The land of Barnes and apple cake
the land of Thomas Hardy
To see it best, rise at dawns break
Strike out and don’t be tardy
The dawns have been ones to adore
But not quite what they could be
Now Dorset’s bird returns once more
And all is as it should be
I stepped out across the pavement this morning under the gathering heat of an uninhibited sun. The small dose of rainfall from the last few days had already begun its transmutation of the grass. Straw yellow stems had become an impressionist’s pallet of browns and greens as the turf swelled with life again.
Turning left on to Long Meadow I strode past tall stems of interspersed Pale Flax and Meadow Buttercup, with increasingly ascendant Fleabane rising on my left. Further down was an archipelago network of Birds Foot Trefoil, interconnected clusters of the flower giving the impression of a birds eye view of an island chain. All the while Meadow Browns beat their wings in the breezeless air.
Chiffchaffs and Chaffinches sang on the borders of Smithfield, with a Song Thrush’s repeating refrains calling ahead. The continuous even pitch of a Roesel’s Bush Cricket emanated from the tall grass nearby. I took a moment to gaze upon a single Magpie minding its own business atop a short Hawthorn tree. Normally such an innocuous figure would escape notice, but I thought it was worth a mention. There is much beauty to be found in the mundane.
Wending my way to the Downlands I passed Dunnock, Whitethroat and Wren all singing merrily. Stepping on to the rolling terrain I was stopped in my tracks by a wonderfully familiar song. A Yellowhammer was singing a scarce few yards in front of me. With a spring in my step I skipped past Pyramidal Orchids and a few flittering Bullfinches before ascending Lighthouse Road where I chanced upon my Yellowhammer spotting mentor. He was happy to hear of my success and proceeded to report on his far more impressive set of morning sightings including Crossbills and a number of moths that I’ve never heard of. Show-off.