It’s one of those warm, hazy September afternoons that demands to be squirrelled away in the memory; cached autumnal pleasures waiting to be dug out again on the coldest winter nights. Oak acorns falling, overripe brambles decaying, glistening spiders’ webs, a sun-bleached field of dry grasses, dark umber angelica umbels loaded with seeds.
Last time we walked this path, dodging muddy puddles on a chilly March morning, we found white blackthorn blossom. Today, those bushes were laden with blue-black sloes, some already wrinkled. Thistledown, torn asunder by a charm of goldfinches, drifts over the wall as we wander down towards the river. The birds erupt and rise over our heads, a twittering flock of gold-barred wings against blue sky, wheeling this way and that, uncertain, wary, then settle again.
At the bottom of the hill, the footpath broadens into a patch of heathland, then meanders between head-high gorse bushes. There’s no wind, just perfect stillness. It’s so quiet that we can hear the crackle of gorse seed pods splitting, hurling out seeds that pitter-patter into the undergrowth.
There are greenbottle flies basking on yarrow flowers, devil’s-bit scabious inflorescences bending under the weight of comatose bumblebees, hoverflies settled on hawkweeds. Night temperatures are falling, so these may be the final days for lethargic insects visiting the few wild flowers still in bloom.
Small copper butterflies are nectaring on the last remaining ragwort. When I crouch to photograph one, it flits away, settles on another flower, and then another, leading me on a tantalising chase. When I’m about to give up, it lands among lichens on a drystone wall, spreading its wings towards the sun that’s already dipping towards the western horizon.
Now I’m close enough to see summer’s wear and tear on the butterfly’s wings – ragged edges, worn patches. When bright sunlight strikes them at a certain angle, wing scales of freshly minted small coppers glow with fiery orange intensity, some scales reflecting green iridescent scintillas – the same mesmerising colours that make it so hard to leave the comfort of a blazing log fire on a dark winter evening. This butterfly’s wings are still exquisitely beautiful, but time has quenched their fire. Now they’re dying embers of a memorable butterfly summer.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024 is published by Guardian Faber; order at guardianbookshop.com and get a 15% discount
