FRITILLARY
“GOING WILD WITH LENNIE BATES”
PODCAST EPISODE #58: “THE BUTTERFLY HUNTER”
RAW AUDIO
So, something new
this week, but then it’s something new every week in this series of five
special episodes where I’m taking suggestions from my subscribers and seeing just
where they take me and what encounters with nature I can find.
It was urban foxes in
a London suburb last week, ravens in Bedfordshire the week before, and today I
am traveling to a wood in Cambridgeshire in search of something a little more
ephemeral, a little more elusive, and – I believe – a little more unique.
I toyed with the
idea of saving this one until we reach my landmark 60th episode, but
this one’s not only time-limited, it’s also a little too exciting to set aside.
Kaijuwarrior87
contacted me with the suggestion that I travel to Humble Wood, an area of
ancient woodland on the Cambridgeshire/Northamptonshire border, in search of
something, well, rather special. I am going in search of a butterfly that hasn’t
been seen around these parts for over fifty years – The High Brown Fritilliary …
Damn it. Screwed up
on the last word.
Fritilliary?
Fritillary.
Fritillary. Fritillary.
Hmmph.
I am going in search
of a butterfly that hasn’t been seen around these parts for well over fifty
years – The High Brown Fritillary.
That’ll do.
<BEEP>
So, I’ve just pulled
up in the carpark next to the Humble Wood. Actually, it’s more a layby with
delusions of grandeur than a carpark and it sits alongside a road that should
have come with a government health warning. Some of the potholes were big
enough for … well, potholers, I guess.
The wood itself
looks pretty big. Bigger than I was expecting, certainly. I can see oaks, ashes
and birches. There’s a path leading up to a gate, so I guess that’s the way in.
<BEEP>
The High Brown
Fritillary used to exist all over the United Kingdom, but changes in the way
people managed woodlands led to a rapid decline in their numbers. Since the 1950s
they have been in freefall, and are well on their way to extinct...
No, that’s clumsy.
Since the 1950s
those numbers have dropped so significantly that they are only a few steps away
from extinction. Sites in Devon, Somerset, North West England and Wales are
their last redoubts, but conservationists are working tirelessly to preserve them
for future generations.
Redoubts? Is that
too pompous? Does it sound too much like read-outs? Is it even the word I was
looking for?
Who cares?
According to Kaijuwarrior,
there has been a rare sighting of High Brown Fritillaries in this very wood.
Although the sighting is unlikely, and more likely to be a misidentified Dark
Green, if it’s true it’s too good an opportunity to miss.
So here we go.
<BEEP>
I’m no more than twenty
metres inside the wood and I’m already glad I’m here. If I see nothing else, I’m
satisfied. I’m looking at a White Admiral butterfly, or perhaps I should say ‘he’s
looking at me’ b… Argh.
He?
Really? Might be a he,
might not.
Why go the sexist
route?
I’m looking at a
White Admiral butterfly, or perhaps I should say ‘it’s looking at me’ because it’s
fluttering around me, so close I could reach out and touch it. A White Admiral,
I haven’t seen one of these for years. Probably a decade or more.
Wow.
Just. Wow.
It must have been
feeding on these bramble flowers here, but I’ve given it something else to
think about and it’s checking me out. Beautiful. Black wings with those gorgeous
white highlights. A perfect start on a nature walk. Like it was waiting for me.
Amazing.
<BEEP>
I have just reached
a fork in the path. One seems to continue round the edge of the wood, the other
goes deeper into the wood. There’s a small wooden sign with a picture of a
butterfly pointing into the wood. I wonder which path I should take?
<BEEP>
Getting hot, but I’m
traveling light. It is a beautiful day. No sign of any other nature hunters,
joggers, dog walkers or ramblers. Or doggers.
Take ‘doggers’ out
there. It’s unnecessary.
Just a gently curving
path taking me deeper into this ancient woodland. Now, when I say ‘ancient
woodland’ I don’t mean it’s quite old. Ancient woodland has been standing since
1600. To put that in context, that’s around the time of the gunpowder plot. So
when I say ‘ancient wood’ I really do mean ‘ancient’.
The path is leading me
down past some bramble and I don’t believe it! The bramble patch is absolutely
heaving with Silver-Washed Fritillary butterflies. I mean there is a dozen of
them. I mean there are a dozen of them. One of the two. More than a dozen. Those
incredible orange wings decorated by black veins and spots, with the undersides
of the wings streaked with silver. The essence of summertime in a wood. Just
gorgeous.
