‘For when a man falls in love with orchids, he’ll do anything to possess the one he wants. It’s like chasing a green-eyed woman or taking cocaine… it’s a sort of madness.’
Norman MacDonald, The Orchid Hunters:
Jungle Adventures (1942)
Powys and Bridgend
June 2013
The successful outing to the New Forest with Ben had brought me up to twenty-eight species for the year, but in order to reach thirty, I would have to travel a little further afield. The following few days were spent at home, juggling family time with the careful planning of my upcoming trip to Wales. It was exciting; the weather was holding out and I was feeling confident.
I was at a friend’s birthday on Saturday night and set out alone the following morning, feeling slightly worse for wear. The M4 was heavy with the sluggish traffic heading for Cardiff so I crossed over the Severn Bridge and into Wales at a crawl. It was a relief to escape the white noise and exhaust fumes of the motorway and climb steadily up into the Brecon Beacons National Park. I spent the night in a small, family-run campsite lying in the shadow of the mountains, waking the next day to a bright, crisp morning.
I had come to Wales for two orchids I had never seen before, the Small White and the Fen, which are two of the most notoriously elusive plants in the country. I was going to start by visiting a small nature reserve in the heart of Wales that I had recently been told was a reliable spot for the Small White Orchid. I arrived late morning, quite literally in the middle of nowhere. The narrow road I had been driving along had gradually tapered into a single-file lane that meandered into the hills, taking me further and further from any form of civilisation.
To get to the reserve, I followed the footpath up a long track, before passing through the garden of a chalk-white farmhouse, opening and closing numerous gates along the way. To many urbanites, walking along a path through someone’s garden might feel like an invasion of their privacy, and they tiptoe past as if walking through their front room uninvited. But in rural Britain, footpaths regularly pass through people’s farms and gardens, a relic of past communities and their easy-going attitude to strangers and private land. A tiny stream trickled past at the side of the track, filled with sedges and water-crowfoots in cushions of springy mosses. The entrance to the reserve was unsigned, one more gate in the long line of opening and closing, latching and unlatching.
Ten metres into the damp, reedy meadow and the beauty of the place became obvious. All around me brilliant orange butterflies flitted, gliding along one minute, disappearing the next. They never stopped, or at least never long enough for me to get anywhere near them with my camera: small pearl-bordered fritillaries, one of the most striking and intricately patterned butterflies in Britain, and only the second time I had seen them. Every time I thought they would land, they would change their mind or meet another of their kind, engaging in a ferocious aerial battle that took them far out of my reach.
The meadow was surrounded by the steeply sloped hills of Powys and valleys that stretched as far as the eye could see before twisting away, to follow the flow of the river. Overhead, military jets were practising, tearing across the sky, leaving only a trail of noise in their wake.
The Small White Orchid, or Pseudorchis albida, is difficult to find simply because it never grows in large numbers. I had been lucky on my trip so far to have seen some rare plants but the swathes of Sword-leaved Helleborines in Hampshire and the army of Man Orchids at Darland Banks had made things relatively easy. Showy orchids are not hard to spot when they grow in such large numbers, no matter how rare they might be. The Small White, as its very name implies, is not particularly eye-catching and refrains from the egotistical displays seen in some of our other species. The handful of sites and accompanying directions that I had managed to acquire by no means filled me with confidence, ranging from having ‘only one plant in flower’, to ‘three plants that have flowered for the last two years’ and ‘a couple of plants between two rocky areas in a west-facing basic flush’. These sites were some of the best in the country, but I knew it would be a tricky species to tick off.
I had reached the top of the nature reserve and stood admiring a sea of Heath Spotted Orchids; never had I seen so many in one place. This was a wildflower heaven. There were sedges everywhere, particularly in the wetter areas where the grassy hillside bordered on the reeds: pale, pill, star, carnation and oval. Wood bitter-vetch grew abundantly, dyer’s-green-weed was just bursting into golden flower and Heath Fragrant Orchids, larger and far more satisfying than those in the New Forest, were dotted across the slope. Yet even more amazing were the bluebells; great purple carpets of them under the oaks at the top of the hill, spilling out into the grass and spreading down through the meadow.
As I watched, a shadow drifted across the hillside and looking up, I saw the large silhouette of a red kite as it rose above the treeline, banking to one side as if to show off its distinctive profile. Higher up still, a hobby raced over, a silent mimic of the jets now long gone.
While taking all of this in, I had noticed four off-white poles sticking out of the ground in the middle of the field. On approaching, I realised that each one marked a single Small White Orchid; tiny, dainty and unassuming. They were even smaller than I had imagined, consisting of creamy-white flowers rather loosely arranged atop a spindly green stem. Unmistakable. Pseudorchis albida, derived from the Greek for ‘white-flowered false Orchis’, presumably acquired its name from its superficial resemblance to the genus Orchis, but while appearing similar, it differs in many characteristics, particularly in the shape of its underground tubers (the checking of which is not recommended, because it is illegal to dig them up). The species has undergone many nomenclatural changes over the past 350 years and has been moved from genus to genus by seemingly indecisive botanists. Gymnadenia, Habenaria, Orchis and even Platanthera have all played host to this diminutive orchid.
