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.
Sunday, 8 July 2012
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
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.
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.
Friday, 13 April 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 5 April 2012
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!
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!
Monday, 19 July 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
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!
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!
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!
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