<BEEP>
Another fork,
another sign pointing deeper still into the wood. This one’s cruder, probably
much older, and the picture of the butterfly has all but faded away …
All but.
All but faded.
Is that right?
All but faded. Nearly
completely faded. All but? I have seen all but one butterfly. That means except.
Perhaps it has two meanings. All but faded … sounds good. Maybe another take to
switch in later if I’m wrong …
This one is cruder, it
looks much older. The picture of the butterfly has nearly completely faded
away. But I guess if it’s butterflies I want then …
<BEEP>
(Whispered) A deer.
I’m looking at a deer. Not a muntjac, larger. I think it’s a roe deer. Just
standing there, looking around, but it hasn’t spotted me just yet. I’ve never
been this close to one before. It … it looks a little odd. Red patches on its
haunches. Looks like it might have been involved in a fight. And quite
recently. I think the patches are still wet and … arrgh!
Sorry, the deer just
turned towards me and then ran at me. I got out of the way and it took off up
the path. Thought it was going to ram me then. Weird that it ran AT me rather
than away from me.
<BEEP>
Really old trees in
this bit of the wood.
Bit?
Very eloquent.
There are some
really old trees in this part of the wood. Gnarled branches that twist like
claws. The air is hotter, humid, and the wood’s canopy is really dense. Good
job there are only a couple of routes, because I won’t be able to use the sun
to navigate. Haha.
What is wrong with
me? Freaked out about that deer, still, I guess. Probably another deer this
way, the one that caused it those red patches, and it thought I looked less
scary than the alternative.
Not seen any other
wildlife for a while. Midges, sure, but that’s hardly the thrilling climax to a
nature podcast, is it? I can hear birdsong, but that seems distant. Maybe the
birds keep to the outer edges of the wood in the sunshine. That must be it.
Wonder how long I’ve been walking … twenty-three minutes since I got out of the
car. So what’s that? A mile, a mile and a bit. Two tops. The wood can’t be that
big. Curving paths. Stop being a drip.
But it IS quiet. A holding-its-breath
kind of quiet. That stillness … and for a butterfly path its certainly
dramatically uncontaminated with butterflies.
Give it another five
minutes and I’ll head back.
<BEEP>
Don’t even know why
I’d put this in the podcast, but just talking makes me feel better. Calmer. So
not for broadcast, as they say, just for me. Talk it out. See if it makes sense.
Something weird …
I found something on
the path. A piece of paper. Looked like a letter. A small part of a letter,
anyway. Like the letter had been torn up and only this bit survived. Only a
couple of words legible, well, one of them only part legible, the rest lost to
the elements.
‘Loved’ and ‘hristi’.
Got a cold prickle
down my spine.
hristi?
Could that be Christina?
‘Cos here’s the thing, it looked like her writing. I know, two words isn’t a
great sample, but it did look a bit like her handwriting. I think. I mean it
was a long time ago. I tend not to think about it. A bloody tragedy. No one knew
just how unbalanced she was. Certainly not me. They said that me ending it with
her wasn’t anything to do with why … with why she did it.
Stupid. Don’t think
about this now. Time to go back. I think the quest is over with no rare
butterflies, although I did see the White Admiral, and those fritillaries, so
it wasn’t a complete loss. Maybe I can cut that deer bit in, but where’s the big
finish? Who cares. Letter. Freaked. Me. Out.
So humid. I’m
turning around. Take off jacket. Gentle stroll back. Back to the car.
Haven’t thought
about Christina in so long. It wasn’t her handwriting, that’s just my head
playing tricks with me. I mean I knew she was … troubled, but there’s no way I
could have seen …
I don’t remember
this stretch of path. There’s a wall of silver birches that I think I’d have
remembered. No, being stupid. Walked down a path, turned back, walked back, of
course I passed these trees. They’re just on the other side of me now, I was
obviously looking the other way at …
That’s odd. I don’t remember
seeing that there, either. A pile of rocks. Small ones, so there’s a heck of a
lot of them because the pile is thirty, forty centimetres high, a metre in diameter.
Surely I’d have seen that …
It’s really quiet
and really humid and really … well, not dark, but shadowy. Should be cooler in
the shadows, but it’s not. Oh. Hell. On top of the cairn .. pile of stones … is
that?
Another part of the
letter. Only two words. Well one word and another partial. Is this some kind of
joke? ‘ear’ and ‘Lennie’.
