Some Recapitulations.

Let me recap on something I’ve mentioned several times on the blog. The Shire that is my environment is an undulating landscape of fields, hedgerows, mature trees, copses, bigger woods, and low hills, and the whole of it is green at the moment. Let me further recap by saying that the colours in the patchwork of fields vary according to the season. There are four choices on the palette: green when the crops and hay plants are growing, brown when the earth is bare, yellow/buff when the wheat and barley are ripe, and golden yellow when the oilseed flowers bloom in the spring. 

 

(If only some of the farmers would grow lavender we could add blue to the mix, but the farmers in these parts are sturdy English yeoman types who would probably consider the growing of lavender to be women’s work. Some of them are probably still sharpening their arrows in case they ever get the chance to shoot them at the French aristocracy again. And there’s a thought: Maybe that’s why the French Revolution happened. Maybe the French got so fed up with their great and good being skewered by smelly, ne’er-do-well English ruffians that they decided it was better to get rid of the aristocracy than lose face. Never thought of that one before. I wonder what the French history books say about it.)

Anyway, at the moment – the moment being early summer – it’s too late for the early oilseed blooming, too early for the cereal harvest, and much too early for the ploughing and muck spreading. So the colour green predominates completely, which is fine by me. And it will all change soon because everything does.

And now for another recap.

I’ve mentioned several times that the number of migrant birds has been diminishing over the past few years. Well, it’s getting worse. I go for a walk nearly every day (surgeon’s recommendation, you understand), and over the past few weeks I’ve seen a swallow on only about one occasion in three. And I do mean a swallow – a single bird hunting alone over a field. The old adage one swallow does not a summer make refers to the false presumption that summer has arrived on seeing the first swallow in late April or early May. But it’s now nearly the end of June, so where are the flocks of maybe 15-20 birds which used to treat us to the spectacle of power, grace, and speed and bestow one of summer’s primary delights? Where are this year’s young? Are there none? Seeing a lone swallow repeatedly is a sad sight indeed. And their cousins, the house martins, have been conspicuous by their total absence so far this year. I assume it’s all due to climate change, but who can tell?

And now I’m desperately trying to think of a way to wrap up this post, but my imagination has fallen asleep. Maybe I should mention that my new lady friend, the lovely young blackbird, now has a name. She’s called Henrietta. I told her that she looked like a Henrietta and she didn’t disagree, so I must have got it right in one.