 species of British butterfly. There will be no pins through the silken bodies of my hand embroidered specimens, no butterflies will be harmed in the making of this piece! But I do hope to underpin the prescient need for their conservation.

Whilst working on my Camberwell Beauty I had to look at the collectors specimen pragmatically, with a keenness of observation not clouded by tears. It was helpful in understanding it's exquisite form and shape. Though faded and bruised its wings still retain a velvety lustre...a delicate downy texture. It's bright blue eye spots still shimmer. It's deep cream fringes, giving rise to its namesakes; 'white petticoat' and 'mourning cloak', seem exquisitely pleated. Such mesmerising, miraculous qualities, I approached my rendition with genuine humility, and a profound sense of the beauty I aspired to honour, acutely aware of my limitations and being merely mortal, my inability to recreate a miracle!

It is only now, as I sit here quietly with my thoughts, having honoured the beauty to the best of my ability, that I feel challenged by an emotional, some would argue overly sentimental, impulse to bury the collectors specimen in the willow woods. A ghostly, once splendid thing somehow imbued with the spirit of butterflies long lost to us.


However, I have decided not to waste another minute feeling mournful, gazing wistfully and dead butterflies! I must to focus all my energy on resurrecting species through the collaborative energy that that artistic initiative hopes to engender. Introspection 'arty' or otherwise or poor substitute for action!

It's twenty past five in the evening, I have been stitching butterfly scales across the hind wing of a Camberwell Beauty butterfly all afternoon, now the tiny stitches have merged into shadow; receded into the shade of tired eyes no longer bright enough to focus attention.

As day light fades my energy inevitably ebbs; like a songbird I feel compelled to abandon my studio perch and seek a more homey nesting place. This evening however, though darkness has fallen, I can still hear songbirds; beautiful, bright, lyrical notes striking the heartstrings of Spring. Rain is pattering hypnotically on my studio roof... roosting calls echo from the rookery in the ancient woods in a reassuringly ancient way.

There is perhaps nothing more beautiful than the meditation of peace and quiet, unlike silence it holds gentle phrases and whispered promises. I think I'll rest here a while before I go in, my eyes may be tired but my ears are wide awake!

A stitch in time

Time, I've felt a bit short of it lately. Most of us feel frustrated 'from time to time' that we don't seem to have enough of the stuff. Truth of it is, we all have the same quota every day; twenty four hours, divided up into minutes, then seconds. Why is it then that 'sometime' flies and 'sometime' drags...that time 'sometimes' seem to have different measurement values.

Waiting in a memory clinic earlier this week to discuss my Mum in law's sufferance of Alzheimer's, time all but stopped. Minutes felt like hours, forty minutes like an eternity. Our perception of time was undoubtably further skewed by the outdated tatty mags, headlining last years trends and news. Why maybe we'd been trapped there since 2012, according to 'The Telegraph Sunday supplement - April 2012', it was possible we'd been waiting years! Visiting the loo presented with the only thing to do, so to alleviate the boredom and pass the time, I fantasised it may be a Tardis! Alas, predictably and disappointingly, the door opened back into the waiting room. Patients and conscience of course dictated that we continue to wait quietly, we were after all seeking help and understanding for a loved one for whom the parameters of time now hold nothing but confusion.

Conversely, back in my studio this afternoon, true to the adage: 'time flies when your enjoying yourself', it's flown! I'm sat out here in the glow of tungsten light, the darkest of winters nights pressing up against the windows, wandering what happened. A whole afternoon, all that scope I had to get things done now shallower than the beam from my angle poise lamp.

I have finished working the miniature silk stitches across a Camberwell Beauty's wing though. Perhaps I should count time, not in seconds but in stitches...silk 'butterfly scale' stitches, each one worked gently and contentedly. Anyhow, tomorrow is a brand new day, with lots of scope. Actually, on reflection, I hope it flies like the best of them!

The master plan

I moved the Swallowtail butterfly from his resting place on my desk today. I've been sat at my floor standing embroidery frame for a day or two, so no need to disturb him. Having succeeded in my aspiration to create his likeness, it's brightened my day to see him resting there amongst my sketch books, paintbrushes and paraphernalia and imagine him real.

Glancing up from my work I've caught sight of him; a daydream later I've found myself in France, where I most vividly recall first seeing Swallowtails.

In my dream state, the sound of the radio receded to a feint whisper, the warmth of the radiator became the warmth of summer and I'd find myself standing at the foot of a towering buddliea bush gazing up through its fairytale spires of purple flowers. Squinting against the brilliant sun, I'd watch as the butterflies fanned their magnificent wings and unfurled their delicate long proboscis. Daintily dipping them into the flowers, as if sipping cocktails through a straw, measuredly spiralling them back into perfect miniature coils having sipped their fill of nectar before drifting away to join the sun. Backwards and forwards to France in the twinkling of an eye...without a soul noticing!

Daydreams should be encouraged, they are the wellspring of sanity in my estimation but every now and then one needs to wake up! Often it's the shrill call of the telephone ringing; a coffee break will equally break the spell... sometimes it's the tug of conscience that brings the daydreamer around. The latter awoke me from my Swallowtail daydream: 'You need to focus jane!' -  my conscious declared. Duly, I stood up from my workstation and delicately lifted my embroidered butterfly off my desk and onto 'the master plan!'

