LIFE ON A BORROWED CAMERA

Not that people with perfect vision will be seeing much these days.
A few moments earlier, this was a moderately open view. A few moments later and everything was hidden behind a fast veiling, white curtain.

The default weather here is currently 'mist'. This somewhat reflects my own state of joyfulness - which could be more nearly described as - 'fog'. It will be another two weeks before my camera is returned from the menders; and just when I was thinking after the demise and replacement of my laptop, the demise and not-replacement of my music speaker, the smashing of my mobile phone (I tripped over a low concrete barrier) - there's nothing else to break . . . my glasses frame has suddenly and unaccountably bent and an arm is falling off so it's not just that the world is out of focus when looked at through a broken lens - I'm walking around with crossed eyes, constantly angling my head up and down and sideways to see if there's any way I can make things look better.

On the up-side . .  I've borrowed a camera.

On the down-side . . . although pictures taken with it may theoretically be in focus I have no idea whether they are or are not. (Broken glasses!)

I hope by now, you are completely overcome with sympathy, fighting back tears and playing violins.

Friends don't necessarily help. "I know!" said one. "Come with me for a walk. That'll cheer you up!" After quite a long trek across the grey wastes of an abandoned Park-and-Ride, and after falling up a muddy, brambly bank because everything was so wet, we could see acres of brown reeds sticking up through invisible water-logged ground. I could tart up this picture. I've tried. So I know. With a bit of adjustment I can make it brighter and clearer. But to blog it like that would be to lie. What lay before us was a landscape of stripy murkiness. Which, I hope, is how you see it here.

Fortunately, I was not invited to put on waders to see if we could get through, nor given an axe and a canoe. Instead, my guide diverted us between clumps and bumps of tough grass, along muddy paths and deep puddles so I could experience the pleasure of cold brown water flowing happily into my only presentable pair of shoes.

But even in the murk of a warm, dull spring, there are moments of hope . . . 

Last week I reviewed a book on how to cheer an urban landscape with flowers. . . and brightened the post with an illustration from it of a balcony crammed with plants. I was in Southampton yesterday and as I climbed despondently up the hill from the station into town (wondering how much joy I could summon up from admiring concrete blocks of flats built to resemble ocean liners) I glanced up (never forget to glance up) and saw this. One Cordyline on one balcony. Is this a cheerful reminder that not everything is as bleak as it seems? Or does it emphasise that apart from itself everything is, indeed, bleak?

I've not yet decided.

(I hope you're enjoying this post!)

Here's a bit of light:

Earlier this week, I was going from house to house, posting leaflets through letter boxes suggesting - that plans to close the children's ward and neo-natal unit at our local hospital are not a good idea (that's not the light) when I came across this car. In some ways it could be a sad car. But it wasn't. It wasn't muddy (unlike my shoes) and the paintwork was shiny (unlike my shoes) and growing in the slot where the wipers swish - there was this plant. The photo isn't in focus . .  grey day, broken glasses, unfamiliar camera . . . but it brought - I wish I could say 'leap of joy' into a bleak and un-imaginative heart  (more violins please) . . . but it inspired a little spark of 'oh, look at this!'-ness A man emerged from the house opposite. After all, I was cavorting in his neighbour's drive, taking photographs of his neighbour's car etc. etc. But I couldn't summon enough enthusiasm to call him over to see . . just nodded, put my camera away and went to push the next leaflet through the nest annoying draft-excluding bristles in the letterbox of the next door along. But a bit of my brain (the tiny part spared from moaning about broken glasses) has, since then, been going around almost on its own - singing a little song.

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SPRING AND AUTUMN - CAN WE TELL THE DIFFERENCE?

Always, at this time of year, I go looking for what's left of autumn.

Usually, this means taking photos of leaves which have survived the winter, disintegrated flowers that never fell. That kind of thing. It's my version of spring cleaning.

And, as usual, at the moment I chose (which is another way of saying the only one I had available) the weather was dull. I fiddled around a bit, trying to make visible for the blog things which my eyes could barely make out in the gloom. Not a great success! So I turned the camera round the other way and decided on silhouettes instead. It was only when I got home and looked at the results that I decided the shapes I like so much weren't, on this occasion, the most interesting things there. What I had been seeing as the old stuff was really the new stuff held back from autumn and made ready and ripe for the spring. (Wonderfully scientific language on Loose and Leafy!)

