“Nature loves to hide”, or so proclaimed the riddling ancient philosopher Heraclitus. These past few weeks, I’ve been on the lookout for the last of the season’s orchids – Spiranthes spiralis, or autumn lady’s tresses – and I’m starting to see what he meant.
Today I’m crouched near the top of Wolstonbury Hill, eyes peeled. The place is certainly teeming: scabious and hawkbit dance with the dried-out grasses; bees hum and linnets chatter on a hawthorn. The orchids that I’m seeking grow from long-lived tubers, and I saw a handful in this precise location last summer, so I know they’re here. So far, though, no sign.
