Dragons and Damsels

Nuclear Waste - Where should we put it?

Buxton's Butterflies and how to identify them

BCA Members Event 7 pm Wednesday 27th May 2020 via Zoom

Alyson and Steve Phillips are delighted to present their short audio play

“The Paxtons and The Duke. A ménage a trois?”

Steve Phillips writes “We explore the motivation of these characters in this triangular relationship. We reveal its development, as Paxton's genius grows from gardener to millionaire, supported by the everlasting dedication of Sarah and His Grace.”

A short audio play followed by an interactive discussion about Paxton's contribution to the Buxton we see today.

Anyone can join just email communications@buxtoncivicassociation.org.uk to receive joining instructions.

This talk was delivered on Wednesday 20th May 2020 to BCA members via Zoom.

Richard Knisely-Marpole talks about his fascination for Dragonflies and shares his photographs of these remarkable ancient creatures.

High Quality recording by Paul Smith of the Dawn Chorus in the Goyt Valley on the morning of 16th May 2020

Paul writes "This is a 24 bit audio recording of the dawn chorus recorded at around 05:30 on 16/05/2020.

Recorded from the woods at the far end, away from the boathouse using the Rode NTG4+ shotgun mic and a Zoom F4 audio recorder."

Lyn Noble, local Buxton landscape painter shares three of his views from Corbar Woods

Members talk on 14th May 2020 - An introduction to Surveying Wildlife in your Garden with Lindsey Wakefield

Lyn Noble has painted these views of BCA's Corbar Woods and written about the inspiration that he finds in the woods and painting them

Corbar Wood

Our woodlands are always beautiful, but in Spring they’re even more so. Low morning or evening light can still find its way through young leaves. Gaps in the canopy allow the floodlighting of sandy mounds and glades, enhanced by surrounding areas of deep shadow. Light against dark; dark against light, each tone brightened or darkened by the contrast with its surroundings.

A sort of metaphor for the times we live in?

I’m often accused of walking too fast but Corbar Wood always slows me down. Changes in foliage and light throughout the year keep revealing new vignettes, different angles. Back home I find that I find that I’ve already taken that latest photo, but it’s different. Back into the woods, again and again, a gestation period until the paintbox is fished out (again!).

Lyn

We have collected some photographs of the bluebells in Corbar Woods this year. Another beautiful display. We are so lucky to have these woods on our doorsteps.

60 seconds of sounds recorded on a Saturday lunchtime in Hogshaw Woods

The Blue Bell by Emile Bronte

The blue bell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air;
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath
But fragrance will not cheer.

The trees are bare, the sun is cold;
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold
The earth its robe of green;

And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade
And distant hills and valleys seem
In frozen mist arrayed -


The blue bell cannot charm me now
The heath has lost its bloom,
The violets in the glen below
They yield no sweet perfume.

But though I mourn the heather-bell
'Tis better far, away;
I know how fast my tears would swell
To see it smile today;

And that wood flower that hides so shy
Beneath the mossy stone
Its balmy scent and dewy eye:
'Tis not for them I moan.

It is the slight and stately stem,
The blossom's silvery blue,
The buds hid like a sapphire gem
In sheaths of emerald hue.

'Tis these that breathe upon my heart
A calm and softening spell
That if it makes the tear-drop start
Has power to soothe as well.

For these I weep, so long divided
Through winter's dreary day,
In longing weep--but most when guided
On withered banks to stray.

If chilly then the light should fall
Adown the dreary sky
And gild the dank and darkened wall
With transient brilliancy,

How do I yearn, how do I pine
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine
To mourn the fields of home -