If there’s one thing better than a gatekeeper butterfly, it’s wild marjoram playing host to a flurry of gatekeepers. Almost impossible to count for all the rising, fluttering and resettling, their warm orange and brown wings with white double-dots in a black eye-spot are only a wing-flick away from mottled invisibility: now you see me, now you don’t.
I’m their lone admirer, sat on a mossy stone in the garden at John Clare cottage, but I don’t feel alone. Honeysuckle has me in a heady hug, undulating fronds of hart’s-tongue fern wave from beneath a rock, the whiteness of a teneral damselfly in the grass intrigues and delights me. I know this garden has a long history of providing companionship, not least to the poet after whom the cottage is named, who knew “the woodbine at the garden gate” as “affection’s friend” and asked of the butterfly: “Wouldst thou in my garden come, / To join the bee’s delightful hum”.
