Monthly Archives: July 2025

Thursday Poem – Having It Out with Melancholy by Jane Kenyon

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Wood Thrush (Photo by By Charles J. Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, sharpphotography.co.uk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=130686357)

I think this poem sums up the arc of living with depression better than any that I’ve ever read. See what you think.

Having It out with Melancholy

Jane Kenyon 1947 – 1995

If many remedies are prescribed
for an illness, you may be certain
that the illness has no cure.
—A. P. CHEKHOV
The Cherry Orchard

 

1 FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad—even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours—the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.

2 BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.

3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.

4 OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.

5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors—those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.

6 IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life—in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

7 PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.

8 CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.

9 WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

Wednesday Weed – Purple Loosestrife Revisited

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Dear Readers, the purple loosestrife is as good as it’s ever been this year – normally at some point the whole clump topples over, but today it’s standing upright and proud, and is visited by every bee and butterfly in the vicinity. It is such a splash of colour, and cheers me up every time I look out of the window.

And while looking for a poem, I found this very enigmatic offering from Keith Hoerner, who is the founder of the Webby Awards for blogs and other websites, and who has had his work published in over 150 publications. I love poems where I can picture what’s being described, and this one really hit the spot. See what you think, and then on to my Wednesday Weed from 2017.

The Lakehouse by Keith Hoerner

Deep below the lake’s murky surface, there sits—intact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly—out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman dance in a floating embrace.

Dear Readers, I have long grown purple loosestrife in my pond – its cerise flowers provide a welcome jolt of colour at the end of the summer, plus the bees love it. But this week, I spotted some in the newly-landscaped boating pond on Hampstead Heath, and so I decided that this interesting plant needed its ‘moment in the sun’.

It is a native plant, and as such has developed a whole range of relationships with other members of the ecosystem. In the UK, the leaves are eaten by the larvae of the golden and black-margined loosestrife beetles (Galerucella calmariensis and Galerucella pusilla).

Photo One (Beetle larva) - By Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada Archive, Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada, Bugwood.org - http://www.forestryimages.org/browse/detail.cfm?imgnum=0022078 http://www.forestryimages.org/images/768x512/0022078.jpg, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14325447

Black-margined loosestrife beetle (Galerucella calmariensis) larva (Photo One – credit below)

The roots are munched upon by the loosestrife root weevil (Hylobius transversovittatus), who is eating a leaf in the photo, just to prove its adaptability.

Photo Two (Weevil) - CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=263339

Loosestrife root weevil (Hylobius transversovittatus) (Photo Two – credit below)

And as if this was not enough, the flowers are eaten by the larvae of the loosestrife flower weevil (Nanophyes marmoratus) a most delightful little furry chap. I must admit to having a great fondness for weevils, with their ‘trunks’ and the way that their antennae stick out from the sides of their ‘noses’. And this is even allowing for the tremendous damage that vine weevils have occasionally done to my container plants.

Photo Three (Flower weevil) - By Siga (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Loosestrife flower weevil (Nanophyes marmoratus) (Photo Three – credit below)

What I think all this proves is that no plant is an island – the relationships between a flower and the creatures that feed on it can be extraordinarily complex. Indeed, all the insects mentioned above have been used as biological controls in places such as Canada and the USA, where the plant has reached pest proportions, squeezing out all manner of native plants. The advantage of the insects mentioned above is that they are so specialised that they prefer purple loosestrife even to other plants in the same family, so (in theory) there is no danger that they’ll go rogue.

Photo Four (Cooper Marsh) - By Saffron Blaze - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15287781

Purple loosestrife in the Cooper Marsh conservation area, near Cornwall, Ontario, Canada (Photo Four – see credit below)

In the UK, purple loosestrife is largely kept under control by its insect companions, and so it forms part of a tapestry of plants (except where it is outcompeted by newcomers like Himalayan Balsam, but that’s another story).

Let’s take a brief moment to admire its beauty. Plants of the Lythrum family include the pomegranate and the crape myrtle. What distinguishes all these plants is that the petals often appear crumpled, as if someone had scrunched them up.

