puddleshark

On sheltered banks at the foot of the hill, queen bees go rumbling by: a stately flight of exploration, searching for of a suitable nest.

At the weekend, I took a walk along the underhill path in search of primroses, bee-flies, oil beetles, other signs of spring.

Normally in early spring, the Underhill Path is a soggy path, a battle through cattle-churned mud. This year it's dry enough for me to lie down on it and take photos of the tiny green Moschatel flowers, and arise only slightly damp.

Adoxa moschatellina of the many names: Moschatel, Townhall Clock & Five-faced Bishop (for the way the petals are arranged around four sides of a cube, with a fifth petal on top), Good Friday plant (for the way it is supposed to flower at Easter... only this year it is far too early, so that alias will not apply).

All along the path, birdsong. Chiffchaffs singing their metronomic chiff chiff chaff, rattle of wrens, the wandering silvery songs of robins. From high above, the mewing call of a buzzard.

Hello, chiffchaff. ~~Hello, sky.~~ Whoops, came over all Fotherington-Thomas for a moment there.

Wotcher, chaffinch.

Common Buzzard.

No oil beetles seen trundling along the path, and no bee-flies seen on the primroses, not on this expedition, but there are droneflies basking on the leaves of Cuckoo Pint, fresh new Speckled Wood butterflies on the wing.