The first British record for Pseudorchis albida comes from John Ray who, in 1670, found ‘Orchis pusilla odorata radice palmata… on the back of Snowdon-hill by the way leading from Llanberis to Carnarvon’. In Britain, it is very much an upland plant, the majority fussily growing in undisturbed meadows on the well-drained, nutrient-poor soils of north-west Scotland. Many populations waned and became extinct during the twentieth century, resulting in the loss of Small White Orchid from 66 per cent of its historical range in Britain. This, coupled with its specific habitat requirements and small population sizes, has made it a deceptively difficult species to track down.
So that was it. I had found the Small White, supposedly one of the trickiest species to locate. Not only that but I had simply turned up, walked up to the top of the hill and spotted the attention-grabbing poles that had been kindly placed to pinpoint the orchids for visiting admirers. It had been easy. Too easy. Once again, I found myself conflicted; had these poles not been there I may never have found the Small Whites, but on the other hand a large part of the enjoyment I gain from botanising is in the search, and eventual discovery, of what I am hunting for. Often well-meaning botanical tourism can reduce the satisfaction; in this case my encounter with Pseudorchis had been something of an anti-climax.
After a quick lunch, I jumped back in the car and drove down to the coast to visit Kenfig National Nature Reserve. The serenity of the meadow in Powys quickly diminished as I journeyed south, the wooded hillsides giving way to bland concrete and the smoke-churning towers of Swansea. Located on the south-eastern edge of Swansea Bay, Kenfig is one of the last remnants of a vast dune system that once extended from the Gower Peninsula along the coast to Bridgend. The dunes are of national significance, spreading inland for nearly two miles and hosting many rare species of plants and animals. Large tidal flats and steady winds have contributed to the growth of the sand dunes and their continued turnover. Kenfig is one of two areas in the country where the Fen Orchid is known to grow– it used to have a population of thousands, but there has been a severe crash in numbers in recent years and now they are lucky to have twenty.
As it turned out, I didn’t even need to leave the car park to find my first orchid – not a Fen but a Pyramidal, a glorious pink beacon in the long grass and a contender for the friendliest of our native species. It was Ray again who first recorded what is now known as Anacamptis pyramidalis in Britain, as late as 1660, despite the plant’s abundance. This widespread and relatively common orchid is the county flower of the Isle of Wight and has always been one of my favourites. More conical than pyramidal when it first appears, the flower spike quickly becomes cylindrical as more flowers open, providing its localities with a wonderful splash of colour. This single flower was my thirtieth species of the year.
Energised by reaching this next milestone, I set out to look for number thirty-one, the elusive Fen Orchid. I was armed with extremely detailed instructions from Suzie Lane, a contact who had been to see the plants two days previously. She had found two individuals, only one of which had been in flower. At first, I had laughed at her seemingly over-the-top directions, but now I realised that there was a reason they had to be so long. I rounded the visitor’s centre and was met by a great expanse of sand dunes. Kenfig was a maze, riddled with discreet pathways so inconspicuous that you had to think twice about whether or not they were just animal trails. And somewhere in there were two Fen Orchids. I set off into the dunes, performing a strange trotting walk as I followed Suzie’s directions meticulously, knowing that without them I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Four hours later, I was standing in the middle of a dune slack with wet, sandy mud sucking at my feet. I was very lost. All around me creeping willow carpeted the floor, its fluffy seeds floating past on the light breeze. The dunes rose up on all sides so that I had absolutely no idea where I was; only the faint sound of the sea in the distance gave me an indication of which way south was. This was not easy.
Having followed numerous dead-end trails, each time convincing myself that I was following the correct one, I had successfully managed to lose all sense of direction. Some trails looped back on themselves, bringing me to a path I had already walked; others started promisingly, only to peter out altogether, leaving me in the middle of nowhere. I was getting more and more confused, overwhelmed by the immensely intricate network of paths and wondering whether I would ever find the right dune slack. It was now 5:30pm; I was running out of time.
I began picking my way across the slack, stopping from time to time to admire the gloriously rich colour of the Early Marsh Orchids that grew scattered among the cottony willow. They were the subspecies coccinea, deep red in colour and a dune slack specialist, some squatting close to the ground while others rose phoenix-like from the dark peat. On the far side, I was momentarily distracted by ten Southern Marsh Orchids that were standing in an auditorium of electric-blue viper’s-bugloss. A single Common Twayblade sprang from the marram, twisted at a bizarre angle as it attempted to escape the foliage. Honeysuckle and burnet-roses lined the path, and a meadow brown danced up in front of me – the first I had seen this year – and fluttered along, seemingly oblivious to the human presence following in its wake.
