I’m getting a bit better at catching events. I’ve had Orchid Days in my diary for some time.
My propensity for being early (if you call 10am early) serves me well. I’m finishing my stroll though the glasshouses as the crowds appear. Even so, I spend a lot of time cowering amongst lush leaves to let people pass so my camera and I can gawp.
I haven’t been in such tropical lushness since Cairns a year and a half ago, where these photos could well have been taken.
A poster shows the natives you’re likely to find in Polish national parks, and colourful nineteenth century botanical drawings hang along the edge of the path.
The orchids are not the tiny natives I’m used to, but I’m not resistant to their cultivated beauty or their presentation in a man-made environment. They are displayed in baskets, logs or pots amongst the greenery, or clambering on trees. A few are in glass cases.
Amongst the orchids are a few ring-ins. The pitcher plant has a special place in the evolution of our interest in bush orchids at home. When J first saw a greenhood, that’s what he thought it was. The reddish-brown and white beauty defeated my camera, and our joint ID capacity: I’m still not sure whether it’s an orchid.
I move with the flow of people past the gardens building into another glass house.
No tropical lushness here, and no orchids.
I leave the gardens sated with plant life and with a dying camera battery, passing a couple of woven sculptures and a very large silver horse.