I remove an individual dandelion seed and let it drop onto my notebook. I keep plucking, and ten minutes later I have a pile of 82 seeds (or 83, but I’m not counting again) wavering across the pad in a soft froth.
The trees, still mainly leafless, maintained their wintery silhouettes, but there was a sort of haze, a shimmer, in their upper branches now, like a whisper made visible, the hint of new growth, the gathering of the green storm.
‘When you know a place lifelong, you’ve no need of maps;
every name has its shapes and its feel underfoot:
Helks, Jacksons Pasture, Perry Moor – even the fields
have names: Robins Close, Parrocks Meadow.’
She loves the stories hidden in the landscape – particular hedges, the small paths that signify cross-breeding links, farming styles, a new kerbside or a route home. To me Dorothy Hartley is a fellow student following the complex web of how the physical, natural world translates to our daily and cultural material experience.