A disturbing idea: how many more butterfly days before Christmas?

[Guest guest]

This article is from the comment section of the Times on Saturday, I quite liked it so I thought I would share............. Wild Notebook by Simon Barnes WE DENIZENS of the 21st century have been deprived of one of the fundamental pleasures of humankind: something that the people of all previous ages accepted as a matter of easy, casual and obvious right. What we have lost is the unthinking, unambiguous delight in a lovely day: the soul-deep certainty that he who kisses a joy as it

flies dwells in eternity’s sunrise. Take yesterday morning. Gorgeous. I haven’t moulted into my winter plumage yet — just dragging on a pullover for the morning chores, and

feeling a faint bloom of sweat beneath it as I completed the more strenuous of them. Sun shone; robins sang; and behold, a butterfly. How extraordinarily, insanely, hilariously fabulous; how horribly disturbing, how deeply spooky. I didn’t kiss it as it flew, for all that it was a joy. A red admiral, I think, but the vision was too fleet and too fleeting to be sure. A butterfly! With November more than halfway gone. What the hell’s going on? And the trees still mostly green, the leaves dancing in mere solos and pas de deux. There have been a couple of frosts out this way, and I assumed that they must have killed off the last of the stragglers. But no: here was a late flutterer, wondering whether or not he was going to hang on until Christmas. How many more butterfly days before Christmas? A deeply alarming thought. Now I am not a gloom-monger by nature. I kiss joys as they fly with the best of them. I don’t spend my time panning through rivers of gold

in order to find a precious speck of dirt. But I know, as everyone does, that the climate has gone haywire, and done so at an express, non-natural pace; and that nothing very much is being done to stop it. In their delightful book The Meaning of Liff Douglas Adams and John Lloyd use town and villages names to fit concepts for which there is no readily available word. An ely is the strange feeling that something, somewhere has gone horribly wrong. It is the moment in the shower before the knifeman strikes. And with each clue about climate change, I get that curious sensation of ely. It is all the more strange since the message comes disguised as the most cheering possible news. How can a butterfly be bad? Every bone in our body tells us that butterflies are good: we associate them with the spring, with sunny days, with gardens, with moments of outdoor dalliance, with drinks in the garden. But here was a butterfly telling us in the most beautiful

possible way that something somewhere — something everywhere — has gone horribly wrong. Peter H

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[Guest guest]

Hi Peter

 

Thanks for the article. I certainly haven't lost the ability to enjoy these moments, in fact I seek them out.

 

We still have butterflies, and roses blooming in mid-November. Last year I took a red rose from the garden to put on the altar at our Winter Solstice celebration. Usually you take ivy or holly or some other berries or greenery, but I had roses blooming :-) I bet we get a late spring though.

 

Jo

 

-

peter VV

Sunday, November 19, 2006 6:32 PM

Re: A disturbing idea: how many more butterfly days before Christmas?

 

This article is from the comment section of the Times on Saturday, I quite liked it so I thought I would share.............

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wild Notebook by Simon Barnes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE DENIZENS of the 21st century have been deprived of one of the fundamental pleasures of humankind: something that the people of all previous ages accepted as a matter of easy, casual and obvious right. What we have lost is the unthinking, unambiguous delight in a lovely day: the soul-deep certainty that he who kisses a joy as it flies dwells in eternity’s sunrise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take yesterday morning. Gorgeous. I haven’t moulted into my winter plumage yet — just dragging on a pullover for the morning chores, and feeling a faint bloom of sweat beneath it as I completed the more strenuous of them. Sun shone; robins sang; and behold, a butterfly. How extraordinarily, insanely, hilariously fabulous; how horribly disturbing, how deeply spooky. I didn’t kiss it as it flew, for all that it was a joy. A red admiral, I think, but the vision was too fleet and too fleeting to be sure. A butterfly! With November more than halfway gone. What the hell’s going on? And the trees still mostly green, the leaves dancing in mere solos and pas de deux. There have been a couple of frosts out this way, and I assumed that they must have killed off the last of the stragglers. But no: here was a late flutterer, wondering whether or not he was going to hang on until Christmas. How many more butterfly days before Christmas? A deeply alarming thought. Now I am not a gloom-monger by nature. I kiss joys as they fly with the best of them. I don’t spend my time panning through rivers of gold in order to find a precious speck of dirt. But I know, as everyone does, that the climate has gone haywire, and done so at an express, non-natural pace; and that nothing very much is being done to stop it. In their delightful book The Meaning of Liff Douglas Adams and John Lloyd use town and villages names to fit concepts for which there is no readily available word. An ely is the strange feeling that something, somewhere has gone horribly wrong. It is the moment in the shower before the knifeman strikes. And with each clue about climate change, I get that curious sensation of ely. It is all the more strange since the message comes disguised as the most cheering possible news. How can a butterfly be bad? Every bone in our body tells us that butterflies are good: we associate them with the spring, with sunny days, with gardens, with moments of outdoor dalliance, with drinks in the garden. But here was a butterfly telling us in the most beautiful possible way that something somewhere — something everywhere — has gone horribly wrong.

