Clouded Yellow and Marbled White

The last butterfly survey of the holiday was completed under formidable heat and for three consecutive days I had seen Clouded Yellows but never managed to photograph one; so vexing their behaviour of whistling passed the spectator at speed, as Whites are apt to do, in lines at head height before turning back on themselves and repeating the exercise in the other direction. This can continue for minutes before one eventually takes the decision to refuel on a nearby flower; the pitstop quicker than anything seen in Formula 1 and lasting no more than a few seconds whereupon it then powerfully addresses the heavens and takes to the wing with majesterial grace. This behaviour, and another of never opening its wings during feeding, can prove rather irksome to the voyeur, balanced only by the eye's greedy absorbtion of every breathtaking bright tangerine wing beat against a powder blue sky. An Entomologist's delirium.

Two hours had been lost in the pursuit of the perfect photo and the raison d'etre was updated, or downgraded to achieve simply one clear photo of the Clouded Yellow. Perspiration wound its way towards sharp angles, nose tips, elbows and aching knees. Reflective thoughts turned back to a supine, sunbathing wife, who read under a playful sun. A Marbled White joined in (Photo above). She wore an apple bright skirt complimenting a bright white vest, glasses assumed and sandals proudly deposited by the waist. The back of one hand wistfully pressed against her forehead with the other holding up a book on modern feminist theory. How patiently she lay, how patient she was of my butterfly obsession and here I stood. The helpless Naturalist with as many blurred images as she had pages.

And then Nature flicked her switch and I came out of a rose-tinted reverie. A refuelling Clouded Yellow reduced its speed and alighted briefly on red clover, subsequently followed by an olympic dive to the ground, adjusting of a lense, intake and suspension of breath and finally a deluge of shutter clicks. Success.

True Blue

Adonis Blue

All began with ardour and merriment under azure rods from a handsome sun. Light paved the way up precipitous limestone grassland, where knee met chin and every step was to the key of a crunch, as wild thyme, profuse on the slopes, released the only scent of home on difficult foreign terrain that promised sightings of the Large Blue, which feed exclusively on the herb.

Large Blue on Thyme

Large Blue underwing

An Adonis Blue drew the eye from the offing, careering acrobatically over angelic alpines before landing on a nearby trefoil where subtle shades of sensational pastel blue evidenced themselves much to the delight of the dear heart, which missed five beats and sank, with teenage lust to the bottom of a breakfast-laden stomach, returning only after a portfolio of thankful snaps from every angle known to Pythagoras.

Blue after blue was scrutinised for over ninety minutes, without success, before a flash of black on dark blue came bobbing over. The species is rare in the U.K., with locations of populations protected, so a glimpse and some welcome 'field time' with this highly sought after blue created delirium on a, suddenly bearable, Pyrennean slope.

Southern, White and Admirable

Two pronged pine needles wistfully spiralled groundward from a sparse canopy and fell with damp clicks onto the ground besides a dozen or so tables at a cafe; the smell of french-blended coffee twinned with distant irises gently flushed the noses of the caffeine-bound.


Following the eye, from the level of the consumer, one sequentially ingests a broken landscape, compartmentalised by order of natural merit. In the man-made foreground a carpet of dimpled asphalt embraces the generosity of the midday sun whilst a lateral belt of cross-hatched fencing, punctuated with overhanging trays of multi-coloured perennials and shrubs accepts the mid-ground; the flowers were a trade boosting idea conjured up by the cafe owner one evening when business was oppressively slow. Sharp, angular elbows sank onto the bar, palm bases propped up cheek bones and frowning occurred over the sadness of a half eaten meal. An artistic attempt created by the owner when forlorn lettuce leaves were raised to met the lines posed by the fence.


As the eye constructs the backdrop out of columns of tightly packed, olivaceous pines and a swimming pool sky (high up on the order of natural merit), a lone butterfly of the Nymphalidae family may noiselessly interrupt the gaze, flickering in front of the sky, then bobbing down to pine level, fence and then asphalt before alighting her blueberry and cream sprinkled wings on an unknown fleshy shrub, planted with passion last year, much to the revived glee of the onlooking cafe owner.

Where's Wally?

Rain heralded its presence in the distance, whilst a luminous patchwork of willow-patterned sky patiently hung around above to enjoy a spot of  butterfly catching at Arnside. Without even a bead of persp. I had Graylings busying themselves in front of me; circling around like an ill-timed hula hoop and then flopping to the ground to be lost against the perfectly synchronised stone backdrop.




Photo 1 shows the Grayling in the same spot as Photo 2. Sensational camouflage! Depending on the angle of light and position of the observer, a none-too-funny version of Where's Wally can ensue for the pursuer as the stoney landscape is scanned for a glimmer of a clue or a shimmer of dew on an otherwise mottled underwing. Best just to stomp forth and force an invertebrate uprising of Wally.

The second recorded species of the day was the Dark Green Fritillary. A classroom of males zig-zagged like X-wings in a canyon, inches from the ground in pursuit of a ground bound female, locating her by scent and regularly pausing for bramble juice and a breath catch. The photo shown is of a male (top), preparing to enchant the female with his stunningly patterned fiery fleece. This semblance of visual perfection was roused to submission when the female failed to stoop to the exchange, and took her noticably clipped wings to pastures pleasant in hope of a better suitor.

Mona Lisa

There remains a duality of feeling towards the Ringlet. Its interminable reluctance to open a wing on alighting is simply bothersome to the voyeur; permanently clothed and obstinate in undress (who wants to see half a Mona Lisa?) Then there is the unspeakable lack of colour which sighs towards the eye with apparent regret (summer does not do mocha). And the flight! Complicated and tiresome, peripatetic and distastefully territorial.

Oh, but a most delectable contrast is offered to those who care to look, for the Ringlet is a species of subtle sublimity.

A flash of lucidity that halos bring
when on the wing.
A pattern that nature implies
an enemies eye, or several. So beware!
Taking breath, where breath has been.
Golden arcs, momentarily seen.