With the lockdown eased I don’t feel so guilty about posting photos taken on my daily exercise. I have deliberately avoided doing so.
Roseberry is still there, and the bluebells are out, intoxicating the woodland floor with a violety-blue wash but, in the upper meadow at least, they are perhaps past their prime.
Bluebells flower early before the woodland canopy gets too dense, drawing on energy stored in their bulbs, and only survive in the open like this because later, when it gets hot, they will be protected by the shade of the bracken.
Wood bell, bell bottle, cuckoo’s boots, crow’s toes, wood hyacinth, lady’s nightcap, witches’ thimbles, greggles are all dialect names for the bluebell.
The meadows seem to be more popular than ever. Roseberry too. Folks are appreciating the value of countryside and the open spaces.
But with that popularity has come a distinct increase in litter. I am picking up more than ever. I am usually back by eleven but rest assured tomorrow half a dozen plastic bottles will line the same route.