There is a row of hills north of the Black Mountains, close to the English-Welsh border, that is full of wildflower meadows. If you lie down among the yellow rattle and the bird’s-foot trefoil and gaze across the sward, you can see marsh orchids poking above the grasses like mini pagodas. Down in the valley, the River Monnow cascades east, and above is the Cefn, a boggy old drovers’ road that follows the ridge.
It was on the Cefn that several marbled white butterflies hurtled past me like a peloton of cyclists, then appeared to swerve around the ghosts of old drovers. The upper sides of the adults wings are a vivid pied pattern of embroidery. The undersides are more hazy, and Joan Miró-like. I know the farmers, Simon and Anita, whose land they danced over, and I was excited to tell them.