I'd previously thought of dessicated blackberries as the fruits summer forgot.

I'd seen old willow herb shapes as just that - shapes left from when seeds fell.

Now, now, I see them as the winter's hoard - not for birds to eat, though with some, like teasels, this is indeed a side effect, but as plant's packets of seeds, ready to sow in the spring - and they've begun sowing.

This should not have been as much a revelation as it was. But that's the advantage of being ignorant. The pleasure when one's eyes open is immense.

Some Alexanders still have seeds in reserve.

Others  have let them all go.

Old Man's Beard (wild clematis) tends to look pretty euchy by now. The deliciously white fluff of autumn has turned into dirty gray drifts of ancient cotton wool - the kind left behind by the dustmen.

But, kept safe in the mess, the seeds are opening and dropping. They are tiny. Smaller than tomato pips.

And prickly balls of burdock are opening to release theirs.

See them? Quite large and lumpy inside.

Isn't autumn wonderful to save some of itself for spring?

* * *

All pictures were taken on 16th February 2013

Last year's post looking at the year before's leaves.

Silhouettes in January 2011

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PATHS AND THINGS

Blackthorn blossom is far from covering
the bushes yet
but it's beginning to bulk up;
a few clusters now
rather than an occasional flower.

Writing this post has been something of a struggle. I'd decided to write about paths - paths for humans and paths created by animals (mostly by dogs, foxes and badgers round here). It gives a bit of context - something which, I think, is often missing on Loose and Leafy. From time to time I try to make up for this but doing so has challenges. For one thing, I am privileged to have access to such a rich and varied environment, the wider scene could easily nudge out the detail - and it's the style of this blog that I focus on small details. (Leaves - rather than trees; what one can find without moving a foot.) Another challenge is that, because this is the internet, I prefer to be hazy about some locations. I say 'some' because several are utterly distinct and some unique! There's no getting away from the silhouette of Portland! And, finally, Dorset is such an incredibly beautiful and interesting area, Loose and Leafy could easily become an outpost of Tourist Information; an advertisement for wonderful holidays.

Writing a post about paths hit all these challenges, plus three more. One, that I took so many photos for it, I'd have needed to change the name of the blog to 'Trodden Ground'. Two, that there are other things I wanted to fit in today - it is spring, after all! The third challenge is that there are paths interesting enough to include in a wider-context post but which aren't, I find, the richest source of material for Loose and Leafy.

Never mind - here goes with a random selection and a truncated version. We'll start wide - and narrow down.

This, clearly, is the route of an old railway line. You can see the remains of a long platform on the left. A few years ago, someone proposed re-introducing trains and tracks. It would have been a lot of work and a lot of expense but the man who brought forward the idea had a lot of enthusiasm and, I think, saw it as an ecological idea - a way of encouraging people to use public transport (even if privately operated) rather than cars.

The vegetation along here does not look exciting at present but there are lots of brambles and gorse.
In the summer the air vibrates with heat and pollinators.
Quite a few small flowers - like vetches and cranesbill - grow along the sides.

I think the train enthusiast was taken aback by the vehemence of opposition. This path is incredibly well used. Finding a moment when there aren't people in view is very difficult, especially on a sunny weekend, Sometimes, parts of it get so crowded it is hard to find a route through. I took photos of it being busy - locals going to and from town, walkers, joggers, people with tripods and binoculars who'd come to spy birds, and children learning to ride bikes they were bought for Christmas which have been brought back out again now the weather is getting warm - but as I avoid pictures of people when I can, I decided to show you what it looks like in a calm moment. The person in the distance and the shadow of a cyclist can represent all those who use it. They are good symbols. It can be a peaceful place to walk but there are also conflicts between cyclists who think it's a 'proper' road and people on foot - who don't.

This is part of The Hamm -
the path which runs along the causeway to Portland.
This may not seem hopeful ground for plant watching but . . .
just wait!
Before long, there will be a sea of pink thrift along here.

This area, down in a dip and surrounded by Holm Oaks,
is genuinely short of plants all year round.
In part this is because of the trees.
In part because it's a good place for people to
clamber about a bit or
to abandon supermarket shopping trolleys.

