The fruit of the Rhododendron is a woody capsule which splits to release small seeds which can remain viable in the ground for years.
This fruit had fallen from one of the Rhododendron bushes by the Middle Lake at Nostell Priory.
A Victorian visitor gives us a description of Nostell Park in its Victorian heyday:
“The noble avenue of elms, stretching like giant sentries almost as far as the eye can reach from the house, the green sward dotted here and there with herds of deer ; the waterfall, its silvery cascade gleaming brightly through a network of green ; the lake, with its ripple dancing in the sunlight, and bordered by the rhododendrons, varying in shade from deep red to pale pink and white,—all went to make a collection of pictures it would be difficult to equal.”
Leeds Mercury, 22 June, 1888
Here’s my first effort at a complete hand-drawn font, put together from some hastily drawn letters, but at least creating those 26 capitals and 26 lower case letters has enabled me to get thoroughly familiar with the basic process.
The countryside has a late summer look to it. Oaks near Horsforth now look drab, dry and dusty. The flowers of creeping thistle have largely turned to downy seed heads. There’s a decadent feeling that the party is almost over, frothy creamy white flowers of Russian vine and trumpets of greater bindweed are festooned over fences. The waste ground flowers that I associate with the end of the summer holidays have appeared: Himalayan balsam, rosebay willowherb, common ragwort, goldenrod and, looking rather dull and mildewed even at its freshest, mugwort.
