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| The soft grey of the wild grasses |
The weather has changed, from cold northerly winds to a gentle stillness and the sound of birds. The wind through the trees is, and can be a melodious sound but that north wind has been fierce tearing the leaves off as well.
Today's walk was a quiet mooch by the river, both of us (that is Lucy) had our noses to the ground, me forever exploring the plants that grow with such vigour now as we approach midsummer. Increased traffic on the road, the contractors on the farms are bringing in the grass, the caravans and mobile homes go by, and of course the cyclists, this road must be a favourite with them.
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| On the other side of the river, goodness knows what it is |
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| cuckoo flower, poking out from the mat of himalayan balsam |
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| speedwell? |
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It is the time of the wild grasses flowering
The feeding of nitrogen to fields has of course upset the balance of nature. I presume rye grass was sown here and this field by the river has now gone wild and therefore only the strong wild plants have been able to survive, with traces of original wild plants still making a brave stand as in the case of the cuckoo flower, pushing its way through the balsam and ground elder. Is this spiky plant below horsetail for instance, one of the very old plants brought to England by the Romans....
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The farmer calls cuckoo flowers 'milkmaids' which I think is a lovely name.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes it is horsetail - quite pretty by the roadside but a friend in Cumbria, who is a very keen gardener, has never been able to eradicate it from her garden. She is now very ill and it has more or less taken over.
I love the grass seed heads. We always make hay in the paddock and always wait until all the grass has seeded as the seed heads help the grass to dry out after it is baled up.
Isn't it lovely to see the sun at last? We are going out for lunch to celebrate with a drive through Swaledale.
That is a pretty name Pat, haven't looked up Grigson yet on the plant. The weather is beautiful, just about to go out for a walk, spent the last hour (my bread has overcooked) listening to P, the church warden telling us about the village history.
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