The master plan really is going to take some focus. At this stage it is simply a large pencil sketch identifying all seventy two of our British butterfly species. The plan is that I should bring it alive in art form. The plan will indeed be my master! Artistically speaking, it is perhaps the most exciting plan that I have ever committed to. The excitement is borne of its initiative; to raise awareness of our butterflies' beauty and vulnerability and of their conservation needs, raising valuable conservation funding through sponsorship of its achievement and its ultimate auction. I am thrilled to share that it is endorsed by some of our greatest conservation bodies, including 'The Royal Entomological Society' and 'Butterfly Conservation', and has garnered the support of pre-eminent conservationists including Professor's Jeremy Thomas and David Bellamy. A number of species have already been sponsored... some sponsors names will be familiar to many. As the project evolves I'll share all the thrills here with you; together of course with the occasional daydream and a little random musing! Hoping it will capture your imagination and get you day dreaming too. Butterflies surely are the most day dreamy, bright and beautiful things to drift off with.  

Swallowtail

I'm settled into 2014 now, evidentially!

One: I've spent more days of the week in my studio than on holiday or recuperating from winter bugs. 

Two: I've left a healthy domestic muddle indoors, avoiding the compulsion to fuss. Too much pride over housework equals diminishing returns in my studio. I hereby name it and shame it as 'evasive, compulsive, displacement disorder!' I know the condition is out of control when I get around to such nonsense as polishing spoons and making them 'spoon' together like little lovers in the draw...for goodness sake Jane, they're only cutlery! - who said that? 

Three: I've listened to 'Gardeners Question Time' twice this week. Meaning that I've been in my studio; the only place I listen to the radio, for sufficient consecutive days; to shout out 'snap'...and believe me I do when it happens, with an empowered sense of victory over distraction!

Of course most evidentially of all; professionally speaking, 'settled' means art in tangible form. I'm not counting musing, doodling or 'studying in the field' as I euphemistically call chasing butterflies; fun but technically playing. I'm talking stepping into my studio space and seeing something accomplished resting on my desk. This morning that 'something' was a Swallowtail butterfly, poised beside the tweezers which, with finishing touch I had bent the crook of its legs. Yesterday, as the pips of five 'o' clock chimed on 'PM at five PM'  (I don't count that as a 'snap' victory by the way, it would be too easy), I had left him where he rested like a held breath. 

I never really know if I can breath a sigh of satisfaction over what I have achieved until I've stepped away from it for a while. Only when I catch sight of it anew, almost by surprise, do I know if it has transcended that sense of my having fashioned it and assumed its own energy. Instead becoming something born of its inspiration, nature...something with a natural energy not a crafted sense. The test is simple, a butterfly that fails to make me smile is simply not a butterfly. It made me smile. I hope it makes you smile too.

A light touch

During the winter I scurry out to my studio first thing in the morning to turn my heater on. There is very little 'limbering up' associated with my exacting working methodology. Necessarily, I sit for hours employing just small muscle groups; painting with miniature brushes, modelling with pins, stitching with tiny needles...nothing brisk to stave off the cold. I categorically cannot work if chills are pinching at my fingers and toes or I can't feel my nose! Occasionally I'll brave the distance in my fluffy dressing gown, pyjama legs tucked into my wellie boots in order to steal a march on the day. In the time it takes me to polish off my porridge and brew some coffee, it's generally quite cosy out there.

This morning I made the dressing gown dash, scampering about as the day dawned not unlike any other creature we spy crossing our field... I even have an authentic furry coat!  I do however lack the tenacity of our furry friends living full time in the open air. Beatrix Potter should have been given a medal for compassion for fashioning them little coats and booties to see them safely through the winter!  Of course I have grown to understand that we cannot cosset or clothe the creatures with which we share our land, there's not a badger out there that would thank you for a velvet coat and breeches, but their struggle to survive does distress me. A struggle not only presented by harsh winter weather, against which one may argue they are more or less fairly matched having adapted and evolved defences against the elements. It is moreover the man made adaptations of our land that nature cannot survive. Our demand for housing, crops, road networks, shopping centres and car parks ..tennis courts, swimming pools, sports arenas. It is pointless continuing to list. I do not have the 'weight to debate'.  There are much stronger environmentalists, academics, and people politic out there than me. But what I do have is my miniature paintbrush, fine filament threads and the sensibility to share how much I care through the art work that I evolve. Mine is a light touch. My 'muscle' exercised in delicately pinching hold of embroidery needles and fine sable brushes. In triggering the small motor neurones of hand to eye coordination, and the gentle perception of what is beautiful in nature and in need of preserving.

Frivolous pink Monday

A frivolous pink miniature cyclamen flowers beneath our silver birch tree every winter. Every year it gains a little more ground in it's battle with the lawn. Simple grass is ill matched against the sophisticated verdant green leaves of this cyclamen which push through the earth like the most exquisite heart shaped spades, establishing the plant well in advance of its dainty blooms. In bud the flowers look like little lipsticks, perfectly proportioned for fairy kind, thus I've somewhat whimsically come to know it as 'the fairy lipstick plant'. True, not as sophisticated as knowing it by its Latin name, but far more descriptive and surely therefore more apt. Little girls; both young in years and young at heart, that I introduce it too often instantly declare it their favourite plant! What girl isn't grateful of a little lippy on a wintry day!

I paused determinedly to enjoy these little lipstick flowers today, having just been assaulted by the declaration on BBC breakfast that this is 'Blue Monday'; the most miserable day of the year. I'm pleased to say that in doing so I successfully perished the the thought! Statisticians, chocolate marketeers and moody blue cure purveyors may indulge such nonsense but according to my patch on this earth it is in fact 'Frivolous Pink Monday'...and who needs an excuse to enjoy another square of chocolate any way! Surely declaring a day miserable can result in nothing good.

Wrong footed Wellies!

