Friday 25th May 2018

I suppose I had better point out how important yesterday's discovery was. The Burnt (Tip) Orchid is critically endangered, and si only seen in a few counties where there is chalk downland that is properly managed. It has not been officially recorded for five years, when this same plant, probably, last flowered.

Efforts are being made to ensure it is pollinated and will last long enough to set seed, so hopefully the population will increase.

Which is why when I released information that we had found a spike, that one of the county recorders was none too happy, or so it seemed. There is a balancing act in trying to preserve something so rare, and yet let the public know that it is out there. The spike had been discovered last Saturday, and was being hand pollinated each day. News of its discovery had been kept from the other two recorders, but would have been made known later in the year.

I know my friend, mark, has been looking at the site for 8 years, and although it seems dramatic to say so, when news broke we all got a little emotional. Several other orchidphiles have described this species as the Holy Grail of Kent Orchids, one drove down Thursday evening to see it in case something bad happened, and as he had been waiting a decade to see one in the county, decided he could not wait any longer.

Mark had contacted me the previous night to ask if I could take hom Friday to see the Burnt Orchid, we also decided to try to find the Green Fly Orchid again, this time we thought we had better directions.

As Jools and I had to be in Chatham that evening, the day of orchiding would have to be swift and targeted, with me being at Mark's door at half seven, ready for the off and to beat the rush hour traffic in Faversham.

The day was cool and misty, dew falling of branches and flowers in our garden, and no better once I had left home and was driving to the Duke of Yorks. And despite the fog, many did not have lights on or just side lights, clearly, driving by braille.

I took my time along the A2, as the fog was in patches, and already I thought how tricky photography would be in these conditions.

Mark was having breakfast, rushing around to be out so to see the two orchid rarities before going on a family holiday, meaning it was now or never.

We drove out of town and back down the A2, past Canterbury where most of the traffic was going, and then onto quiet country lanes, where we could slow down and catch up on news whilst we neared the first stop to try to find the Green Fly.

Sorry, some more orchid stuff:

All orchids can be variable, many have what you would call a standard form, colour, lip shape, spike density, etc, but all are variable. Many species have a pure white, var. alba variant to complicate matters, and ophrys species can also have a white variant, which lacks chlorophyll, meaning the plant appears green. These latter ones are very rare, "Var. ochroleuca is a distinct variety with differing shape and colour where the sepals are a greyish-green, and the main part of the flower pale green apart from a white 'head' (speculum). This form has a longer and narrower 'body'." so now you know.

We had rough directions, partly clarified by another person the night before, so after parking the car, we plunge into the undergrowth back where Danny and I had been the day before, to see where we had gone wrong.

After half an hour, Mark was about 50m away when he called out that he found them, so I made my way round a thicket, found another badger trail, the marker that I had been told about, and on the right several Fly spikes, but two of this odd shade of green, one of which had been broken, possibly by a badger, but also possibly by a careless photographer.

The mist had not lifted, and it was like dusk in the undergrowth, we both tried to get shots, Mark with a hand cranked torch to illuminate the spike, and me trying all sorts of settings, but having to manually focus as it was just to dim for the auto to work. I got a couple of useable shots, as did Mark, which was all we needed really.

We walk back to the car, then drove the half hour back to Dover, down Stone Street then along the motorway, parking at Temple Ewell. The mist had lifted some, but it was grey and flat light, and yet cool for the climb up the down. My legs already aching from the previous day's climb. But, once we had parked, we walked to the first set of steps, and off we went, through the woods, then up across a meadow, up another wooded path then across two more meadows, and climbing all the time.

It was still gloomy, the village just visible below, and the light up on the downs, very flat indeed.

In time we came to the spot, and as I tried to fix myself and where the orchid was, Mark spotted it. It was quite emotional. What he really wanted was sunshine, but it seemed hours away. He took was shots he could, and so after an hour we turned for the car park. But as we climbed back to the top of the down, looking back we saw bright sunlight, fleeting, but it was enough for Mark to decide to stay, we parted with a hug, knowing that years of searching had come to an end.

I walked back down to the car then drove home, and having enough time for a shower, write a blog and have lunch.

At half one I leave for Hythe to pick up Jools, we had tickets to see Danny Baker in Chatham, so the plan was to drive up to Chatham, wander round, have dinner, see the show. Perfect.

Apart from an argument with a lady car driver who seemed not to understand that she could also pull over where there were parked cars, I arrived in time, and waited for Jools to leave work at two.

Once she was out, we made our way to the motorway, then up to Maidstone before taking the road over the downs to Chatham, then down into the town, being guided by the sat nav, which was a real bonus. We park at the back of the theatre, and had four hours to kill before show time. Surely we could find something interesting?

Well, Chatham was a town defined by the Naval dockyards, those closed a couple of decades ago, and it seems to have had the shit kicked out of it since then, leaving a shell of a high street, lined with bargain shops, with many unoccupied.

We walked along it, then through the shopping mall, also filled with discount shops, and not doing much trade either. We stop for coffee and cake in a cafe, which was OK. Outside, there was a park near to the riverside, so we walk to an empty bench, sit and watch the world go by, mainly a group of teens behind us talking loudly about six, which was eyebrow raising to say the least!

The other side of the river wall was an expanse of mud, littered with debris that people had tossed over the wall rather than put in a bin. Away to the right I could see what looked like a pub, so we shuffle over and I go to get drinks, which we sit outside in the hot sunshine in picnic benches outside, whilst piped soul music burbles for our entertainment.

A second pint wasn't a good idea, so we leave the pub and walk back into town, along the high street then along a road leading into the delights of Gillingham. The street was lined with nail salons, vape shops and other such establishments.

And having got into Gillingham, we turn round and walk back to Chatham and decide on an Italian restaurant. Due to an error, they have no alcohol licence, so we have to have sfot drinks, which is probably for the best with a late night drive back home after the show.

Once we had paid, we walk down to the theatre, go in and after a short wait, take our seat.

As we wait, the theatre fills up, mst of the audience were of a similar age to ourselves. So, who is Danny baker? Well, he is a the son of a London Docker, worked in a record shop in the early 70s frequented by Rocks great and golden, was instrumental in the writing of the punk fanzine, sniffing glue, became a journalist at the NME, moved into TV, then became a writer, and has written for just about everyone, including the royal family. He also featured in a decade of ads for Daz. He has a gift of the gab, but also a talent, apparently, for upsetting the generation of media middle managers, and despite having an encyclopedia knowledge of music, cannot get a show on radio.

He also can speak, non stop for four hours, unscripted about his life. And this is the second show he has done, so that's eight hours, and then every show is different as other memories get brought up. He dies not take questions, just plunges on, taking 10 minutes to recap what we might have missed if we did not see the first show, that ten minutes went into 90 minutes.

At half eleven he finished with a song, and that was it.

We walked back to the car, backed out and made our way out of town to the motorway, all the time through heavy mist that turned into fog as we neared Faversham. I took my time, and so we arrived home safe and sound at half twelve, with the feline welcoming committee in great voice.