In the autumn, the leaves turn bright red, adding a last blaze of colour.

Photo Five (autumn) CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2317448

Loosestrife in autumn (Photo Five – credit below)

‘Loosestrife’ is a literal translation of the Greek name for the plant. It has long been believed to have a calming effect: in classical times, it was believed that ‘if placed on the yoke of inharmonious oxen, it will restrain their quarrelling’ (thanks to Richard Mabey’s Flora Britannica for this titbit). The name of the family, Lythrum, means ‘blood’, and ‘salicaria’ means ‘willow-like’, referring to the leaves. Individual plants have a very  elegant, attenuated appearance.

In the area around the Caspian Sea, the roots of purple loosestrife were used to tan leather, and it can also dye the hair blonde. The flowers produce a red dye with which to colour confectionary, and the leafy shoots have been eaten as a vegetable. For those with an abundance of the  plant, here is a recipe for Creamy Braised Purple Loosestrife and Mushroom Risotto. I note that it requires 2 litres of rabbit, quail or chicken stock, but I’m sure vegetable stock would do the trick.

Purple loosestrife also has a long and distinguished history as a medicinal plant, particularly in the treatment of diarrhoea and dysentery, and as an eye-wash. It is also said to be just the thing should you have a bout of the quinsy. I am fascinated by some of these older diseases: whilst my grandmother would probably have known what quinsy was, I had no idea, so off I went to do some research, and it turns out that when he was a child, my younger brother had a bout of this disease. Quinsy is a particularly nasty complication of tonsillitis, when an abscess forms between a tonsil and the back of the throat. If the abscess grows large enough, it can even affect breathing. I suspect that these days these things are picked up more quickly, but I can imagine how, in the days before antibiotics, something like this could fatal. As purple loosestrife seems to have a mild anti-bacterial effect, it might be that gargling with it was efficacious.

Purple loosestrife features in  John Everett Millais’ painting of Ophelia floating downriver towards her watery end. If you look at the right-hand side of the picture, you can clearly see a fine stand of purple loosestrife.

John Everett Millais – Ophelia (Public Domain)

A close-up of the purple loosestrife (Public Domain)

The justification for their inclusion is that ‘long-purples’ are mentioned in Gertrude’s account of Ophelia’s suicide in Hamlet:

There is a willow grows aslant a brook
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do “dead men’s fingers” call them.
There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaid-like a while they bore her up,
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

 

Now, some botanists have suggested that the ‘long purples’ are not purple loosestrife at all, but early-flowering orchids, which also like damp, boggy places, and which like all orchids have tubers that resemble testicles. This would explain the ‘grosser name’ apparently given by those ‘liberal shepherds’. How interesting that the word ‘liberal’ in Shakespeare’s time meant ‘licentious, promiscuous and coarse’ (thank you to the Shakespeare’s Words website), in addition to its current meanings. Words slip and slide from one definition to another over time in a most interesting way. As usual, I digress.

As to which plant Shakespeare was actually referring to, I doubt that we will ever know for sure.

Incidentally, Millais’ painting originally included a water vole paddling along beside Ophelia, a  delightful addition even if it did rather distract from the tragic nature of the scene. Even without  the water vole, it received a most mixed reception when exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1852, with one critic saying that it reminded them of ‘a dairymaid in a frolic’. Ruskin went even further, objecting to the Surrey location, and saying:

‘Why the mischief should you not paint pure nature, and not that rascally wirefenced garden-rolled-nursery-maid’s paradise?’

Ah well. Suffice it to say that these days the Pre-Raphaelites are back in fashion, and the painting, exhibited at Tate Britain, is worth at least £30m.The model, Elizabeth Siddons, caught a shocking cold through being immersed in a bath for several days. The water was originally heated with oil lamps, but Millais was so engrossed in his painting that he didn’t notice, and presumably poor Lizzie was too in awe to mention that she was getting hypothermia (she was only 19). Her father attempted to sue Millais for £50 for medical expenses, but eventually settled for ‘a lower sum’.

