The Serpentine Lake at Wentworth Castle has silted up over the centuries and been colonised by willows. Last time we were here we met an 80-year old man who started work as a gardener here aged fourteen. A week after his retirement, he returned as a volunteer. He remembered when there was more open water on the Serpentine and, as a boy, he could paddle and swim his way down, taking the occasional egg from the nests of the waterbirds on his way.
A mallard duck leads her brood of young ducklings amongst the dense cover of the willows.
Alongside the tracks of the birds in the soft mud at the water’s edge, there are the slots of fallow deer. I can be sure of my identification: there are no sheep to confuse the issue in this section of the park.
Of course I’ll draw them when they’re in flower, but I like foxgloves at this stage, with the cluster of flower buds beginning to unfurl.
My company as I draw this on my wild flower patch at the end of the garden includes a female sparrow picking over the wood chip path, a blackbird singing behind me over the hedge, a dunnock giving its hurried trill and a jumping spider checking out my legs. I’m wearing shorts so I can track its progress over my hairy legs without looking up from my drawing, so I miss its daring leap from knee to knee.
The rosette of leaves at the foot of the plant also makes an interesting subject. But I will draw those flowers as they appear over the next few weeks.
The first day of meteorological summer seems as good a time as any to try and get back to writing a regular nature diary and the day got off to a good start because we had a pair of bullfinches on the sunflower heart feeders. No sign of young yet, or of the female disappearing as she sits on the eggs.
It’s a different story for the blue tits in nestbox on our patio, they’re at the busiest phase of rearing chicks, the male has a routine of bringing in a small green caterpillar, feeding the young, then taking a break to nibble a sunflower heart from the bird feeder before flying off towards the wood again. During the whole process he and his mate are in a state of wing-quivering excitement, blue crests rising as they look around for any potential danger.
I’d forgotten that in my last year at Junior School, I’d produced this Cecil B. de Mille inspired version of The Book of Exodus.
Growing up in a then rather grimy pre-smokeless zone little town, with our regular entertainment provided by a 12 inch Bush black and white 405 line television, it’s hard to exaggerate the impact that seeing Biblical epics like The Ten Commandments had on me.
Breakfast time: A female squirrel tries several times to climb the bird feeder pole but soon works out that she’s not going to get beyond the baffle. She climbs one of the cordon apple trees to assess the possibilities then climbs onto the hawthorn hedge and leaps across.
She’d make short work of our plastic bird feeders so I’ve relocated the pole a few feet further from the hedge, making sure that it’s not too close to the clothes prop holding up the washing line, a route that we’ve seen squirrels use to get to the feeders in the past.
Afternoon: A few honey bee-sized bees are continually visiting the blossoms of our Howgate Wonder double-cordon apple, sometimes chased off by a second bee or by a small, dark, cigar-shaped hoverfly.
The blossom has now gone from our single cordon Golden Spire and the apples are just beginning to form.
Have you ever come across the idea that natural history illustration “isn’t art”? I remember you trained in design and illustration rather than fine art – have you ever had to defend your work against this charge?
My friend, writer Richard Smyth, in an e-mail today
Interesting question. It’s not anything that anyone has ever challenged me on but, like most creatives, I wouldn’t want to use ‘artist’ as a job description. I’d always describe myself as an illustrator/writer. Although I’ve had exhibitions of paintings, probably 99% of my work is illustration and intended to be seen on a page or screen with text. My sketchbooks are part field notebook.
It’s a relief to be off the hook as far as art is concerned. When I draw a flower, bird or snail, I love the idea that the creature has the right just to be itself. I can’t avoid being an observer and therefore having an implied presence in a drawing but I don’t want to burden the poor creature with how I was feeling that day, or with my views on Life, The Universe and Everything.
I feel that when Picasso draws a dove, a monkey, a horse or a bull, the critics have to scramble around to tell us what that symbolised at that stage in his career, whereas if I, as I did this morning, draw a pink-footed goose, I’d like the actions, appearance and personality of that particular goose on that particular day, to be the main subject: not to mention the energy and mystery implicit in said goose simply being a goose.
I know this is impossible, as I’m not a camera, but that would be my aim.
There was plenty of action on the duck pond in Thornes Park this morning but these two mallard/farmyard drakes were a more appealing subject, dozing in the sun amongst the ferny cow parsley by a woodland path.
Male house sparrow, wood pigeon feather.
A ramshorn snail shell (a pond snail) and what I think are two brown- or possibly white-lipped snails.
We’ve been in a high pressure area for a while now, which means sunny days but cold nights. So far our tomato plants in the greenhouse had survived unscathed but an extra heavy frost last night has shrivelled most of them. There’s still time to plant replacements.
Barbara’s birthday today and last year, still under the first lockdown, the highlight of the day was a click-and-collect visit to a supermarket, the furthest we had been since our previous click-and-collect. This year we can entertain a limited number of guests in our garden.
It must be over a year since I’ve had a coffee and scone at Blacker Hall. Good to be able to linger a little with a sketchbook without feeling that I’m breaking some rule. The Courtyard Café is now literally in the courtyard.
You couldn’t ask for a better bunch of candidates for the final line-up for next month’s West Yorkshire mayoral election, my only regret is that we can’t be in an alternative universe where Tracy Brabin’s predecessor in the Batley and Spen constituency, the ebullient Jo Cox, could also have a crack at it.
Therese Hirst
Therese Hirst is our candidate for the English Democrats.
Green Park, South Ossett, 10.45 am, 10℃, 50℉, sunny
A jingling orrent of song from a dunnock in an adjacent garden. Three blow flies gather around a tiny naked chick that has been taken from its nest. A male blackbird perches on a tangle of honeysuckle stems cascading from a larch lap fence.
A robin perches on a branch, watching intently, then spots something and swoops down to the ground to pick it up.
Apart from a few quick sketches in the co-op car park, I’m out of practice for drawing on location, so I decided that I had to be kind to myself this morning and not to worry if, for instance, I get the flowers of the honesty out of proportion with the rest of the plant.