Here's a way to the sea. The reeds are a bit higher than I am.
(I first showed this photo on my other blog, Message in a Milk Bottle.)

Here's a way I never go! It's a way made by animals. I doubt even children go down here.
As well as foxes and badgers - rats and squirrels take advantage of these cuts.

Here's the path between the elders we are following.
In the winter, there's room for children.
Already though, vegetation is beginning to crowd in.
Before long, it will be almost impassable.

The elder shoot we have been following (up on one of the branches) has hardly changed. Others near it are growing faster. I'm glad I chose this shoot though because it means I can keep taking pictures of the lichen as well - Common Orange' (Xanthoria parietina).

* * *

One of my first incentives to follow the progress of a particular tree or patch of ground was when some of the trees round here were cut back in what seemed to me to be a brutal and haphazard way. I was concerned rot would get into the bare and ragged ends of small branches. Some were on trees I recognised. But there was one tree - with beautiful twigs, chestnutty red, which I simply couldn't identify. Not in a way I could be confident of.

I am on Twitter and a friend there suggested silver birch. I said I'd go and look at the lower part of its trunk once the undergrowth had died back for winter. I could never get there. It is as protected as effectively as the sleeping princess was by brambles and briers. Just before the nettles grow up and the leaves break out to make the trunk invisible as well as inaccessible, I've managed to zoom in (hurray for cameras!) and get a glimpse.

Looks right?

And another ID problem. As I've mentioned before, I find it difficult to tell the difference between maples and sycamores in their variety.

A couple of weeks ago, I bought a book which may help with this because it has examples of the different shapes of their seeds. The ones on the tree where this twig grows will be specially lovely. (I know from passed years.)

It will be a long wait. These leaf buds seem pretty static.

* * *

I'm Following a Tree

Are You? 

___

If you have posted recently about the life of a particular tree you are 'following', let me know and I'll put a link here.


On the Edge Gardening
Warts and All
(Beech)
Lichfield Lore
Sticking it Out
(Cider Orchard)

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A PAUSE TO LOOK AT REEDS

Reeds are here all year round but when bushes die back and green fades out of the landscape they come into their own.

In the summer, there will be flowers either side of this path - daisies and vetches and all sorts of things I don't know the names for but, for now, reeds dominate

 - and they won't stand still. It has been very windy recently. Indeed, to take these pictures it was, at times, hard to stand still, the wind was buffeting so much. They are being blown sideways - and I am too. Weather is contrary. Clouds are coming from the north but wind from the west. This means it is not too cold. An east wind is the coldest here.

It comes blasting up the English Channel. The coast you see is the south coast of Dorset - heading from Weymouth to Kimmeridge and Lulworth.

As evening falls, the light grows colder and the reeds turn silvery

and dull

and dramatic.

(The little white dot in the sky to the right of the reed head is the moon.)

I like reeds.

Photographs taken on the 2nd and 5th of January 2012.
I'm at sea with botanical names. Is Phragmites Communis the same as Phragmites australis?

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THE WIND DROPS AND THE SUN COMES UP

It has  been very windy recently. Even when it hasn't been raining, the wind has been making every plant, every stalk, every leaf - everything tremble. (Even me!) Not the weather for photos.

But this morning . . . a lull. A day for a quick stuck-foot stop. (This is where I keep my feet planted in one place - and see what there is to see.)

Ten past ten. The sun is up (though low). The wind has dropped. Down to the beach. It's a bit glarey, looking east!

But at my feet - Rock Samphire (Crithmum maritimum)

And . . . I don't know what this is. I know I don't like it though, so I look up

to the top of the bank above the path . . . . from where the little black seeds of Alexanders (Smyrnium olusatrum) are falling onto the rocks and, rather astonishingly . . .

germinating through the remains of old reeds.

Where . . .

an old teasle (Dipsacus fullonum) has fallen too.

And, below the rocks, on the sand itself

seaweed in dog-walkers tracks. The greeny one, I'd guess is Toothed Wrack (Fucus serratus). The twiggy bits - more reeds (Phragmites communis). But the red threads . . . I daren't hazard a guess about the red threads - red seaweeds have me completely beat. (Too many look too much alike!)

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