Wrong footed Wellies, now there's silly! Like a clown (actually, more like a demented duck!) I trounced along the muddy, puddled path to my studio earlier this week with my boots on the wrong feet. It made me smile out loud', to quote my niece when she was four or five and something silly (probably me) made her laugh. A great visual gag, but by the time your in you reach forty seven, best not shared with an audience. Daft isn't so cute when you reach middle age (did I just admit to being middle aged). Thankfully my only audience was my husband Neil who was out and about in the mud as well. He didn't exercise himself much beyond rolling his eyes in comment, simply smiling back at me. Well, perhaps I should have seen the Wellie boot incident as an omen...or, less portentously, more of a silly sign. 

Once or twice I have been asked abruptly; 'Did something drop on your head from a great height!' Well Neil and his family do hone from 'Gods country'...Yorkshire as those 'less blessed' know it. Being 'arty', often actively choosing to be 'off with the Fairies', I've always taken it as fair comment when proffered. But this week, it did, it really did! 

An empty olive oil tin, boasting a pretty picture of a Spanish lady sat underneath an olive tree launched itself off the top of the fridge freezer where it was decoratively balanced, touching down briefly, smack between my eyes before clattering to the floor. Now the merits of keeping empty tins is doubtful (especially if your from Yorkshire!), but really! I stood there dazed, and not in a fun 'off with the fairies' kind of way, with one ear tuned to Neil's well intentioned, entirely obvious advice, which, if followed (and I can't promise to) would result in such an incident 'never happening again'.

Well, there's more, but this time 'the boot is on the other foot!'. This afternoon; Neil, still out and about in the mud, about important business fixing things, elected to take a tea break. Calling by my studio, smiling up at me, looking like 'Stig of the Dump' he elected that I should make the tea! Cheeky, and it told him so! Reluctantly he trundled off in the general direction of the kettle. 

Moments later, calamity! He'd toppled down the garden steps, recovering himself he hobbled theatrically into view. I looked out to see him, more mud than man limping about like a troll, cursing the air and intermittently calling out for me in a sweeter key. Off course I went running, helping him to the safety of our comfy sofa, providing tea (I know, perhaps I should have made it in the first instance), sympathy...a foot stool and ice! Ice is an excellent treatment for such calamities...I should know, having sat dazed beneath a packet of frozen peas after my incident with the olive oil tin. I do have a 'Harry Potter' style flash between my eyes and an unattractively bruised nose but I've  got away without black eyes. I'm told this is a bonus, apparently you nearly always get black eyes with a punch to the nose...kind of 'buy it' (biff!) and you get these free!

Neil's now quite recovered. He can't think how it happened; you know the score, one minute he was walking down the garden...the next! Generally these things are explained away as 'accidents'. I've proffered sympathy rather than 'advice' offering up no 'why's or where-fore's'. More likely than not it was 'natural slippage', though I strongly suspect fairy mischief. They get bored in January you know...beyond all the sparkle of Christmas, impatiently waiting for Spring. The clue that this week was likely to be a little haphazard was 'in my Wellies', oh if only I'd heeded it, all along.

PS: the olive oil tin is in the recycling bin!

A colourful grey day

Monday morning dawned magnificently across the Menai Straits where I woke to see the sky ablaze; magenta, amber and lapis blue, ember bright in the furnace of the rising sun.

Tuesday mornings light transcribed this magic; back home, walking the country lanes with Neil I glanced up from conversation to see it kissing the tree tops softly. The birches blushed pale mauve, colouring a perception of Spring, albeit shyly, in tight bud.

Today it's raining, the sky is like the cover of my sketch book, smudged with graphite finger marks, tattered, used. Recent weather has flourished with changeable artistic temperament, daubing brilliant blue and mercurial grey, harshly spattering hail and sleet, carelessly throwing down washes of rain across its canvas, the sky.  From day to day, it's energy, seemingly all but spent, it leaves vast patches un-inspiringly empty, canvas white. From time to time it's demeanour softens altogether, relenting it apologises in rainbows and invites the sun to shine.

However miserably the weather may express itself today, I sit here gazing out from my studio having 'seen the light'. I know that the magic of a beautiful dawn, the soft light of early spring, is,in essence, inherent in this day too, however dilute and imperceptible it may be. Knowing this colours my mood.

...on a more lighthearted note, and waxing less lyrical; I always have my waxed hat and Wellies and we have some 'awesome' puddles in the field! - though their depth should not be trusted! I've jumped in one or two that I could swear I heard laugh out loud as they drenched me, breaching my wellie tops...how old am I!

Aloha

Well, I'm still 'love struck'; everything reminds me of our extraordinary recent adventure....thousands of sea leagues from here in Hawaii, an island chain in the South Pacific.

I'm anxious not to weary who ever may be sharing my recollections through this blog. I guess it's inexperience on my part; after all, the word diary has not long been commonly prefixed by the words 'on line'. Calling a diary a blog doesn't deceive me; a diary is a diary is a diary (say I thrice!). I'm confident that my first ever diary had a little lock and key and 'Top Secret' writ large across it. It takes a real call of confidence to share in this 'modern way', denying the voice of insecurity that whispers: 'desist' or someone will catch you out for over sharing...over thinking...being boring!  In Hawaii they refer to sharing love and celebrating what is beautiful as living in the spirit of aloha. With reverence, I'll therefore continue in this spirit.

