Butterflies, Oasis

 It's been a pretty terrible year for butterflies, one of the worst I can remember – and for the usual reason: the English weather.  A cool, wet spring was followed by a cool, wet early summer, with far too few sunny intervals. When proper summer weather finally arrived, it was too late for many species; the damage had been done. What made my butterfly year more painful was the weather divide that developed in high summer, with the Southeast often basking in warm sunshine while up here in Mercia we were having no such luck – and unfortunately I wasn't able to get down to my old butterfly haunts in the hills and downs of Surrey. I don't miss much about 'down South', but I certainly miss those landscapes and those butterflies... However, one species has been keeping my spirits up all through this disappointing season – the Speckled Wood, which has been as abundant as ever (that's one in my picture above, feeding on Astrantia in my garden). Speckled Woods have been flying, feeding and basking in the garden every vaguely sunny day since April, from early in the morning to the last evening sun, and I never cease to wonder at the beauty of this common, but uncommonly lovely, butterfly. When I was a boy it was still a woodland specialist, flying in the dappled sunlight of woodland rides and margins, but over the years it has hugely extended its range, and is now adding its little touch of beauty to virtually every environment, even urban and suburban. A reason to be cheerful, if ever there was one. 

                                                                                  *
Not that I care, but I can't help noticing that the proposed comeback of Oasis (a popular beat combo, m'lud) is causing a mighty stir among the commentariat, with many pitching in to tell us how much they've always loathed the band and all their works. I noticed yesterday, on the Spectator website, that Marcus Berkmann has decided that Wonderwall is 'the worst song ever written'. A large claim. Then, that same evening, in a repeat episode of the rather wonderful This Country on BBC2, Kerry Mucklowe came up with the perfect origin story for that very song: her dad, she declared, wrote it on a beermat one evening at The Keeper's Arms, then threw it away because it was rubbish. As it happened, two brothers were in the pub that night – Matt and Luke Goss, aka Bros. They picked up the beermat, took one look and threw it away – but then in walked the Gallagher brothers, and the rest in history. Sounds quite plausible to me.