25/06/14

At the weekend I was chatting to farmer about the grass this year. The extra warmth, lack of a cold winter and lots of spring rain mean that grasses and cereal crops are early and prolific. On our morning walk the  Yorkshire fog reaches up to my thighs. I wear wellies and rain jacket on wet mornings but the bit between the two gets soaked. One day I will remember to wear a longer coat when it has been raining.

On the clear-fell area I realise there are foxgloves flowering  but they are drowned in the mauve sea of the Yorkshire Fog. Having had their earlier setback, whatever it was , the flowers are shorter than they would  normally be.

The Climbing Corydalis continues on its creeping path trying to climb- is it looking for the trees that were felled ? It is crawling across the furrows where the young saplings are growing. Perhaps it is establishing its rights while the trees  are still  young. I think the tracks were sprayed with weedkiller earlier in the year. I have read research  that suggests  protecting young pines from weeds helps them to be more resilient to Red Needle Blight.

We met two people  on the  clear-fell area a few days ago. They had a camera and a book and were peering on the ground. “What are you looking for?” I asked.  “A rare Breckland flower” the woman told me. “Which one?” “Tower Mustard” “I didn’t realise it was rare” I said. “There are lots over there” I pointed. She smiled but carried on where she was walking. I realise why when we turn on to the path I had indicated. The Tower Mustard  have been almost smothered by grass and vicious thistles. Certainly not suitable for photographs. I’m glad I found out it was rare. I was thinking of picking one and taking it home to draw earlier in the year.

There is a swathe of tall umbellifers growing alongside the  same path. They are over two metres tall in places and have feathered leaves, purple spotted stems  and effervescent froths of white flowers. This is one of my favourite spots in the forest. I take a flower and leaf to identify it. When I get home I realise it may be Hemlock. What a way to die for poor old Socrates; a poison made from such a lovely flower. The book says it is “highly poisonous…and an unpleasant smell when bruised.” It does smell awful. I had no idea it was Hemlock. When I think about it, the vision I had in my mind of Hemlock was actually some sort of Artemesia. It seems Plato invented his idea of a sort of heaven to reassure Socrates’ students that his death wasn’t final. The Hemlocks die in the Autumn and dry almost white. A sea of ghosts in the winter.