High Borrowdale hay meadows On Friday it rained all day and, two days later, there are puddles along the track beside Borrowdale Beck, although water in the beck is low. Tall thistles come into flower, topping lush grasses. There are small heath butterflies and chimney sweeper moths. A stonechat is clamorous, flitting from perch to perch where saplings are planted.
The High Borrowdale hay meadows are beautiful as the sun burnishes drifts of flowers.
The High Borrowdale hay meadows are beautiful as the sun burnishes drifts of flowers.
Friends of the Lake District have restored barn and stone walls about High Borrowdale Farm. They are justly proud of the hay meadows and new trees are planted to counter erosion. Yellow rattle and eyebright are key plants in Northern Hay Meadows. Both are semi-parasiti,, locking into grasses with a network of underground threads and taking from them minerals and nutrients, sapping their strength. When robust grasses are weakened there's a chance for the diverse flora of a traditional hay meadow to thrive. There are clovers, red and white. Yellow hawkweeds. ox-eye daisies and sorrel. On a cloudy day there are bursts of bright sun that release the fragrance of mid-summer, bringing forth bees and butterflies.
On the outward walk I find ragged robin in a water track, look for it on the return but I'm distracted. There is so much to relish you have to be attentive and alert or you'd walk on by, unawares. The stonechat has a brood and he's proclaiming his territory. A chirruping almost at my feet and birds fly low over the beck, sand martin. They're nesting in the bank, beneath an overhang of turf and they have young. Brownish with a flash of white, they sweep over the beck and into their nest tunnels to feed their broods. So close, but hidden and protected by the sheer and eroding bank.
On the outward walk I find ragged robin in a water track, look for it on the return but I'm distracted. There is so much to relish you have to be attentive and alert or you'd walk on by, unawares. The stonechat has a brood and he's proclaiming his territory. A chirruping almost at my feet and birds fly low over the beck, sand martin. They're nesting in the bank, beneath an overhang of turf and they have young. Brownish with a flash of white, they sweep over the beck and into their nest tunnels to feed their broods. So close, but hidden and protected by the sheer and eroding bank.
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