Dear Lennie?
I loved you,
Christina?
To hell with this. I
am so out of here.
<BEEP>
I didn’t know. I
didn’t. I’m saying it out loud and on tape … well, digital … now can you please
stop this?
The path, I’m just
getting deeper and deeper into the wood. Defies the laws of … what physics?
Geography? It’s impossible. That’s what I mean. It’s paranoia. Stupid bloody
paranoia. It is NOTHING to do with me and Christina. None of it.
It wasn’t my fault.
So, she called me
that night, begging me to have her back, she’d change, and yes, I told her to
go away. Less politely, but I couldn’t deal with her. SHE had issues? We all
have bloody issues. She said they were trying her on some new medication, but I’d
already moved on. I mean, it was supposed to be fun, and the fun had stopped
long before.
But I keep thinking
about her tattoo. The butterfly. A fritillary. Silver-washed. And I know he
said he didn’t blame me, her brother, but what if he did? Didn’t know him that
well, certainly didn’t like him, but that DM that brought me here.
Kaijuwarrior87. David sure loved him some Godzilla.
So … what? He lured
me here? Am I really that paranoid? What and he moved the paths about and made
a deer run at me and? Madness. I’m going soft in the head. I must have made a
turn and not realised it …
<BEEP>
There’s an open
glade right in the darkest part of the wood. Light’s coming in like you see in
those religious paintings where light is pouring down from the heavens on, like
Jesus or someone. It’s beautiful. Awe-inspiring.
There’s a tree in
the centre of the glade. Almost mathematically the centre. An ancient … really,
really, ancient ash tree. Its trunk is thick. And there are these boles on it,
fat round boles that really don’t look anything like faces. That’s just pareidolia.
The branches reach
up like a martyr’s arms raised to heaven. More religious imagery. I don’t believe
in god. And I don’t believe in paths in woods that only lead one way.
Bugger this. Turn
around and walk in a straight line and I WILL get out of here.
Where’s the path? I
just walked in on a path. Now there is just a wood. Trees. No path. I’m losing
it. Losing. It.
A wind stirs the
branches of the ash tree. A wind? Then why can’t I feel the wind? I mean it’s
hotter than ever now. What is that? In the branches. No. Not ‘what is that?’.
What are they?
Insects? I can’t
make them out, I can just see them moving. CHRIST!
That almost hit me. It
fell from the branches. It looks like wet spaghetti. No. Wait. A thin, long
body. Antennae. That’s not spaghetti, it’s the veins of a butterfly’s wings.
Without the rest of the wing. Weird. It’s trying to move, but dragging that …
those … it’s quite horrible to look at.
It’s the wings of
the butterfly that make it beautiful. Their delicate structures, their
incredible pigmentation. This, this is just horrible. I’m kneeling down. Maybe
a bird has pecked its wings off. The veins glisten, they are wet, that’s why I
thought pasta.
Small veins that
spread out from larger veins, when it flopped down just now I could see the
veins made the shape of wings, they’re the veins that would normally supply
blood to the wings … maybe it’s a deformity … I shouldn’t touch it …
Aaargh. Burns. It
bloody burns.
Walk a straight line
through the trees. Get the hell out. I don’t like this. Don’t like it. Don’t
like it at all.
Ow.
There’s more.
Dropping from the branches. Of all the trees. One
AAAARRGH
OW
On my arm. Hurts.
Oh.
Oh no.
No.
I.
AAARGGH.
It.
It landed. On my
arm. It. It spread out its veins. On my arm. And it burned. Burned my skin. And
then it flapped. Flapped. Its wings. It has wings now. Because. It. Burned. My.
Skin.
It burned my skin
and flapped its veins and my skin lifted off in a butterfly wing pattern and it
took to the air of the glade. Flying. Flying with my stolen skin. There’s a butterfly
tattoo on my arm, except it’s not a tattoo is it? It’s a wound. It flayed me.
I
It’s raining.
Raining butterflies
without wings.
I didn’t know what she
was going to do.
It wasn’t
Aaah.
It wasn’t my fault.
That’s
… aaah … more
my cheek
that one's taken my cheek
… hurts …
… help …
they said she
that she
hanged herself from a tree
didn't
didn't ask
didn't ask where
loved
hristi
didn’t know
i did
i did
i’m sorry
the air
is
the air is full of
butterflies
flying
i’m sorry
No comments:
Post a Comment