Peter H

 

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[Guest guest]

It just seems so wierd, we certainly didnt seem to have much of a winter to write home about last year thats for sure! In my garden I still have summer stocks trying to flower, and my annual wallflower has recently just decided its spring again?!whats that all about? My chillie plants that I put outside to expire with grace are still going albeit fading in the process! The Valley Vegan...........jo <jo.heartwork wrote: Hi

Peter Thanks for the article. I certainly haven't lost the ability to enjoy these moments, in fact I seek them out. We still have butterflies, and roses blooming in mid-November. Last year I took a red rose from the garden to put on the altar at our Winter Solstice celebration. Usually you take ivy or holly or some other berries or greenery, but I had roses blooming :-) I bet we get a late spring though. Jo - peter

VV Sunday, November 19, 2006 6:32 PM Re: A disturbing idea: how many more butterfly days before Christmas? This article is from the comment section of the Times on Saturday, I quite liked it so I thought I would share............. Wild Notebook by Simon Barnes WE DENIZENS of the 21st century have been deprived of one of the fundamental pleasures of humankind: something that the people of all previous ages accepted as a matter of easy, casual and obvious right. What we have lost is the unthinking, unambiguous delight in a lovely day: the soul-deep certainty that he who kisses a joy as it flies dwells in eternity’s sunrise. Take yesterday morning. Gorgeous. I haven’t moulted into my winter plumage yet — just dragging on a pullover for the morning chores, and feeling a faint bloom of sweat beneath it as I completed the more strenuous of them. Sun shone; robins sang; and behold, a butterfly. How extraordinarily, insanely, hilariously fabulous; how horribly disturbing, how deeply spooky. I didn’t kiss it as it flew, for all that it was a joy. A red admiral, I think, but the vision was too fleet and too fleeting to be sure. A butterfly! With November more than halfway gone. What the hell’s going on? And the trees still mostly green, the leaves dancing in mere solos and pas de deux. There have been a couple of frosts out this way, and I assumed that they must have killed off the last of the stragglers. But no: here was a late flutterer, wondering whether or not

he was going to hang on until Christmas. How many more butterfly days before Christmas? A deeply alarming thought. Now I am not a gloom-monger by nature. I kiss joys as they fly with the best of them. I don’t spend my time panning through rivers of gold in order to find a precious speck of dirt. But I know, as everyone does, that the climate has gone haywire, and done so at an express, non-natural pace; and that nothing very much is being done to stop it. In their delightful book The Meaning of Liff Douglas Adams and John Lloyd use town and villages names to fit concepts for which there is no readily available word. An ely is the strange feeling that something, somewhere has gone horribly wrong. It is the moment in the shower before the knifeman strikes. And with each clue about climate change, I get that curious sensation of ely. It is all the more strange since the message comes disguised as the most cheering possible news. How can a butterfly

be bad? Every bone in our body tells us that butterflies are good: we associate them with the spring, with sunny days, with gardens, with moments of outdoor dalliance, with drinks in the garden. But here was a butterfly telling us in the most beautiful possible way that something somewhere — something everywhere — has gone horribly wrong. Peter H Send instant messages to your online friends http://uk.messenger. Peter H

Send instant messages to your online friends http://uk.messenger.

