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Spring is always full of surprises, I mean, how many people expected April to be oh so very wet? One thing that always seems to surprise me is how far into spring we get before tress come into their own. I often think of spring happening quickly, but it doesn’t. It comes in clearly defined stages (snowdrops then primroses then daffodils etc.); steadily at first before building up to a mad rush in May. Why the rush? Well, that’s typically when fresh and almost luminous leaves really begin to burst forth, and greedily steal light from anything growing below them.
At this point my inner tree hugger, which has patiently lain dormant through the depths of winter, bursts free. Add a touch of nice light and I’m high as a kite and at risk of an endorphin overdose.
The old compositional adage of ‘keep it simple’ has stood the test of time and is well worth remembering, but doesn’t need to be slavishly followed. When it comes to woodlands I often go for the exact opposite, I try to fill the frame with detail. I love scrutinising the infinite patterns and picking out tiny but fascinating elements. I get as much pleasure exploring these subjects now as I did when using a kaleidoscope as a child. But that’s just me.
I have always found red-legged partridges to be shy birds. They usually secret themselves away under cover, or dash off at the first sign of any interest from me, so hopefully you will understand when I say that I was surprised to spot one sitting proud on top of a clump of heather. Basking in spring sunshine he was set against what would otherwise have been a very confusing background, but was in fact completely washed out to a pleasing pale blue-grey, thanks to the mist.
This occasional blog is a tasty serving of nature and wildlife photography, with a side dish of my experiences out in the field and lightly seasoned with any random thoughts that occur to me along the way.
Yellow Peril
2011 2 Comments
Daffodils = spring, spring = daffodils. Or so it seems. Maybe it’s something to do with bright yellow blooms catching the eye after a drab winter. Maybe it’s because that upon appearing they lift the spirit and let us know that better weather is just around the corner. Maybe they are alien life-forms intent on bending us to their will and taking over the world. Whatever it is, there seems to be more and more of them every year.
I sympathise with the often noble aspirations of guerrilla gardeners, bringing life into the concrete jungle where they can. But surely, there must be limits. Artificially beautifying an area is nothing new. In the late 1800’s railway stations along the North York Moors’ Esk Valley Line were liberally planted up with the yellow peril, from Middlesbrough to Danby, as part of a marketing exercise, with plans to plant all the way to Whitby and call it “The Daffodil Line”. The name was dropped, but amazingly a lot of daffodils still remain. And of course, there is the annual “Britain in Bloom” competition.
I’ve reluctantly accepted daffodils surreptitiously planted along rural grass verges as an extension of the guerrilla’s mindset. Despite how out of place they often look. But when out recently on an early morning foray, exploring the rolling North York Moors, I came across a bunch of gaudy and over-the-top-yellow daffodils that had been planted up high amongst heather. No doubt this act of horticultural self-expression was well intentioned, but it’s so misguided. If yellow was what the planter wanted to see they only had to look around. Not more than ten paces away was a small broom shrub with its bright yellow flowers bursting forth.
Folk seem to be mindlessly driven to bring their gardens into the countryside, when it would be so much better for us all if they let a little of the countryside into their gardens instead.