Country diary: A quiet morning on the buddleia bush | Jim Perrin

Pot of tea in hand, I sidled out the front door, positioned my chair to catch the morning sun, and observed with a degree of anxiety the buddleia bush in my front garden. The buddleia is the great lepidoptera magnet in our gardens, but not this morning. The bees were busy among its complex blue blossoms, of course, but not a single butterfly was to be seen. The whole bush, like Walter de la Mare’s prince in his poem by that name, “with bee-sweet voices ditties sang”. But of the jiving flight of butterflies that are one of the delights of a British summer, there was no sign.

Surely, on this bright warm morning, they would soon appear, all reports of their scarcity notwithstanding? A couple of late, male orange tips swirled past and paid it no attention. A larger butterfly, a ragged-winged red admiral, marched into sight and, ignoring the other flora on offer, chose instead to cling to freshly opened blooms on the second flowering of orange hawkweed . I can scarcely blame it, this hawkweed being one of my best‑loved garden flowers.

I continued to sit patiently, and soon one of my favourites from among the lepidoptera – the peacock, four-eyed to warn off its predators – hustled into view, fresh from feeding among a bed of stinging nettles, the young shoots of which I’m steadily cropping for the making of soup. The peacock made directly for the buddleia and settled down to probe for nectar, the gorgeous eye patterns of its upper wings clearly in view (the lower sides are dark in order to offer concealment in those lightless places where it hibernates).

A honey bee, its legs thickly coated in bright yellow pollen, giving it an appearance of wearing bright pantaloons, bumbled past noisily. It settled on an onion seed-head’s dowdy globe. The long stalk bowed under its weight. Several other bees joined it. Their numbers were heartening.

As to the peacock, it took to the air again and resumed its rapid, questing flight. Perhaps it will have the good fortune to chance upon a pyramidal orchid, and thus ensure both its own and the flower’s survival. I know of a local quarry in the hills of Elenydd where pyramidals grow in profusion. If only we had the means to communicate our knowledge to the wild creatures which share our land.

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