A young queen-bee is learning nectaring. She flops on and off the Yellow Rattle in their province in Small Field. She misjudged a landing, plunged, fell into the grass and was drenched in dew. Then, recovering, flew up to the flower heads again, slid off a buttercup, tumbled, grabbed at a petal which dislodged and dropped her back down into the thick mat of the meadow floor.

A carder bee, her hind legs hoary with pollen, chases a worker bee over the meadow. Tiny white moths flutter up out of the Yellow Rattle.

I notice this as I walk through the fields and meadows at Pudsham and take notes. The floral mix of each meadow is unique and represents them like separate coats of arms. I marvel at the flowers that have sprung up since my last visit several weeks ago. 

The orchids are particularly elaborate with their exotic racemes of spurs, spikes and lobed lips. And peculiarly intelligent. The ivory spurred Greater Butterfly Orchid in Small Field for example. I've learnt each floret has little nodes for moths to kneel on when sipping nectar. Bumble-bees try to reach in, but the clever flower has designed itself so that the seduced bee finds her tongue too short to get to the nectar at the pit of each flower spur. I kneel down and inhale the orchids' astonishing wisteria-like scent. I imagine hawk moths and night moths streaming towards them over the moor—for moths will journey several miles to find a favoured flower. Rather like us I think as we negotiate our way through the orchids.

Tiny early forager bee spins over top of a pignut taking quick sips of nectar and tiny pollen dabs on her feet—Bombus Terrestris a white-tailed bee intrudes on another tiny bee's flower who squeals with a high pitched buzz. A breeze takes up, flicks petals open, blows buds, throws out the trifoliate leaves of the trefoil, bursts the round tips of a butterfly orchid and puffs goat willow catkins far and wide over the old wall, over Dartmoor westwards towards Widecombe

Wandering into Pudsham Meadow the ruby Lousewort are beginning to blossom. Later I discover the root of the Lousewort was made into a poultice as a cure for lice. I love these work-a-day folk names, One of my favourites is the old Devon name for a wild rose-hip: ‘pigs snout’. And red pimpernel—in Welsh Gaelic: Herb of the Witch woman. Dotted in the meadow here and there the magenta tongues of the Southern Marsh Orchid entice Cuckoo bees and Skipper butterflies into their hidden nectaries.

The Heath Spotted orchids take my breath away, their mysterious markings, their daubs of pale lilac on the wild moor.

Froghoppers, food for swifts gently stir in their crèche in the east corner. I learn that their presence shows this meadow is healthy.

A moth flutters out of the undergrowth, which I found later is the Brown Silver Line moth. Once I discovered a new moth fresh from its pupa. I watched it crawl onto a grass stem and expand its wings. I watched as they slowly filled out and then, after the moth had stretched them to their full extent, it flew away. The silver moth next to me shivering, imitates the hanging awns of the grasses. Then as quick as a cloud passes the bees move up again into the flower heads.

The sun ploughs a furrow in Sylvia's Field and, as I write field notes, a Cardinal beetle flutters up out of the grass tops onto my pencil. Meadow brown butterflies rise into the cock's foot grass. All of a sudden a blue Hawker dragonfly slices the air. The bees stopped their wings, dropped to ground.

The dragonfly accelerates, swerves, expertly somersaults crackling her menacing wings, grabs a young bee, drops into its perch in a water dropwort in the field corner by the stream and eats. Silence. Then as quick as a cloud scuds overhead the bees buzz into the flower heads again.

The drama goes on as we saunter through the wild plants that are enchanting us and calling us to their attention.

I love the little Eyebright growing by the path in Sylvia's Field, its bright, white and blue striated eyes. And the Celtic looking Black Knapweed throwing out their calyxes in the breeze to draw insects in. Ragged Robin has flushed up among the sedge in Sylvia’s field. In an old book by Endymion Beer called 'The Plants of Devon', I learn Ragged Robin and Knapweed were gathered for use in old Devon love charms; the forked petals were picked off one by one and the name of the wished-for lover chanted under the breath. The Ragged Robin is especially powerful. She bewitches moths and dragonflies, frogs and toads out of the stream and into the meadow.