Wonders can cease

We are anx­ious. The dry air is rich in song and we have a host of fa­mil­iar feath­ered friends home again, from the screech­ing swirls of swifts to the al­most im­pos­si­ble to see wry­necks. The ori­oles and bee-eaters bring respite. But colours are miss­ing.

Our Pri­o­rat home, Mother’s Gar­den, is re­ally a thigh-high fen­nel for­est. We have left this hardy plant with its deep tap root to spread ran­domly on open land in the hope of riches. I walk look­ing for the pat­tern of lime green, black and or­ange cling­ing to a stalk or side shoot. For the first time in 22 years I have found none. Nor, sub­se­quently, has there been swal­low­tail but­ter­fly bril­liance on the wing.

The cater­pil­lar is a work of mother’s art. It can hold my eye for eter­nity. Like so much in na­ture there is noth­ing in the human imag­i­na­tion to match it, not even close, as it is with all bio­di­ver­sity... if we can but stop, cease self-ob­ses­sions bend and see.

I will keep look­ing. For my search al­ways brings other dis­cov­er­ies. Re­lief comes in the com­pany of the sturdy, life-force Cleopa­tra but­ter­flies that love the Mediter­ranean buck­thorn bushes and pa­trol the wood­land edges. Their burst of yel­low on green tinted wings leads me hither and thither, mind­fully. Then I look back for­lornly at the ram­pant fen­nel.

We could not, of course, see the ear­lier mi­gra­tion of the painted lady but­ter­flies pass­ing over­head hun­dreds of me­tres above us. Sym­bol­i­cally out of sight, out of mind, like the grif­fon vul­tures that while cruis­ing at great al­ti­tude can spot an an­i­mal car­cass 5km away. Or the crow ea­gles that will rise more than 5,000 me­tres. We hope some painted ladies may call in at the farm as they have al­ways done. I cross my fin­gers, too, that there is enough damp­ness in the north shadow of the ridge for the swathe of straw­berry trees (cir­eres de pas­tor) to bear fruit and give life to the be­guil­ing pasha but­ter­flies.

There is a faded pho­to­graph of an idiot – an ine­bri­ated me – belt­ing away with sledge­ham­mer at the roof beam on which I am stand­ing. The point­less con­ser­va­tory had to go. I, on the other hand, was reck­lessly self as­sured, in­de­struc­tible and un­wa­ver­ingly cocky that life had to be taken by the horns. I had in that he­do­nist time of life lost touch with the once be­wil­dered boy within, who walked and ab­sorbed alone in na­ture and who was acutely aware of con­se­quence and the di­verse world, the crit­i­cal need to bal­ance and sus­tain.

The con­ser­va­tory was not the only thing that came crash­ing down. I have lived and I have learned, fun­da­men­tally how lit­tle I know. I stu­pidly for­sook my early years’ in­no­cence and the es­sen­tial art of tread­ing softly.

In a nut­shell – thank good­ness for sec­ond chances, for sec­ond child­hoods and the pos­si­bil­ity to flag the short-sight­ed­ness of our sledge­ham­mer world .