So, whole heartedly, in the true spirit of aloha, today I'll share every colour of the rainbow with you!  Hawaii; the land of sunshine and showers is perhaps where the colours of all rainbows are divined.   I believe we may have hovered above the mercurial centre of the world! - Mt Waialeale Crater, Kauai, the wettest and rainiest place on earth. Here majestic waterfalls cascade thousands of feet breaking beyond mans gaze, refracting brilliant colour into their spray as it meets the sun bright sky. If the universal colours of the rainbow are mixed anywhere surely it's here!

The climate across this paradise archipelago chain is fairly constant throughout the year, reliable bright sunshine, brilliant heat cooled by gentle (occasionally temperamental) trade winds and rain...plenty of rain of the showery kind. The daily weather forecast varied between 'sunshine and showers' and 'showers and sunshine'! This being the case, most days we admired rainbows; broad brushstrokes of luminous colour flourished with artistic aplomb against the canvas of the day. Some days we saw them high above the ocean forming perfect arches, others stretching out from the mountains, burying their tails, reputedly along with their treasure, where they met land, deep within the islands lush interior. Sometimes they fell fragmented across the landscape; where isolated rain clouds burst or irrigation fanned out across manicured lawns.We even glimpsed their magical colours caught up fleetingly in the sea spray along the islands costal fringes. But my most vibrant memory of all is of when their colours brushed our faces as we explored the mountainous terrain of Haleakala National Park, to the east of Maui.

We set off early that morning to drive 'The Road to Hana', reputed to be one of the most beautiful drives on earth. In my estimation, it's rather like the reputed treasure at the end of the rainbow, not everyone who seeks it finds it! Neil, being the driver actually found the constant twists and turns along the so called scenic drive a little tedious. According to historic record, once upon a time it proved a challenging journey. It was first constructed in 1926 from volcanic cinders by prison trustees; rain filled pot holes dimpling it's patchy surface, it presented with treacherous bends, narrow stretches and sheer drops to either side. Today; re paved and widened, winding ever onward with little opportunity, save stopping at limited points along the way, to admire what you are driving through, it is perhaps, dare I say it (it being famous and all!) a little boring! At least, as the passenger, I had the privilege of snatching glimpses of waterfalls, flourishes of tropical flora and views towards the rugged windward coast. Neil had to keep his eye on the seemingly endless road. To add insult to injury we'd left our picnic behind, so no snacks or drinks to boot!

We eventually found snacks... of sorts; vegetarianism is not the way of the road to Hana! Lunch consisted of some delicious banana bread and some rambutans (of all things; exotic but certainly not Hawaiian!). Water was even more difficult to source but bizarrely we found a roadside seller with a giant refrigerated unit...mostly full of coca cola, with a corner to spare for water; well, technically it is America!

I guess our day really picked up when we met a lady along the way at the foot of a spectacular waterfall selling shell leis, and sharing the spirit of Elvis. I know; quirky aside, but it's another days story! From there, Neil decided that he couldn't bare the boredom of the same journey in reverse. Boasting off road savvy; feeling intrepid at the wheel of our bright red jeep...with the blessing of the remarkable shell lei maker we therefore set off, off road to complete our journey.

The road became much more exciting, bumping, grinding, winding and eventually widening, opening out into the most amazing mountainous terrain. Majestic, cowboy territory, even boasting the occasional lone goat, adding to that remote Western movie vibe! We wound closer to the coast too...the awesome windward coast. We took every opportunity to stop the jeep, step out and gasp in sheer wonder at what our eyes surveyed. Surely it was impossible to be more awestruck, yet as   I marvelled at the sheer grandeur of the mountainsides we were flashing by I noticed them flush magenta...and cyan and turquoise blue, the colours of the rainbow were chasing us! We stopped and stepped out of the jeep yet again and found we were all but bathing in their light. It felt like a tangible blessing and still does. We were captured by the joy and luminosity of this spectacular rainbow light until it faded. For some forty minutes we gazed into it as it seemed to gaze into us and light up our hearts. Aloha, pure aloha.

Hawaiian Blues

It seems 'jet lag' is not the only unwelcome thing served up with the in-edible food on long haul flights. Evidentially 'bonus bugs' circulate in the pressurised air...they replace a little oxygen; I'm convinced the O2 is turned down at least a notch to induce us to sleep. Well, that's my theory, however misguided, inexplicably I feel a little better for it. In truth, it's probably the paracetamol and throat numbing, cough suppressing lozenges that are making me feel better, that and the cat purring reassuringly beside me. Of course I do appreciate that I am in no position to be feeling miserable, however horrid my cold is, after all I'm privileged to have be flying long haul in the first instance, never mind returning from paradise! When I couldn't get comfy in my 'premier economy' seat...when there seemed to be no substance whatsoever to my backside and I was literally perching on my bones I remembered we had not since long witnessed countless down and outs living in cardboard boxes on the streets of San Francisco. No complementary miniature pillow or standard issue scratchy blanket for them...not even a smile to keep them warm.

Onto warmer thoughts; another colour from my 'kaleidoscopic' memory. I'll choose blue, for the Hawaiian Blue butterflies, when I close my eyes I see them dancing like the light on the ocean.

My most vivid memory of them is from the day we visited the Kauai Coffee Plantation. We were winding our way along a self guided tour; a less than intrepid route through tamed plantings of coffee trees and sweet smelling tropical blossoms when I looked down to see the sparkle of tiny wings basking in the sun amongst the short grass. I had read that their food plant is Koa, in fact it's familiar name is 'the Koa butterfly. No Koa here amongst the coffee trees, so I was all the more surprised and delighted by my chance sighting. Six or seven in number, they flickered and fluttered like eye lashes, seducing the sun to warm them. We were early, having waited in possibly to best car park in the world for the plantation to open, I imagine we caught them just as they were waking. Their wings span barely an inch; as they flutter and close momentarily they reveal exquisite iridescent soft green undersides. Admiring such perfection probably accounts for the first of many mosquito breakfasts I unwittingly provided whilst in Hawaii. Though the Hawaiian Blue is native to this paradise, the mosquito is not. Whalers bought them to the islands; one could argue that it but a small curse for the carnage caused by these brutal early hunters, tainting the beautiful blue Pacific blood red.