According to Jocelyn Brooke, ‘the Fen Orchid is one of those species which owes its rarity to the farmer rather than the botanist’. First recorded along with the Pyramidal Orchid in 1660 by John Ray in Cambridgeshire, it is now an Endangered Red Data Book species and included in Schedule 8 of the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981). Restricted to a mere handful of sites, its stronghold remains in the Norfolk Broads, where subspecies loeselii continues to endure despite extensive drainage of the fens and their conversion to agricultural land. More recently, the decline in traditional practices such as peat cutting, grazing and reed harvesting has led to further losses, particularly within protected areas, many of which are now giving way to alder and willow carr, a habitat which offers no place for the understated Fen Orchid.
In south Wales, the situation is no better for subspecies ovata. While nine sites have been identified over the years, a combination of the over-stabilisation of the dunes and reclamation of land for large-scale industry has resulted in a substantial decline in suitable habitats and, subsequently, population sizes. Kenfig now holds the only viable population but even here it remains feeble. Very few new slacks are formed as the dune system ages, which appears to be the core of the problem. The Fen Orchid is a pioneer species, adapted for colonising dynamic environments; new dune slacks have an abundance of bare ground that can be exploited but new populations are soon crowded out by larger perennials. While turf stripping and grazing can be employed as a short-term remedy, the long-term stability of this orchid depends on the instability of the dune system and the continual generation of young slacks.
The lack of Fen Orchids here was concerning, but a thought had suddenly occurred to me. I turned and ran up the side of a dune, pulling my GPS from my bag. Suzie had sent me a grid reference, not for the plants directly but for the dune slack that they grew in, which I had hurriedly scribbled down the day before at the bottom of my notes. How could I have forgotten that? Waiting irritably for my machine to load, I glanced to my right, where I could see the smoke-filled, industrial skyline of Port Talbot Steelworks in the distance. I wondered what used to grow there before it was built, and whether or not Kenfig and its precious flora and fauna would someday suffer the same fate.
A bleep told me my GPS was ready. I punched in the numbers and set off in the direction of the arrow that was now guiding me, four hours late. I was moving urgently now, completely ignoring the paths and cutting straight across the dunes. I knew it was a bad idea, but desperation had begun to kick in.
I ran, up and over, up and over, until I finally scaled a particularly large dune with a wide slack in its shadow. The noticeable lack of mature vegetation stood this depression apart from the previous slacks I had traipsed through, an obvious indication that it had been cleared a year or two before. This was the right spot, definitely; it perfectly matched Suzie’s description. It was Fen Orchid territory. I tumbled down the hill, almost falling as I skidded onto the sparsely vegetated sandy soil, realising too late that I would be unable to stop myself flattening the one remaining orchid I had come to see if it happened to be growing at this end of the slack. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, although the lack of orchids wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Countless meadow thistles and brookweed plants grew in the sea of muddy sand that had been scraped over. Small vegetated islands punctuated the dull brown expanse, providing havens for young willows, lesser spearwort and common restharrow. Around the perimeter, lush vegetation supported thousands of Southern and Early Marsh Orchids, and there were Marsh Helleborines in tight bud. Twenty minutes passed, but still no Fen Orchids.
Once far more common, they were collected at will as publicised by this account of a club outing to Burwell Fen, Cambridgeshire, in 1835: ‘We had very good sport in both plants and insects. Ophrys loeselii [Fen Orchid] was found in great plenty. Between four hundred and five hundred specimens were brought home. It was growing in the grass and moss among the pits where they cut turf. There were two bulbs to each plant, and the bulbs were scarcely in the ground at all, so that we picked them out easily with our fingers.’
I could have done with 500 plants then. Another twenty minutes went by. Exasperated, I took out Suzie’s directions again and tried to work out where she had entered the slack. Perhaps it made more sense from the other end? I hurried over, stepping carefully between thistles and bedstraws. I was distracted momentarily by the sound of vibrating wings, and turned to see a dragonfly buzz past, but then my eyes were drawn to two small sticks, stuck haphazardly in the ground. The tell-tale rare-plant marker.
Relieved, I ran over and bent down, searching, willing a Fen Orchid to appear. It didn’t. Disappointment washed over me, followed by more anxiety. But the sticks! What were they marking then? Cruel. And then a bare bit of ground amongst the small grasses and a pair of oval leaves: absolutely miniscule. Liparis, unmistakeably, but no flowers. I took a breath; the plant Suzie saw must be here. She had even said that there were two sticks in the ground. Everything fitted and yet I couldn’t find a flower, only more waxy leaves, tiny lime ovals cupped together.