[Guest guest]

Hi Peter

 

We noticed that a;; the gorse along the motorways is flowering again! Apart from our roses everything else seems to have shut down for winter - and the trees are beautiful colours, at last. In this little area last winter was slightly more normal than it had been for several years - we had over a dozen heavy frosts. For the few years before we had only four or five. We've had four frosts this year already. We ahve lived in this house for thirty years and up until about ten years ago our growing season was very short (we are on a north facing slope). We used always to have our first frost in the first week of September, and the frosts lasted until the first week in June - so our season was only three months.

 

Jo

 

-

peter VV

Monday, November 20, 2006 8:22 PM

Re: A disturbing idea: how many more butterfly days before Christmas?

 

It just seems so wierd, we certainly didnt seem to have much of a winter to write home about last year thats for sure! In my garden I still have summer stocks trying to flower, and my annual wallflower has recently just decided its spring again?!whats that all about?

My chillie plants that I put outside to expire with grace are still going albeit fading in the process!

 

The Valley Vegan...........jo <jo.heartwork wrote:

 

 

 

Hi Peter

 

Thanks for the article. I certainly haven't lost the ability to enjoy these moments, in fact I seek them out.

 

We still have butterflies, and roses blooming in mid-November. Last year I took a red rose from the garden to put on the altar at our Winter Solstice celebration. Usually you take ivy or holly or some other berries or greenery, but I had roses blooming :-) I bet we get a late spring though.

 

Jo

 

-

peter VV

Sunday, November 19, 2006 6:32 PM

Re: A disturbing idea: how many more butterfly days before Christmas?

 

This article is from the comment section of the Times on Saturday, I quite liked it so I thought I would share.............

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wild Notebook by Simon Barnes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WE DENIZENS of the 21st century have been deprived of one of the fundamental pleasures of humankind: something that the people of all previous ages accepted as a matter of easy, casual and obvious right. What we have lost is the unthinking, unambiguous delight in a lovely day: the soul-deep certainty that he who kisses a joy as it flies dwells in eternity’s sunrise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Take yesterday morning. Gorgeous. I haven’t moulted into my winter plumage yet — just dragging on a pullover for the morning chores, and feeling a faint bloom of sweat beneath it as I completed the more strenuous of them. Sun shone; robins sang; and behold, a butterfly. How extraordinarily, insanely, hilariously fabulous; how horribly disturbing, how deeply spooky. I didn’t kiss it as it flew, for all that it was a joy. A red admiral, I think, but the vision was too fleet and too fleeting to be sure. A butterfly! With November more than halfway gone. What the hell’s going on? And the trees still mostly green, the leaves dancing in mere solos and pas de deux. There have been a couple of frosts out this way, and I assumed that they must have killed off the last of the stragglers. But no: here was a late flutterer, wondering whether or not he was going to hang on until Christmas. How many more butterfly days before Christmas? A deeply alarming thought. Now I am not a gloom-monger by nature. I kiss joys as they fly with the best of them. I don’t spend my time panning through rivers of gold in order to find a precious speck of dirt. But I know, as everyone does, that the climate has gone haywire, and done so at an express, non-natural pace; and that nothing very much is being done to stop it. In their delightful book The Meaning of Liff Douglas Adams and John Lloyd use town and villages names to fit concepts for which there is no readily available word. An ely is the strange feeling that something, somewhere has gone horribly wrong. It is the moment in the shower before the knifeman strikes. And with each clue about climate change, I get that curious sensation of ely. It is all the more strange since the message comes disguised as the most cheering possible news. How can a butterfly be bad? Every bone in our body tells us that butterflies are good: we associate them with the spring, with sunny days, with gardens, with moments of outdoor dalliance, with drinks in the garden. But here was a butterfly telling us in the most beautiful possible way that something somewhere — something everywhere — has gone horribly wrong.

Peter H

 

Send instant messages to your online friends http://uk.messenger.

 

Peter H

 

Send instant messages to your online friends http://uk.messenger.