And, as you know, I like to end my piece with some poetry, and here is a most interesting piece by the travel writer Robert Byron . I would add that I would wish this for all children, not just sons. I would also add that I disagree with some of it, as you’ll see from my comments at the end. As an added ‘bonus’ (depending on your Royalist or Republican tendencies) you can hear the Prince of Wales read it here.

All These I Learnt

by Robert Byron

If I have a son, he shall salute the lords and ladies who unfurl green hoods to the March rains, and shall know them afterwards by their scarlet fruit. He shall know the celandine, and the frigid, sightless flowers of the woods, spurge and spurge laurel, dogs’ mercury, wood-sorrel and queer four-leaved herb-paris fit to trim a bonnet with its purple dot. He shall see the marshes gold with flags and kingcups and find shepherd’s purse on a slag-heap. He shall know the tree-flowers, scented lime-tassels, blood-pink larch-tufts, white strands of the Spanish chestnut and tattered oak-plumes. He shall know orchids, mauve-winged bees and claret-coloured flies climbing up from mottled leaves. He shall see June red and white with ragged robin and cow parsley and the two campions. He shall tell a dandelion from sow thistle or goat’s beard. He shall know the field flowers, lady’s bedstraw and lady’s slipper, purple mallow, blue chicory and the cranesbills – dusky, bloody, and blue as heaven. In the cool summer wind he shall listen to the rattle of harebells against the whistle of a distant train, shall watch clover blush and scabious nod, pinch the ample veitches, and savour the virgin turf. He shall know grasses, timothy and wag-wanton, and dust his finger-tips in Yorkshire fog. By the river he shall know pink willow-herb and purple spikes of loosestrife, and the sweetshop smell of water-mint where the rat dives silently from its hole. He shall know the velvet leaves and yellow spike of the old dowager, mullein, recognise the whole company of thistles, and greet the relatives of the nettle, wound-wort and hore-hound, yellow rattle, betony, bugle and archangel. In autumn, he shall know the hedge lanterns, hips and haws and bryony. At Christmas he shall climb an old apple-tree for mistletoe, and know whom to kiss and how.

He shall know the butterflies that suck the brambles, common whites and marbled white, orange-tip, brimstone, and the carnivorous clouded yellows. He shall watch fritillaries, pearl-bordered and silver-washed, flit like fireballs across the sunlit rides. He shall see that family of capitalists, peacock, painted lady, red admiral and the tortoiseshells, uncurl their trunks to suck blood from bruised plums, while the purple emperor and white admiral glut themselves on the bowels of a rabbit. He shall know the jagged comma, printed with a white c, the manx-tailed iridescent hair-streaks, and the skippers demure as charwomen on Monday morning. He shall run to the glint of silver on a chalk-hill blue – glint of a breeze on water beneath an open sky – and shall follow the brown explorers, meadow brown, brown argus, speckled wood and ringlet. He shall see death and revolution in the burnet moth, black and red, crawling from a house of yellow talc tied half-way up a tall grass. He shall know more rational moths, who like the night, the gaudy tigers, cream-spot and scarlet, and the red and yellow underwings. He shall hear the humming-bird hawk moth arrive like an air-raid on the garden at dusk, and know the other hawks, pink sleek-bodied elephant, poplar, lime, and death’s head. He shall count the pinions of the plume moths, and find the large emerald waiting in the rain-dewed grass.

All these I learnt when I was a child and each recalls a place or occasion that might otherwise be lost. They were my own discoveries. They taught me to look at the world with my own eyes and with attention. They gave me a first content with the universe. Town-dwellers lack this intimate content, but my son shall have it!

To finish, much as I like the piece above, I would add that ‘demure’ is not a word that I associate with charwomen on any day of the week, nor indeed with women, full-stop. I should add that I once had a blind date with a chap with no visible social graces or interesting conversation and who had forgotten to bring his wallet when the time came to pay the bill. As we were leaving, he gave me a quizzical look and said ‘I don’t think we should meet again. I thought you’d be more demure’.