I should mention the coffee; being our first full day in Kauai, we thought we'd begin our adventures gently and simply, indulging our yen for a delicious cup of coffee. As our friends and family know; we are not great drinkers, except when it comes to coffee. Sometimes we teeter on the brink of becoming coffee 'bores' or put more politely 'connoisseurs'. As they grow, roast and grind our 'drug of choice' here, you can imagine our excitement as we waited for the establishment to open.

'The Kauai Coffee Company' is Hawaii's largest coffee estate, boasting rare coffee beans such as 'pea berry' and special roasts, not to mention unpalatable adulterations such as chocolate, coconut and tropical fruit flavoured coffee (yuck!). Well, all this being true, alas it seems that they have yet to master 'the brew'. No 'cafe crema' layer to be admired here, no superlative expresso shots, no velvety thick top to your cappuccino...and if you want to see they very definition of a mystified expression, try striking up a friendly conversation about 'barista art!' Of course, all this will only resonate with coffee geeks. That said, it was a curious and abiding pleasure removing the skin from the roof of my mouth in sampling thimbles full of hot coffee from the twenty or so complimentary coffee urns which stood like miniature Darleks amidst a display of coffee sacks and springs of coffee cherries in the cafe. Frankly, and entirely appropriately, the lack of a decent barista brew didn't come close to distracting from the joy of finding ourselves in paradise. As we sat basking in the early morning sunshine on the plantation lanai, privileged to the very first two strangers in paradise to visit that day, we were incapable of any expression deviating from a broad grin. We had smiles to share as by the time we left we found ourselves weaving through the first caffeine deprived American coach party to call. Discreetly scratching my itchy knees as we found ourselves back in the best car park in the world I wondered how many visitors would notice the Sapphire bright jewels in the grass, the Koa Butterflies.

December 28th 2013

Well, I'm sat here warm and cosy under a new fluffy blanket, glancing up occasionally to see Neil lumbering about the garden purposefully in his Wellies. He discovered a bubbling spring earlier, just where the Unicorn Lawn foots the field, a cause of great excitement and future thinking. Why by this time next year it will be diverted to fill the Moon Burn (crescent pond) and top up garden ponds... we may even be bottling it and supplying it to pilgrims at the gate! The springs are certainly coursing; full spirited after the recent exceptionally stormy weather. The wind is still in high spirits, roaring like the ocean, pushing tides of cloud across the sky, revealing the softest blue beyond.  

...still day dreaming of our time away, no it's more than that, I think I'm still clinging to sleep, longing not to wake up completely, and I'm not just referring to the 'jet lag!' Who knew sleep could be so grasping! Why, I'll just be sat here quietly when the next minute, it's an hour later and I realise that sleep came and snatched me away, it's more like a secretly administered sedative shot than a snooze. But it's the daydreams I should focus on before they fade like rainbows. Our time away was 'such stuff as dreams are made of', it was truly magical. It's fascinating to see what is illuminated in my minds eye now, to appreciate what has abided with me most.

My Mind is like a kaleidoscope, so many memories like fragments of iridescent colour, constantly shifting and turning with my thoughts to create new reflections, new patterns. Day dreaming has never been so vibrant! Perhaps the best way to make these recollections, these transient daydreams more tangible and enduring is to pick out the colours one at a time and arrange the patterns into words.

The colour green; the verdant green of Kauai's lush mountainous wilderness from the sky. We hovered above it like a larger than life dragonfly, sweeping in to almost touch the mountainside, pulling away to scope in waterfalls and canyons...pulling out to skim across the sea and trace the Napali coastline. We touched down at the foot of a magnificent waterfall, inaccessible by foot. I felt the cold spring water of the plunge pool with my finger tips, it made my heart tingle. Others may have taken a helicopter ride, I took the 'dragonfly' and my spirits soared with it! The pattern in my minds eye freezes as I remember the omnipotence of this place, how the volcanic mountains towered above us, the power with which the water fell against the rock and plunged deep into the pool at our feet. The soft cool spray misting the air and as we stepped away. The timeless stillness. The deep forest and thickets we would never traverse and the secrets they held. I watched as a butterfly followed a light trapeze into the tree canopy. I longed to follow, but stepping just a few feet off the path, attempting to admire the pattern of the creatures wings my legs were scratched as if by way of caution; go no further on foot, imagination is the best vehicle from here...as I'm still daydreaming it seems I left this place with a great gift, freely given for the purpose 'imaginings'.  

Another rainy day dawned this morning. I nudged our roof windows open quietly at about five thirty, breathing in the soft rain drenched atmosphere, casting my sleepy eyes across the landscape with out focusing, it felt soothing. Though, no doubt my disappointment in 'yet another' rainy summers day would eventually waken; in unison with the rest of Britain, for now such negative feeling was still sleeping.

The summer rain had filled every dimple, hollow and new dug pond with in the bounds of our garden. Earth and sky in unison had created magnificent mirrors across our land, into which the dawn was now gazing.

