We began with the hairgrass, and eyes opened to new possibilities, proceeded to identify five more species of grass along the marshland twirl. Thanks iPlant/PictureThis. Common velvet, meadow foxtail, false oat grass, reed canary grass and rough bluegrass. And many of our stops interspersed with competing cuckoos calling for a mate.
The marshland feels like a triumph of biodiversity as plants jostle for a tiny portion of real estate and sunlight. I’ve known there’s a multitude of grasses, but yesterday, with so many in flower, it was a delight to get definitive identifications for each new specimen we spied. Without the flower, it’s got to be a challenge to name a grass. Without its call, hidden deep in the scrubland, it’d be a challenge to even be aware of the cuckoo’s existence.
I’m looking at the possibility of a new writing adventure. But without the hinterland of meeting minutes spread out twenty years into the near-past, the adventure would be a non-starter. With that background, what delightful stories can be dredged up from our somnolent memories. Just a twig of something to retrieve a lost anecdote, and we’ll be back in a different time, almost a generation ago.
Back when we were young(er) and hearty and full of vim and vigour. Now, now that we are old(er), it’s time for reflection, for documenting the past from a different perspective. It promises to be an exciting journey of (re)discovery, and I’m looking forward to the process very much.
As exciting, and as comfortable, as a stroll along the marshland dyke in the bright sunshine, through dappled shade, in the midst of birdsong and surrounded by a diverse panoply of wild grasses.