If I’d been any less demure he’d have been flat on his back on the pavement, seeing stars, but the best I could manage was ‘Suits me fine’.

Oh, and incidentally, I don’t agree that town-dweller lacks ‘intimate content’ either. I think it’s all in the attention, and the patience, and the willingness to learn, wherever you live.

Photo Credits

Photo One (Beetle larva) – By Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada Archive, Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada, Bugwood.org – http://www.forestryimages.org/browse/detail.cfm?imgnum=0022078 http://www.forestryimages.org/images/768×512/0022078.jpg, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14325447

Photo Two (Weevil) – CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=263339

Photo Three (Flower weevil) – By Siga (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Photo Four (Cooper Marsh) – By Saffron Blaze – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15287781

Photo Five (autumn) CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2317448

Inspiration Needed….

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Dear Readers, you might remember that a few weeks ago I mentioned that I’m putting some wildflower turf around the pond (of which more in a couple of days). Well, the rolls of turf arrived on this massive pallet, and I am wondering if any of you have made use of such a thing – I’m not the world’s best DIY-er, so something easy would be good. It just seems a shame not to take advantage of all that wood.

So as to not just take advantage of everyone’s good nature, I have done a bit of research myself. First up, it appears that the wood in pallets is treated in different ways, and in some cases they’re sprayed with extremely toxic chemicals and pesticides, presumably to stop invasive invertebrates and other organisms from travelling from one country to another. You can tell how your pallet has been treated by looking for a code which should be etched into the wood – the following information is from Pallet Online (who even knew there was such a thing?)

The codes are:

  • DB – debarked – the bark of the tree has been removed from the wood. This will probably appear on most pallets
  • HT – heat treated – the pallet has been heated to a minimum of 56°C for at least 30 minutes
  • KD – kiln dried – the pallet has been heated in a kiln to kill bacteria and pests
  • DH – dielectric heated – the pallet has been heated and disinfected using electromagnetic energy
  • SF – sulphuryl fluoride – the pallet has undergone fumigation using sulphuryl fluoride
  • MB – methyl bromide – the pallet has been treated using methyl bromide, a highly toxic pesticide

And for garden projects, the website recommends not using the bottom two, which makes perfect sense to me.

Hang on a second while I run down to see what the code on my pallet is….

And there’s no code that I can see, but then it has been painted blue. Sigh.

Anyhow, let me know if you’ve undertaken a pallet project, and how it went. I am quite taken with the kind of thing in the photo below, but my pallet would need a fair bit of work to make it look as nice. Plus mine is a massive pallet, as you can probably see, so I’m not sure where I’d hang it.

Over to you, Readers!

Fellow of the Linnean Society!

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Dear Readers, I am delighted to announce that I’m now a Fellow of the Linnean Society – this is the oldest natural history society in the world, and it has had many distinguished naturalists as members, including Charles Darwin. These days, its membership is open to those who are working to help to preserve and protect the natural world, and as well as research scientists its membership includes archivists from places such as Kew Gardens (the current president is from Edinburgh Botanic Garden), artists, writers, and indeed at least one humble blogger. At the moment, to gain membership your application has to be supported by two current members, but going forward there will be a membership committee, which will make the whole thing a bit more democratic. There are members from hundreds of countries, an excellent education programme and a whole range of talks and lectures, both online and in person.

The ‘swearing in’ ceremony is quite something. Fellows need to sign a book, and sign up to the values of the Society, which you can read at the link at the top of the page. Then you shake hands with the President of the Society: she or he wears a tricorn hat, which they doff, and very exciting it is too. The hat was only worn in the presence of strangers, so removing it indicates that you’ve been welcomed into the Society. I found it all strangely moving, especially with the portraits of Darwin, Wallace and Linneaus himself watching from the walls.

You can read about upcoming events here.

And here’s another piece that I did about the building that houses the Linnean Society and some of the treasures that it holds.

So now I can put ‘Bug Woman – Fellow of the Linnean Society’ (FSL) on my business cards, and very chuffed I am too.

