Mid-morning, on the warmest day of the year so far. The only clouds are of wispy, plumed seeds, released from dandelion clocks and ripe goat willow catkins, ethereal “witches’ gowns” rising on thermals into a clear blue sky.
This south-facing slope, formerly the site of Brancepeth colliery, landscaped then ungrazed for half a century, is a high-quality butterfly habitat. One pace ahead of us along a path through waist-high grasses, two freshly emerged dingy skippers are engaged in a furious aerial dogfight, before seeming to vanish into the ground. Their cryptic coloration, blending with scuffed earth that they prefer to settle on, is astonishingly effective. I watch one settle, look away, and can’t locate it again. Get close enough – if you can – and it’s apparent that “dingy” is a calumny; its wing scales are intricately arranged into mottled patches and fringes, in shades of brown and cream, like threads in the pattern of a Fair Isle jumper.
