Winter days, short but slow

I am not a winter person. There are, of course, some aspects I can appreciate… the solitude, the refreshingly quirky light, clean silhouettes, hot soups and even hotter embers. But for the rest, I wither in the cold, rapidly lose patience with excessive layers of garments and long for the freedom of open doors and the sun on bare skin. Most dreaded of all is the melancholy that swells up like the mists from the valley floor, bringing drab colours and even drabber thoughts. No, I’m quite definitely not a winter person. So that is why even before the autumn colours have truly faded, I’m out and about searching in every corner for the first glimmer of spring, those courageous early flowerings that bestow a drop of colour, a smile and the much needed hope that the sun will soon be back to bring warmth and colour to our hemisphere. Fingers crossed of course.

: Clouds come and clouds go. Clouds mask and highlight, create depth and separation. They take the familiar and turn it into a shifting peek-a-boo world where waiting and wondering are the name of the game.

: Just now there is little snow on the south facing slopes of the Velino massif in Italy’s central Apennines, but that could all change in the next few wintery weeks. The transition from winter to spring is nothing if not unpredictable here.

: Hazel (Corylus avellana) catkins hang heavy with pollen, a golden cascade of fertility.

: This early-flowering crocus (Crocus variegatus) is a rarity, found only in some parts of the central Apennines and in the very north east of Italy, but where it does occur, its elegant nuances are the very first harbinger of spring amongst the drab winter colours of the grassy foothills.

: Not so easy to find in our neck of the woods, but a classic worth hunting out, the snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis) needs no introduction.

: It’s not hard to imagine where the name “snowdrop” comes from, but the scientific name, Galanthus nivalis, is equally evocative. The species was named in 1735 by the father of modern taxonomy, Carl Linnaeus himself, with the genus name deriving from the Greek “gala” (milk) and “anthos” (flower), while the species name, “nivalis” means “of the snow”, an obvious reference to both the snow-like flower and this species’ early blooming.

: Never mistake common for banal. The field marigold (Calendula arvensis) a midwinter drop of gold.

: The lesser celandine (Ficaria verna) has been a constant in my life since my earliest days in the English countryside. While still in my pushchair, it was one of the first flowers my botanist father taught me to recognise and has remained a favourite ever since.

: Where the woodland thins out, in stony scrubland and amongst the rocks, the first to flower is the shade-seeking stinking hellebore (Helleborus foetidus), a rare feast for the few insects out and about.

: The nights may be freezing, but there is enough warmth in the low-lying sun to bring some insects, such as this violet carpenter bee (Xylocopa violacea), out of hibernation to go foraging to help pollinate early-flowering species like the stinking hellebore (Helleborus foetidus).

: The March fly Bibio femoralis, a common sight on sunny days even in midwinter and an avid pollinator of the few early-blooming flowers.

: A somewhat atypical member of the Chrysomelidae or leaf beetle family, Galeruca tanaceti usually overwinters as a larva, with the adults not emerging until well into spring. Whether a late survivor or an early emerger, this beetle is going to have to find a warm hideout to survive the freezing winter nights.

: Well yes, it may be just a common and garden fly, but given the scarcity of insect life at this time of year, even this blue bottle (Calliphora vomitoria) is a welcome sight.

: Almost hidden amongst the moss, a minute fungus, Tulostoma brumale, the stalked puffball, is easy to miss.

: This warmth-loving Mediterranean broad green-winged grasshopper, Aiolopus strepens, overwinters as an adult and on fine days can often be seen soaking up the sun amongst the dead vegetation.

: Much of the woodland here at the foot of the Velino massif consists of young downy or turkey oak trees (Quercus pubescens and Quercus cerris) making a slow comeback after centuries of exploitation, but every now and then a more noble survivor stands out as a reminder of how things were, and how they may be once again, if only nature is given a break.

: Clouds come and clouds go. Clouds mask and highlight, create depth and separation. They take the familiar and turn it into a shifting peek-a-boo world where waiting and wondering are the name of the game.

: Just now there is little snow on the south facing slopes of the Velino massif in Italy’s central Apennines, but that could all change in the next few wintery weeks. The transition from winter to spring is nothing if not unpredictable here.

: Hazel (Corylus avellana) catkins hang heavy with pollen, a golden cascade of fertility.

: This early-flowering crocus (Crocus variegatus) is a rarity, found only in some parts of the central Apennines and in the very north east of Italy, but where it does occur, its elegant nuances are the very first harbinger of spring amongst the drab winter colours of the grassy foothills.

: Not so easy to find in our neck of the woods, but a classic worth hunting out, the snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis) needs no introduction.

: It’s not hard to imagine where the name “snowdrop” comes from, but the scientific name, Galanthus nivalis, is equally evocative. The species was named in 1735 by the father of modern taxonomy, Carl Linnaeus himself, with the genus name deriving from the Greek “gala” (milk) and “anthos” (flower), while the species name, “nivalis” means “of the snow”, an obvious reference to both the snow-like flower and this species’ early blooming.

: Never mistake common for banal. The field marigold (Calendula arvensis) a midwinter drop of gold.

: The lesser celandine (Ficaria verna) has been a constant in my life since my earliest days in the English countryside. While still in my pushchair, it was one of the first flowers my botanist father taught me to recognise and has remained a favourite ever since.

: Where the woodland thins out, in stony scrubland and amongst the rocks, the first to flower is the shade-seeking stinking hellebore (Helleborus foetidus), a rare feast for the few insects out and about.

: The nights may be freezing, but there is enough warmth in the low-lying sun to bring some insects, such as this violet carpenter bee (Xylocopa violacea), out of hibernation to go foraging to help pollinate early-flowering species like the stinking hellebore (Helleborus foetidus).

: The March fly Bibio femoralis, a common sight on sunny days even in midwinter and an avid pollinator of the few early-blooming flowers.

: A somewhat atypical member of the Chrysomelidae or leaf beetle family, Galeruca tanaceti usually overwinters as a larva, with the adults not emerging until well into spring. Whether a late survivor or an early emerger, this beetle is going to have to find a warm hideout to survive the freezing winter nights.

: Well yes, it may be just a common and garden fly, but given the scarcity of insect life at this time of year, even this blue bottle (Calliphora vomitoria) is a welcome sight.

: Almost hidden amongst the moss, a minute fungus, Tulostoma brumale, the stalked puffball, is easy to miss.

: This warmth-loving Mediterranean broad green-winged grasshopper, Aiolopus strepens, overwinters as an adult and on fine days can often be seen soaking up the sun amongst the dead vegetation.

: Much of the woodland here at the foot of the Velino massif consists of young downy or turkey oak trees (Quercus pubescens and Quercus cerris) making a slow comeback after centuries of exploitation, but every now and then a more noble survivor stands out as a reminder of how things were, and how they may be once again, if only nature is given a break.