I was panicking now. This was my one and only opportunity to see the Fen Orchid. At such a crucial stage in the season I really didn’t have time to make another trip to Wales, and the East Anglian sites are widely considered too fragile for visitors. I sent a worried text to my father before resuming my search, eyes combing over the same area again and again, making sure I hadn’t missed anything. My earlier misgivings about the ease with which I had been able to find the Small Whites suddenly seemed rather ironic. I would do anything for a garish signpost now.
Fifteen minutes later, after I had found perhaps eight little pairs of leaves, I sat up and rearranged my aching limbs, the success of my project hanging by a thread. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. I cast a cursory glance around and froze: more sticks. Another two, ten metres away; I scrambled to my feet and charged over to this second patch, heart racing. Here there were more sterile plants and then, a second later, I found one with a flower spike. It rose up from the leaves but then stopped abruptly: the top had been nibbled off.
I sank to my knees, unable to believe what I saw, unwilling to accept that I had failed. The Fen Orchid, flowering only two days ago, had been eaten. Gone; a tasty snack for a passing rabbit. Despair swept through me. This wasn’t fair! I had come so close, spent so much time and energy searching and was now faced with the long, empty-handed drive home. The memories of my grand tour would be forever tarnished with the knowledge that I had failed to find a flowering Fen Orchid. I wasn’t exactly surprised that it had been the Fen that had stumped me; this orchid is so small, so rare and so camouflaged that the majority of people searching for it end up going home disappointed. A species present in fleeting yet precious moments in the ever-shifting, transient dune system.
I took out my phone and found the photo that Suzie had sent me of the tiny green plant she had found, as if seeing it would magically bring it back. If only I had visited a few days earlier. I paused mid-thought then, realising that the orchid in the photo was surrounded by the yellow buttercup-flowers of lesser spearwort. The nibbled plant in front of me was on its own in the sand with only a few tufts of sedge to keep it company; there was no lesser spearwort. Once again, I felt hope rush back. Vegetated islands with lesser spearwort; the thought ran through my head on repeat as I looked around me. There were lots of suitable contenders. The first was empty, as was the second, save for more brookweed. The third, however, elicited a reaction one would normally associate with a last-minute title-winning goal: ‘Yes, yes, yes, get in!’ I whooped. Two Fen Orchids, one in bud and the other in perfect flower, stood proudly in the middle of some creeping willow, lesser spearwort sprouting yellow all around them.
Relief, pure relief, was all I felt. I began laughing; this was ridiculous. My mad shouts were whipped away by the wind, leaving me dancing with excitement. To have missed one after thirty species would have been devastating, but here it was, a very satisfying Fen Orchid, complete with a short pale-green spike rising from its pair of buttery oval leaves. The somewhat spidery flowers were inverted, facing the sky, the thread-like petals forming a cross. I couldn’t believe I had found it.
Fen Orchids employ several reproductive mechanisms, one of which is self-pollination by rain. A falling raindrop hits the upturned lip, which deflects it onto the anther cap. This in turn is knocked sideward so the pollinia come into contact with the stigma, resulting in pollination. Vegetative reproduction may also occur, whereby ‘buds’ are formed on the pseudobulb (a thickening of the stem used to store carbohydrates). These detach in the autumn, complete with their very own fungal symbiont. This form of reproduction will often be used in the absence of rain and insect pollinators.
The species’ Latin name, Liparis loeselii, is derived from the Greek liparos meaning ‘greasy’, referring to the appearance of the leaves; they look waterproof, they’re so shiny. The specific name loeselii is a tribute to the Prussian botanist Johann Loesel (1607–1657).
I knelt in the mud, still reeling; marvelling at the sight of my Fen Orchid. Taking out my phone, I sent a grateful message to Suzie. Her detailed directions had saved my quest. I knew I wouldn’t have found these tiny orchids without her help. I didn’t know it then, but she would have a much bigger impact on my summer later down the line.
The satisfaction was immense, all the better for having been tormented by the elusive flower for the majority of the afternoon. I had found the flowering Fens at 7:15pm and had now been in the dunes for more than six adrenaline-pumped hours. Exhaustion was creeping up on me. I was scratched by wayward brambles and covered in a congealing concoction of mud and sand. It was time to call it a day.
By the time I had finished photographing the plants, packed up my things and started heading back to the car, the sun had begun to set. A sea breeze had picked up, making a scratchy rustle in the marram. I squelched back around the slack, boggy trails, which then became sandy paths and finally pebbled walkways. The meadow in Powys seemed an age ago. It had been a wonderfully rewarding day.
My path took me to the edge of the reserve, providing a view out to sea, which was as shiny as the leaves of Liparis. The evening light glanced off the wet sand, soon to be part of the dunes as they are formed and reformed. Maybe, just maybe, there might be new slacks to come yet, and with them the instability that is so important for this humble little orchid.