Google says that tame hyacinths have more flowers per stem than wild ones. It may well be that this makes the tame flowers smug, and this may, in fact, be what makes the wild flowers wild. Now, as you all know, the flowers we have around us today arose from a sporting accident.
You remember, I’m sure, how Apollo and his lover Hyacinth used to fool around throwing the discus. You did know that The God of the West Wind also loved Hyacinth and was extremely jealous because he only wanted to play with Apollo? Well, while the two guys were fooling around, being macho and stuff, you know what I mean, The West Wind saw his chance. Apollo threw – and Hyacinth ran to catch the discus. The West Wind gave an extra huff at the crucial moment and the discus hit Hyacinth full on.
He died instantly, as you might expect. Naturally, as his blood, or Apollo’s tears or maybe both hit the ground, beautiful flowers sprang up.
Just a little thought by the participants at this time – could have resolved centuries of animosity.
Spring is springing into action all around us. Last week we showed you a Violet that we found in a muddy patch by the roadside; in several paces we have the occasional enthusiastic Hyacinth; the small, demure purple trumpets of the Ground Ivy, or Heal All, are appearing wherever you stop and inspect the verges closely; Soldiers and Sailors, or Lungwort, are putting out the occasional flower, and we even have a few entrepreneurial Lesser Celandine hustling, here and there, under the hedges – meanwhile, our Daffodils are really getting into their stride.
Up here, in the farthest north, we do have a great many cultivated Daffodils, these are immediately identifiable by their good manners and their erudite conversation. We also have a considerable number of their wild cousins. Most of these are no great threat to life and limb – but, never-the-less, it is best to treat them with respect and circumspection.
Some though, thankfully only a small minority, are really wild. No one has ever been able to get close enough to them to ascertain the root cause of their unrepressed anger and so, like the specimens in today’s photo, we just keep them caged up.
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No International Women’s Day would be complete without a mention of Sappho, the ancient Greek poetess. Not only was she Lesbian from the island of Lesbos, but what little we know about her suggests that she was lesbian in the LGBT sense, too.
She was what we would, today, call a singer/songwriter – and a superstar to boot. Her fame spread wherever there was Greek influence and her contemporaries referred to her as the Golden Voiced Goddess.
In 1927, a “scandalous” theatre production suggested that one of the female leads had a lesbian lover – who sent her posies of violets. It was raided by the police and closed down immediately. The idea caught on however, and for some years afterwards a woman wore a posy of violets when she wanted to show she was in a sapphic relationship – that she had female lover.
The Ancient Greeks loved their drama – I’m sure they would have approved.
We had heavy rain during the night, so we set off down the road towards the bridge over the beck – we wondered how he’d coped with the downpour.
Making our way in that direction, we became aware of birdsong from the hedge on our left. We’d noticed a small brown bird flitting in and out of the leafless branches so, with the help of the chirping, we were reasonably sure where our songster was. But, search as we might we could not pinpoint the location of the sound, nor could we see anything that looked like a bird anywhere in amongst the branches.
We took one further step and a small brown bird flew out not six feet from us. He had been right under our noses, but his brown feathers in the brown of the bare branches had been perfect camouflage.
It was a dunnock, he (or she) of the strange social arrangements.
Depending on the food supply their inter-gender relationship can vary from one to one (male – female), to one female to any number of males or one male to any number of females. DNA tests on dunnock chicks from the same nest often find that they each have a different father.
And we humans thought we invented that.
Here in the UK, the one thing we excel at is having the wrong kind of almost everything. When we lay railway tracks we make sure that the trees growing alongside the lines have the wrong kind of leaves. We have become quite expert at ensuring that when the leaves fall on the track they bring the entire rail network to a standstill.
The other, related, issue is snow. While in other places on the planet they merely bring out whatever equipment they usually use to deal with the snow on the train tracks, we smugly sit back and pour ourselves another cup of tea, secure in the knowledge that it wouldn’t work here – we have the wrong kind of snow.
So then, when the annual springtime appearance of a carpet of crocuses (croci for the purists among us) turns our thoughts to saffron, it will no doubt be reassuring for you to know, there’s no need to panic, we have the wrong kind of crocus.
This is one of our resident Buzzards. In today’s photo we find him doing what buzzards do best, sitting and thinking.
He has a great deal to think about. Ahead of him stretches a whole new year, but first he must deal with Spring, Spring is an exhausting time for buzzards. It doesn’t start so badly. At first, as the animals that have spent the colder months hibernating start to waken, the old and the unwell, unable to face another year of the struggle to survive, crawl unsteadily from their places of security. They stand around, bemused, on open ground and in the middle of roads, waiting for some kindly passing predator to put an end to their suffering. Buzzards take their duty seriously.
As Spring edges towards and on into Summer though, the tsunami of young inexperienced animals that sweep down on every road, intent on throwing themselves under the first available vehicle, raises road-kill to epic proportions.
Unable to deal with the availability of so much food, our buzzard will fall back on instinct. He finds himself a nice dead branch, adopts a nonchalant pose, and sits and thinks.
I love to paddle in a puddle
I’ll bet you do.
I love to paddle in a puddle
Up to my knees.
Jackie and I have been laid low with seriously-sick-and-ill-itus this week, with the result that a good few days have just vanished into a big, vague, grey box. We haven’t been out and about to take many pictures – but when I looked through those we had, I found this picture of one of our blackbirds. He was just playing in the puddle and ignored us completely. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Just what we needed to cheer us up.