A Question….

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Dear Readers, I am always amazed by the persistence of spiders. It’s the end of July, and so they’re just getting big enough to notice. This one is on the inside of my kitchen door. The inside! That’s not going to work too well from the spider’s point of view. There are surely more tiny insects outside the kitchen than in it, in spite of my less-than-perfect hygiene.

I actually noticed her yesterday (and I always assume spiders are female unless they are sporting those attractive boxing-glove pedipalps that the males wear). I had a whole conversation  with her, as I tried to gently catch her and put her outside.

“You’re not supposed to be in here”, I say. ” What are you doing in the kitchen?”

My husband shouts down from upstairs to ask who I’m talking to. From previous experience, he knows it could be:

  • a neighbour’s cat
  • a fox trying to muscle its way in
  • an ant
  • a frog
  • a slug

Fortunately it has never (so far) been a burglar, or indeed any other human being.

“I’m trying to persuade this spider to go outside”, I shout.

Silence, but I can sense the most delicate of eye-rolls.

The spider folds her legs and drops to the doormat, where she is invisible amongst all that coir.

And today, she’s back, with a perfect web across the door panel. Not that you can see it, so she looks as if she’s floating in mid-air, like some kind of arachnid angel.

So, Readers, I may try to move her again, or I may leave her and see what happens. When the world seems to be going to hell in the proverbial hand basket, sometimes I find myself laser-focussed on some small ethical dilemma, because there is so much horror, and so little that I can do about most of it. And most people, I’m sure, have bigger things to worry about, and who’s to say that they’re wrong? But I’m going to carry on talking to spiders, and considering what I can do to help them to survive, and if I get a reputation as a bit daft I shall wear that badge with pride.

But I am curious. Will anyone else own up to talking to spiders, or houseplants, or other living things that I’m sure have never replied? Do share! It would be a great thing if there are more of us out there…..

Orcas are Bringing Humans Gifts – What’s Going On?

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Photo By Robert Pittman – NOAA (http://www.afsc.noaa.gov/Quarterly/amj2005/divrptsNMML3.htm]), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1433661

Dear Readers, Orcas have cropped up as a subject for the blog on a couple of occasions, most recently because they’d started to wear fish on their heads, and no one knew why. However, scientists all over the world are noticing that orcas are bringing ‘gifts’ to scientists – in Canada, Jared Towers, of marine research firm Bay Cetology, was offered dead birds by two young orca, Quiver and Akela. Both whales dropped the birds in front of Towers, as if waiting to see what he’d do, and then, when he didn’t react, swam off with the birds. Previously, Towers had been offered a dead harbour seal pup by a different orca. 

Towers reached out to other researchers to see if his experience was unique, and soon found that other scientists had been offered everything from stingrays to seaweed. Apparently the behaviour is not uncommon between Orca, who live in close-knit social groups, but to my mind it takes one helluva brain to extrapolate from this to offering food to a completely different species. It feels as if the whales are both curious about what would happen, and exploring the possibility of relationship.

Lots of animals give gifts, from crows to primates to domestic animals such as dogs and cats. With some animals, I get a distinct feeling that they’re being playful, even showing a sense of humour – Towers documents how one Orca, memorably named ‘Funky Monkey’, approached a researcher while wearing a stingray on his head. I love the idea that these whales are literally ‘testing the water’ with humans, and are curious about what we’d do with a chunk of blubber, or a dead gull. I only hope that they aren’t disappointed with us.

You can read the whole article here.

The Big Butterfly Count 2025 – Part One

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Large White Butterfly (Pieris brassicae) Photo By Alvesgaspar – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4087693

Dear Readers, today I started the Big Butterfly Count for 2025 – I’m planning on doing one in the front garden, where there’s a buddleia, some scabious and various other pollinator-friendly plants, and one in the back garden, where the hemp agrimony seems to attract a whole other range of small butterflies, such as Gatekeepers. But, as is usually the case, as soon as I set my timer for 15 minutes all the butterflies head off for a tea break. In the end, I had two Large White butterflies, who chased one another round and round for a bit before heading off up the road.

