Squirrels are at the unripe hazelnuts already and rowan berries are pillar-box red. Last week the berries were the same rich amber colour as silver-washed fritillary butterfly wings. There's something cultish about the fascination for fritillaries. Far from being all fey and fragile, these butterflies are big, beautiful and powerful. When they cross beams of sunlight in woodland clearings they have a presence which immediately fixes my attention and something triggers a chase mechanism so that, even by eye, there's a moment when my whole being feels as if it's running after them. Perhaps that's a legacy of butterfly-chasing as a child, but perhaps it's a more atavistic impulse to hunt treasure. The way fritillaries move elicits the chase, but the sight of them at rest is also a reward.
In an open woodland glade on a bank of old limestone spoil covered in grasses, black knapweed, wild basil, pyramidal orchids and harebells, many butterflies were making the most of the sunshine, and the air was full of their strobing brown, gold and white wings. Then a couple of silver-washed fritillaries showed up and the atmosphere changed. Somehow their snapping flight filled the space of the clearing and then they landed on dark purple knapweed flowers to feed. As they did so their wings undulated sexily, drawing nectar but also presenting strange black markings. On the undersides flashed panels of mother-of-pearl, which gave them the "silver-washed" moniker. They are woodland creatures belonging to an ancient enchantment between light and shade; their caterpillars feed on violets, adding to their romance. These are animals which seem to bear the insignia of an alien intelligence, inhabiting our world cryptically, showing themselves but briefly.
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