The greatest reflection was cast by 'The Moon Burn', a feature in our landscape yet to be fully realised. In the future, this deep hollow will be lined and planted with water reeds, Irises and King cups...in the mean time, nature, it seems is content to complete it without us. From the window, I imagined slipping into the cool, still waters of the Moon Burn... swimming in the dawn. In 'imagining' one can experience bliss without chill realism! Then I imagined stepping along the Long Barrow, through the Narrow Way, towards the Fairy House tucked beneath the hill. Tracing my imagined path with sleepy eyes, they were at once wide awake when I glanced a family of Hares, two adults and a lively leveret, munching softly on tender wild flowers just beginning to flourish in the area set aside as meadow. What a beautiful way to start the day!

In truth, I snuggled back beneath our warm feather duvet and lulled myself back to sleep contentedly; the soft patter of rainfall on the window panes, the consciousness of the beautiful day before us.

I woke again at about eight... a lie in for me on a Sunday, to see a rainbow; the multicoloured arc sinking perfectly between the ridges of the narrow way... how could I possibly feel disappointed today.

Dance of the May Fly

I arrived in Bath this morning at around coffee time. The air was close and broody; I sensed 'sunshine', tucked beneath the blanket of grey cloud as if it had been thrown over it like a warm comforter, affording it a lie in. Surely eventually it would rise... enthusiastic to 'seize the day', if only to mock me for having worn jeans and a jumper!


I found myself in the city of Bath today. Weary, having milled around the shops all morning, I sought out a quiet place to sit and rest whilst Mum braved the confines of a changing room; a clutch of new clothes in hand to try on. Waiting rooms... waiting places generally, can be dreary but this one was particularly lovely. It looked out over the River Avon; that is the open window beside me did. It was a gloriously sunny day. I sat there contentedly and watched as a pleasure cruiser motored along its course, entertaining myself by trying to make out the muffled commentary of the cruise guide. Then, out of the corner of my eye I caught the sparkle of wings glanced by sunlight 'May flies'. A spiralling balletic swarm rising and falling, fairy like creatures engaged in their nuptial dance.

The last time I had delighted upon this spectacle was in Normandy whilst staying in Calvados at 'Le Moulin de la Mousse', a converted mill house beside the race (of course, where else!). I had looked to books then to realise an understanding of these exquisite creatures by way of which to underpin my delight. As an artist I am determined that my observations of nature should be more than flights of fancy and fantasy. I feel somehow obliged honour what I admire by growing a little wiser with each new observation, pursuing a better understanding of what I see, one that is cerebral not simply visual. I now understand that they live for no more than a day on the wing (the final stage of their metamorphosis), having lived beneath the water for about a year as nymphs. Sentimentally, perhaps this seems sad; the famous poet Shelly once referred to them as creatures 'gathered into death without a dawn'. However for me, the counterpoint to this sentiment lies in the exuberance of their flight; in their nuptial dance. If our earthy demise were preceded by such joy, realising our progeny, I venture to suggest that it may not be considered mournful at all. As I watch them dance, bobbing up and down as if held by invisible strings of light being tugged by the air itself, I perceive that 'this is' their dawn, they are dancing it! Their flight is so joyful, I am incapable of mournful thought. I perceive no nuance of suffering, no sense of pending death and find myself wishing our demise was akin to the mayflies. Sprightly...beautiful, invested in making love... seemingly devoid of suffering. A desire surely harboured in many human hearts. Though, I'm guessing by that by the same token many would find my allegory far too fanciful... an artists whim. Perhaps my interpret ion of what I observe is, more often than not, 'fairy tale'... comforting fiction. Never mind, I feel blessed to find comfort in the way that I see things. Risking being perceived as fanciful by some is of little consequence.

They really are visually fantastical, few would argue otherwise. They have four gossamer wings, the hind pair much smaller than the fore, which they hold upright at rest and flutter like quick silver whilst in sprightly acrobatic flight. They have two or three long tails called cerci which I fancy they trail like fairy tale dress trains. They never venture far from the stretch of water from which they hatched, their delicate wings unless caught on the wind, lack the necessary strength for distance flying. Indeed neither distance flight nor appetite need concern the mayfly during its fleeting life on the wing. The males of the species are possess the greatest acrobatic prowess, courting the females with their seductive nuptial dance moves. Once seduced, having mated, the females lay their eggs by the score, hundreds in the day-span of their life time. Some types of mayfly lay their eggs by simply scattering them into the water during flight. Others settle on the waters surface and, dipping their abdomens beneath its surface, deposit them more demurely. Others discreetly crawl down water plants to lay them on submerged stones. Having hatched the mayfly nymphs live beneath the water for about a year. Some species are understood to be burrowers and diggers, such as the 'Ephemera' others are more agile clambering and climbing about their underwater world, for example those of the 'cloeon' group. Others, like the 'Caenis' confine themselves to a more sombre life on the bottom of the pond or river... I say sombre emotively, they could well be very happy fellows! There are yet others who are active swimmers, namely 'Baetis' and those that enjoy life amongst the weeds of fast flowing rivers and streams, known as the 'Ephemerella'. Just as the adults trail three long tail filaments, so to the nymphs, though some species loose a filament during moulting, resulting in an adult mayfly which likewise trials just two. All nymphs have tracheal gills situated on their abdomen to aide respiration. Some absorb oxygen directly from the water whilst others employ their gills as paddles to maintain a constant flow of water across their bodies; respiration occurring through the skin. The nymphs feed largely on plants, favouring green algae. Uniquely, the mayfly goes through two further stages of metamorphosis before emerging as a fully mature adult or 'imago'.In its initial transformation from nymph to 'sub imago' it is still covered with a transparent skin, dulling its vibrant colouring, cloaking its glistening, translucent wings. Over the course of several hours it proceeds to moult once more before taking flight, though flight to me seems too inadequate a word to describe the spectacle of their transcendental nuptial dance.