Sigh.

Still, there are lots of other things to look at, and in particular I’m intrigued with these teeny tiny little bees. They are some species of Lassioglossum or Furrow bees, but I’d have to trap them and dissect them to be sure, which seems very inhospitable. They love my Mexican Fleabane, and good luck to them! While the butterflies might be absent, these insects are having a fine old time.

And here’s a hoverfly – I’m used to seeing the big ones just lately, but this species is very small and neat. I’m pretty sure this is a Syrphus hoverfly, but which species would require someone who could examine the hairs on the fly’s legs, which is unlikely to be me.

And so, tomorrow, if the weather holds, I shall investigate what pops into the back garden. I hope if any of you are doing the Big Butterfly Count you have a few more ‘flutterbys’ to report!

Thursday Poem – How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best (Andrea Gibson 1975-2025)

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Andrea Gibson (Photo By Andrea Gibson – Friend, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=152126249)

Andrea Gibson died aged 49 of ovarian cancer a few weeks ago. Such a loss, but what a legacy they have left us. See what you think.

How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best

Andrea Gibson 1975 – 2025

When you are trapped in a nightmare, your motivation to awaken will be so much greater than that of someone caught up in a relatively pleasant dream.
—Eckhart Tolle

When I realized the storm
was inevitable, I made it
my medicine.

Took two snowflakes
on the tongue in the morning,
two snowflakes on the tongue
by noon.

There were no side effects.
Only sound effects. Reverb
added to my lifespan,
an echo that asked—

What part of your life’s record is skipping?
What wound is on repeat?
Have you done everything you can
to break out of that groove?

By night time, I was intimate
with the difference
between tying my laces
and tuning the string section

of my shoes, made a symphony of walking
away from everything that did not
want my life to sing.

Felt a love for myself so consistent
metronomes tried to copyright my heartbeat.

Finally understood I am the conductor
of my own life, and will be even after I die.
I, like the trees, will decide what I become:

Porch swing? Church pew?
An envelope that must be licked to be closed?
Kinky choice, but I didn’t close.

I opened and opened
until I could imagine that the pain
was the sensation of my spirit
not breaking,

that my mind was a parachute
that could always open
in time,

that I could wear my heart
on my sleeve and never grow
out of that shirt.

That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.

Wednesday Weed – Chicory

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Chicory (Cichorium intybus)

Dear Readers, what a lovely, lovely plant this is! I don’t know of many flowers which are exactly this shade of lavender blue, and it was a pleasure to see a big stand of it at Heartwood yesterday. As you might have guessed, this is a member of the Daisy family (Asteraceae), and my Harrap’s Wild Flower guide describes it as an ‘ancient introduction’. But why was it introduced? Well, strange as it may seem, the ‘chicory’ that we see in greengrocers is just the cultivated variety of this plant, and both endive and radicchio are also descended from ‘wild’ chicory.

The plant has been cultivated in the UK since at least the early 16th century, when it was known as ‘succory’ – there were many tricks for producing the blanched spears, by forcing the plant in dark cellars (much like forced rhubarb) or under flower pots.

Belgian endive (Witloof)

Chicory root has also long been used as a coffee substitute – I remember drinking it as an impoverished student back in the late 1970s, though it was never a favourite. Apparently, in 1766 Frederick the Great of Prussia banned the importation of coffee, and a local innkeeper started to use roast chicory root instead.

The roots also contain a substance called inulin, which is a slightly sweet starch, also found in Jerusalem artichokes – it’s used by the food industry for sweetening, and as a ‘prebiotic’.

The leaves of the wild plant can be used as a salad vegetable, and the blue flowers are also edible – very attractive in a salad, I imagine. Chicory is also valuable as a forage crop – it sequesters selenium, which is an important element for cattle and sheep. In addition, domestic animals which have chicory in their diet seem to have a lower parasite burden.

