The spectacular display of bluebells, this most quintessentially English of plants and indicator of ancient woodland, starts immediately upon entering the wood and, following weeks of expectation, it does not disappoint. The blue against the green of the woodland floor is one of English nature’s greatest shows, something that no-one, given the chance, should miss out on. The plants beside the path are individually discernable, with their delicate bell flowers hanging from one side of the stalk, causing the distinctive curve, as though suggesting humility and diffidence – the invading Spanish bluebell, which sadly is crossing with the native plant, is discernable by its more robust flowers and erect stalk, caused by the flowers being more evenly distributed. Happily, the bluebells here are entirely unsullied. As I look up it becomes harder to identify individual plants, until it is impossible for the eye to separate one from another, and it is just a gently shifting mass of sun-drenched blue, becoming a misty blue haze, something more experienced than seen, for the eye and brain cannot cope with the sensory overload. The blue continues beneath the trees, washing against the trunks and fallen logs until it is lost from view. The fragrance is carried on the breeze, heady and at the same time as delicate as the flower itself. Unfortunately, the display will be all too brief, but it is all the more magnificent for its fleeting appearance. And the sight of bluebells in dappled sunlight has the effect of lifting the spirits and encouraging one to believe that the approaching summer will be one of long sunny days and balmy evenings. Bluebells also feature quite prominently in English folklore and it is believed that to step on these delicate flowers growing beneath an oak tree is to risk the wrath of the woodland fairies, who’s revenge will be to cause the perpetrator to become enchanted and die soon after. It was also believed that the bells rang out to summon fairies to gatherings and that any human hearing the bell ring would also die. In some parts of the country it is thought unlucky to take bluebells into the house, although it is actually illegal to pick wildflowers. However, not everything associated with this beautiful wildflower is quite so forbidding; in the language of flowers, the bluebell stands for constancy. ‘Oh, to be in England Now that April’s there…’ Robert Browning’s (1812-1889) evocative opening lines from his poem ‘Home Thoughts From Abroad’ come floating into my mind on a blue haze. They so wonderfully capture the longing of a weary traveller for his homeland with the coming of spring, with the birds singing and the flowers blooming. The English countryside of Browning’s day may have been very different to that of today but whom, upon seeing a bluebell wood, a haze of misted blue in dappled sunlight, could fail to be moved by his sentiment.
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AuthorDespite being raised in London I have been a lover of the countryside all my life. Over the past few years I have been priviledged to be able to work as a countryside management volunteer, picking up new skills and knowledge along the way and seeing the countryside in a way I never had before. The Urban Countryman is my personal view of that countryside, the seasons and the work that goes on to protect and manage this wonderful environment. Archives
January 2019
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