11th March 2012

I have just been standing on a large patch of sticky puddled earth where presently a Fairies house will stand. A sycamore, recently felled is now steadfast again at its centre, buried deep into the ground. Sixteen sturdy poles stand guard about it. Floor and walls, windows and door will by and by be constructed before all is hidden beneath a hill upon which wild thyme and marjoram will flourish. Butterflies will nectar there, hares will hurry by and nibble on the sweet grasses, children will play, and all the while fairies will abide secretly beneath their roots... their paws... their feet.

 A fantastical boast indeed, some may choose to disbelieve me, but I have truly stood upon this ground... and what's more, I'll stand my ground against anyone who diffides me... I'd simply invite them to come and stand beside me!

There is certainly magic here, though unlike the footings of the fairy house, I couldn't share it with anyone of a doubting disposition, they simply wouldn't see it; it wouldn't be tangible to them. To see 'magic' you need a certain twinkle in your eye. All children are born with it, though sadly many grow out of it...twinkling that is. Instead they grow to see things from a more 'grown up perspective', which really can be rather dull... not twinkly at all!

 As a child my play time sparkled with imagination, all kinds of fantastical creatures took shape there; fairies and giants unicorns and other creatures so extraordinary that perhaps I am the only one to have ever seen them. I must concede that growing up, even my belief in magic wavered from time to time. “It's only pretend”, grandma would say... granddad, mum and dad invariably followed suit. My big brother seemed to take particular delight in this casual quest to disillusion... he head up rumours that Father Christmas wasn't real and fairies didn't really exist. But there was always a glimmer of hope in my heart, a twinkle in my eye that distracted me from this grown up outlook and enabled me to continue to see magical things. Sadly most grown ups(...some as young as eleven or twelve) stop looking with a sense of wonder, barely even noticing much that is beautiful and real never mind magical.

2012

Well, having not 'blogged'for sometime I thought I would begin blogging again with a boast! I was to begin: 'I have just taken the final stitch in an Orange tip study, resolving my commitment to the publishers to provide an extra 'something' for page 86 of my soon to be published book; 'The art of embroidered butterflies'. Alas my tiny handmade needle has suddenly, as if by magic disappeared. That will teach me for having a pre-emptively clever thought! I've been peering at my studio floor for the last half an hour now, not very enlightening. I've swept and I've fussed in all the corners... I've even disturbed my poor innocently snoozing cat to look accusatively in the folds of her favourite blanket... no joy! So there will be no boasting here, just an acceptance of my fallibility and the reality that tomorrow is another day... another appropriate old saying would be 'pride comes before a fall!'

There is magic all about me as I sit here in my studio, set as it is on the edge of our field, for work is now under way to transform it into an enchanted garden... we even have a fairy house (or Sidhe) well under construction. Having deliberated over such a transformation; from field to butterfly haven, for years and consulted with the most magical of friends we now have a master plan for: “Cerridwens Enchanted Garden”. Watch this space!

Special Delivery - March 30th

Today I received the most extraordinary 'Special Delivery'. Our post man arrived with quite an unassuming parcel, a box wrapped ordinarily in a grey plastic sleeve, belying its extraordinary contents, for inside the box, wrapped in layer upon layer of cotton wool rested six Blue Morpho butterfly pupae. The excitement that built as I teased the layers of cotton wool away to reveal them felt as if it may lift me air borne like a butterfly myself! Oh such perfect buds of life! ~ they rested there like the most exquisite jewels... emerald bright, gleaming with a light that can only be borne of life itself, like the twinkle in our eyes when they catch sight of something beloved.

Having come back down to earth, my mind set about recalling the careful instructions I had been given to implement upon their arrival, for it was not entirely unexpected. They had arrived in Dorset (via a butterfly house in Stratford) from the rainforest in Belize, their journey overseen by an expert lepidopterist (... my imagination had in fact been romancing their journey for days). Neil had already fashioned me a display case with in which he had carefully secured two branches from which to suspend the pupae, allowing enough room for their miraculous blue wings to unfold. With ventilation holes and a soft moisture retentive floor, the conditions of what I euphemistically named our 'butterfly theatre', would hopefully remind them of home and encourage them to flourish.

With Neil's help I carefully tied a fine silk thread to the stem of each cocoon and secured them carefully to the branches inside the case. Much to our delight and my nervous excitement (the adage 'butterflies in my tummy', so very pertinent to this experience!) one or two wiggled as we delicately handled them. I read that this 'wiggle' accompanied by a noxious scent is a warning designed to deter predictors in the wild. I then misted them with a fine water spray... a very controlled synthesis of a tropical rain storm, and closed the case.

And now we wait. Childlike, I keep returning to the case and gazing at them in sheer wonder, studying the extraordinary beauty of their form, their colour... awed be the process of metamorphosis I know to be happening within



Today the pupae are seemingly resting quite contentedly, however, I understand that the life within, though incapable of true movement, barely breathing and taking no nourishment is far from inactive, It is undergoing the most incredible transformation.

8th July 2010

A couple of weeks ago, encouraged by a learned naturalist, Neil and I gathered a brood of Peacock butterfly caterpillars into our care. Countless tiny strands of life caught up in a silken web woven around a stem of nettles. We fashioned them a house; more of a box room really; the sort of residence that would remain on an estate agents books indefinitely with no real interest expressed in viewing! However it was more than adequate as as a starter home for these little ones. We furnished it with nettles and fixed an organza curtain securely in place across the front of the box, screening them from the harmful attention of parasitic flies, wasps and other predators. Very soon they ventured beyond their nursery web and began devouring their 'soft furnishings' .Taking our duty of care very seriously we provided them with fresh nettles the instant their home began to look bedraggled and life less appetising.

