The first flush of spring flowers are over (everybody, ‘ahhh’) leaving the wayside decked with leaves . . . .
One of my favourite trees for spring colour: the Black Poplar (so named for its dark -coloured bark)
The first leaves of Ash, a near rival to the Black Poplar for colour
I always think of the Oak in spring as ‘bronzing’. But in the right light, it positively glows with gold. Here it plays host to the Oak Gall Wasp, like a bright carbuncle. That red, though, soon will fade to a biscuit-beige
The Majestic Oak, showy with its golden crown
In spring the Sycamore’s new leaves resemble crimson fans. But when full grown, and in full summer, the tree casts a deep shadow
. . . which is why woodland plants must flower early. Here, the Dog Mercury is caught in bloom but its leaves are destined to last until autumn, spread as a thick carpet
I tentatively identify this as ‘a Buckler Fern’, though which one is beyond me. I found it in the very woodland where, as a child, I first began to learn the names of plants. But odd, I remember no ferns growing here, only bracken; now it seems the bracken is gone, and everywhere now is this fronzy fern. I was delighted to see it.
Bracken, its coppery head perfectly foiled by the mellow green leaves of Hogweed
I include this lovely wayside lily (Lords and Ladies) just cos I like it! Goosegrass, and ivy and dead leaves . . . . and that thrusting sheathed phallus
Where colour is lacking, texture takes over. The humble thistle (probably the Spear Thistle, but without the flowers . . .I’m not staking my hat on it)
And to end, a Wayside Medley! Bedstraw, horsetail, and leaves of red campion.
crispina kemp 
I’m happy to chime in: ahhhh! Gorgeous photos. Such amazing color even before the flowers come in. And I love the texture too. I’m so impressed that you know and can remember all the names of these plants! Whenever I’m trying to describe what kind of plant I mean, I have to resort to vague description and – literally – hand waving.
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Once again, I thank you for your enthusiasm. The post began with my own amazement at the colours in those ash leaves. It grew from there. Being able to name the plants . . . that’s something that started even before I went to school. I grew up in a rural area, with wild flowers all around me. And my grandmother bought be the Flower Fairy books for my birthdays and Christmases. It just took off from there. Long before I left school I had invested in a proper ‘Flora’, with key etc. That was helped by the biology lessons at school. Now, despite I live in town, it’s always a great delight to get back into the countryside, and see what’s flowering. And of course, I have to take pics.
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Seeing the plants and naming them over and over probably helps you remember them. I learned an awful lot of plant names when I was a child, but very few of them stuck. I’d be hard-pressed to identify leaves from the major trees, I’m afraid! Still, they’re all pretty to look at, even if I don’t know their names.
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You’re right, of course. We take delight in the flower, not in the name.
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I think you get even more delight if you know the name, though, or if you know more about it in general. That seems to be the case for bird watchers, at least, that they get much more happiness out of hearing a specific bird trilling, whereas I just hear “pretty bird.”
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I guess there’s some element in knowing their names that kinda make ‘friends’ of them. Does that make sense? It cements a relationship of a kind. After all, when making friends, we first ask the name. Hi, I’m So-and-so. And you are?
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Yes, exactly! Plus you know whether it’s rare to find that particular plant in that kind of location, or whether it’s blooming early or late, or other “personal” things about it — like you’d know about a friend. đŸ˜‰
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And also if this year it’s not making much of a show. I’m reminded of a hay meadow I encountered last year. It was ablaze with deep yellow buttercups all melee’d with yellow cow-wheat and purple clover. It positively shone in the sun. So I revisited it (same week of the year). I thought, with the better camera . . . but how sad, the meadow looked quite glum, the flowers restrained and somehow lacking. I wanted to ask what was wrong, the way you would with a friend.
Though having said that, the bluebells were exceptionally early this year. When I was a kid the bluebells wouldn’t be out until this week (end of May/beginning of June). Now we’re seeing them at the end of April. Global warming?
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Well, you can still ask them, but I wouldn’t hold my breath for an answer. đŸ˜‰
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Yeah, they just nod. But do they mean simply, Yeah, or maybe, Yeah but, or even, Yeah, no. Then again, they might be using a nod to mean no, like they do in Bulgaria (and didn’t that get me into trouble, though nice trouble as I remember it! )
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That’s the problem with flowers, trying to decipher their body language. đŸ˜‰ And I didn’t know that about Bulgaria. I’ll have to bring that up to the one Bulgarian friend I have. It must have been awfully confusing for him, moving here.
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Yea, a Bulgarian shake of the head means yes, while a nod means no. Confusing for everyone.
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