With flowers as exquisite as this, it’s not surprising that folklore has grown up around chicory. It’s believed that it can open a locked door, but there are a number of requirements for how it’s picked – it must be gathered at noon or midnight on St James’s Day (July 25th, so you still have a few days!) Furthermore, it must be cut with a gold instrument, and the person cutting it must be silent, otherwise the harvester will die. Yikes! Just go to a locksmith, people. On the other hand, chicory harvested in this way can also grant invisibility, so maybe it’s worth it.

In Chinese mythology, the ‘silkworm mother’, who takes care of the silkworms, shouldn’t eat chicory or even touch it.

The leaves of chicory are the foodplants of the Marbled Clover moth (Heliothis viriplaca) and the Feathered Brindle moth (Aparaphyla australis), both moths of open grassland such as the kind we see above.

Marbled Clover (Photo by By © entomart Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=315028

Feathered Brindle (Photo by By This image is created by user Joop de Bakker at Waarneming.nl, a source of nature observations in the Netherlands. –  CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20562761)

And, while looking for a poem about chicory, I came across this one, by John Updike no less. I’m not sure that it’s great poetry, but it is closely observed, which always pleases me. See what you think.

Chicory
by John Updike

Show me a piece of land that God forgot—
a strip between an unused sidewalk, say,
and a bulldozed lot, rich in broken glass—
and there, July on, will be chicory,

its leggy hollow stems staggering skyward,
its leaves rough-hairy and lanceolate,
like pointed shoes too cheap for elves to wear,
its button-blooms the tenderest mauve-blue.

How good of it to risk the roadside fumes,
the oil-soaked heat reflected from asphalt,
and wretched earth dun-colored like cement,
too packed for any other seed to probe.

It sends a deep taproot (delicious, boiled),
is relished by all livestock, lends its leaves
to salads and cooked greens, but will not thrive
in cultivated soil: it must be free.

A Visit to Heartwood Forest

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One of the meadows at Heartwood

Dear Readers, I was pining for the Alpine meadows of Obergurgl today, and so I was whisked off by my friend L to visit the largest new native forest in England. Heartwood is close to St Albans, and, at 858 hectares of woodland and meadow it represents an important habitat for all sorts of plants and animals. There is true ancient woodland here, including a bluebell wood, but over 600,000 new native trees have also been planted by the Woodland Trust’s army of volunteers. It is a magical place, and the meadows were expansive and varied – maybe not quite as varied as an Alpine meadow, but still absolutely full of life. 

On the way to Heartwood we passed through some fields full of horses, including one which was role-playing as a zebra, two who were grooming one another, and one magnificent heavy horse.

Then it was back to skipping through the flowers, while L stopped to say hello to many, many dogs. I told her that she should have a teeshirt with ‘dog-deprived’ on the front.

The weather was supposed to be dreadful today, but instead the sun shone, and the crickets sang.

And here was a real treat – a stand of Chicory. It is the most extraordinary shade of lavender-blue.

The variety of pollinators on the Creeping Thistle was extraordinary, with lots of different fly and bee species, and a lot of ladybirds, including some native Seven-Spot Ladybirds.

And look at the size of this queen bumblebee, she was about the size of a thumb-joint.

I really love Wild Carrot (Daucus carota) – it seems to also attract a wide range of pollinators, including the ‘bonking beetle’, though there was no bonking going on today.

Lots of the young trees are now full of berries, including these lovely Rowan.

And here’s the path into the new wood…

Lots of butterflies about today, including this Ringlet (Aphantopus hyperantus). This is a grassland butterfly, but it was taking a little break on the oak leaves.

Then, back past the horses…

…and past a barn where Barn Swallows were nesting. House Martins were also flittering about, and a lady in a wheelchair was watching them, enjoying the sunshine and the birds.

And then it was time for lunch at the Heartwood Café (highly recommended), and a leisurely 40 minute drive back to East Finchley. I had no idea that such riches were so close at hand – it goes to show how important it is to go on an expedition every so often, just to see what’s happening. And it also goes to show the sheer variety of animals and plants that will turn up if we recreate the right conditions for them.