As they grew it became increasingly apparent that we would have to find them a new home. Yesterday Neil fashioned them what is best described as a Butterfly Palace, with sliding glass windows through which we can tend them, wooden sides,ceiling and a muslin 'feature' wall.

It was so thrilling 'helping them move'. We lifted their existing box room, rested it inside their new, palatial space and encouraged them to explore. We lifted some, still munching away on their nettles into the new corners of their world and they barely noticed. Others, of more edgy disposition, dropped and rolled like commandos on manoeuvres. To our delight, having emptied the box of its residents and debris (caterpillar house keeping is appalling, I had to take a dollies dust pan and brush to the pooh!) we found several fixed like jewels to the top of the box having completed their metamorphosis into chrysalis. Over the course of several hours they slowly changed from vibrant green to parchment brown in colour. Hung along side these 'jewels', like miniature sea horses were a number of creatures not yet fully metamorphosed. Still recognisable as caterpillars, grown fat and languid, they were attached securely into place by their bottoms (an indelicate yet accurate description) with a pad of silk spun out by themselves for the purpose. Slowly they wiggled as if to get comfortable , seemingly all harbouring ambition to once more touch their toes before 'the long sleep' to follow. Most extraordinarily of all, we witnessed one having attained this 'comfortable position', seem to unzip its caterpillar self to reveal its bright green chrysalis self within! Little by little, its 'caterpillar clothing' was simply sloughed off, ultimately falling to the ground. To our morbid fascination we witnessed that a number of our caterpillars had not escaped the attention of parasitic life, emerging from their caterpillar forms; life of an entirely different kind. Tiny silken balls containing the young of wasps or flies... possibly even spiders, I know not which. Bravely disregarding my butterfly sensibilities I have removed them to 'solitary confinement'... and will watch and learn. I remember a lecture given by a very worthy naturalist where by (and not with out cause) he accused lepidopterists and butterfly enthusiasts of being far too precious when it comes to considering all creepy crawly life, and not having enough room in their hearts for parasites!... I'm not at all convinced, but remain open minded. I think that there would be far less interest in the title 'Parasites ~ The Art and Embroidery of Jane Hall'... perhaps I'm wrong!

My conscience has just hear me quote the title of my unrealised book, and I really must get on now to settle it down! I have embroidered butterflies to metamorphose, it simpers!

18th June 2010

I watched the Hare walk calmly and quietly along the path approaching my studio this morning, entirely unaware of my looking on from my hide away. He seemed to me, the relaxed country cousin of the gentleman hare in the story of Alice in Wonderland. He was apparently far from late for anything, indeed seemingly absolutely with out agenda! So often when we see hares, they see us and we directly perceive their fear, naturally their agenda at such a point in time is to to get away from us as hurriedly as possible. Perhaps it was chance meetings such as these which inspired Lewis Carol to portray the Hare as an anxious fellow always hurrying away . Why if he had based his character portrayal on observations from my studio surely he would have fashioned him with sun hat chewing a stem of grass in the attitude of a dude smoking a reefer! I watched him saunter across the lawn and disappear out of sight before remembering that I in fact did have an agenda... that I was indeed late for a very important date! I was to accompany Neil on his mission to fix the Ryewater dragon, which it seems has lost (or never found) its ability to huff and puff, which really just wont do! The plan; that I should wonder around the garden taking butterfly photos whilst Neil 'examined' the Dragon and came up with a diagnosis.

Well, it's now late afternoon and I simply just can't settle to my artwork, so for reasons I shan't even bother to attempt to justify I'm writing about my day instead. I can report that Neil thinks that he can fix the Dragons condition and have it 'up and puffing' in no time! I managed to take several worthwhile photographs of delightful small blue butterflies, their 'proper' name I might add, and just as their name suggests they are indeed, small and blue. Unlike, lets say the 'dingy skipper', which to my mind isn't the slightest bit dingy!

Sadly I had to conduct a funeral for a young woodpecker on my return home (a shallow grave beneath the beech tree... a posy of buttercups and daisies). No idea why he had to leave this world so abruptly, though Mum and Dad did overhear an early morning squabble today, with the shrill notes of a woodpecker and the cackle of magpies. My sadness at this loss was only compounded by the discovery of yet another lifeless young woodpecker between the garden sheds, only identifiable by a fanfare of exquisite feathers. I held my heart still, drew in a deep breath and gathered a number to take into my studio collection... it somehow felt like theft and yet by the same token, criminal to leave them there. At least I can hold their beauty in my gaze , perhaps that way all is not wasted... conversely perhaps I should have left them to dance into the wind... oh dear!

Well! Just as I begin to feel morose, the hare appears again, this time to stroll back along the garden path and into the tall grasses. Time I took a path that leads some where cheery, perhaps indoors to make Neil and I a lovely garden salad supper, we have ruby red new potatoes (named after some duke or other according to Falkland) some tasty radishes and a buttery soft head of lettuce all bounty from Ryewater. Actually, it's a shame that I can't ask the hare to join us, I'm sure it's a supper that would suit him nicely. I could never figure out why a hare would want to go to a tea party if there was no lettuce on the menu... even in Wonderland with Alice as guest of honour. Perhaps, as a reader, I should have invested a little more in the story, believing what I was told rather than turning a different page in my mind.

...all this waffle, it was a Rabbit in the tale of Alice In wonderland wasn't it!