The countryside in April
Sarah Ryan looks to the roadside verges for jewels among the greenery and experiences a magical moment at dusk
IHAVE TO CROUCH right down to see it: a tiny purple-petalled flower among the tangle of grasses, clover and ivy on the verge of a narrow country lane. It caught my eye when, out on an early evening walk, I stopped to take a deep breath of the warming air. The lane cuts between an arable field on one side and thick hedgerow on the other. It is slightly below ground level, so the verges shrug up on either side, thick with grasses and tiny, early spring flowers. It is a quiet lane, but even so, my ears remain alert for the growl of any approaching engines as I crouch down to inspect the bloom.
Right now, all I can hear is the deep, throaty warble of a blackbird and a Great tit’s squeaky spring chirp. Closer to the earth, the scent of warm ground and damp green catches in my nose. A variety of smells that I cannot individually discern smudge together, creating a fragrance both fresh and earthy. I can only imagine the pathways of scent that the nose of a fox could trail between plants, under hedgerows and across fields.
Gently parting the grasses surrounding this small lilac flower, I note its four wide, round petals splayed like butterfly wings, and a fifth lower petal. This one is white at the centre, near the ovary, and veined with purple. The centre of the flower, right at the back of its throat, is a rich gold. It could be a dog violet, Viola riviniana, or the scarcer sweet violet, Viola odorata, which is the only scented violet in the UK. The only way to tell the two apart is by their scent; the dog violet has none.
I am only slightly disappointed to discover it is the latter. Now low down, with a badger’s eye view of the ground, I find myself drawn in. Among the grasses is ground ivy, or alehoof, Glechoma hederacea, with its broad, fuzzy leaves and tiny lilac flowers. They are so plain as to be completely passed over from above, but up close are as beautiful as foxgloves, with the same wide lower petal and pink and white striped throat, perfectly shaped and patterned to entice pollinators. There are masses of greater stitchwort, Stellaria holostea, one of the prettiest of all spring flowers, with a spray of yellow stamen erupting between five white petals so deeply lobed they appear to be twinned.
Glowing brightly
“Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller’s dower; A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy”
William Allingham, ‘Wayside Flowers’
When my thighs start to burn, I stand up and stretch towards the sky, now turning a rich dusky blue. The waxing moon is a chalky thumbprint above the trees. On my way back, the primroses, which looked a normal kind
of yellow on the way out, have become luminous. The petals are so astonishingly bright, it is easy to believe that they could glow in the dark.
This is due to the Purkinje effect: an almost magical phenomenon, which takes place in low light, when some colours appear much brighter than others. Adjusting to the darkness, the eye switches from using cones, the colour receptors, to rods. At this time, the cells which detect red, orange or yellow become less active, and objects with a blue or green tint become more vivid. And so it is with this roadside primrose, whose pale, greenish-yellow petals appear impossibly vibrant, while the orange at its centre is comparatively dull. The sky, too, is a luminous indigo.
Heading home
On the way back, I gather a handful of salad leaves to accompany dinner: young nettle heads pinched from the stem; budding hawthorn leaves, as soft as basil; and garlic mustard leaves, a little less potent than ramsons and with a pleasantly bitter bite.
Ahead, as I follow the road home, is the brightest thing of all: Venus, the evening star. It is a diamond point piercing the sky in the East.
“The death-bed of a day, how beautiful!”
Philip James Bailey, ‘Festus’