A little all black bird

The light is fading in the evening and the water at Island Bay beach is quite still.  Around the water's edge near the rocks where the old bait house perches, an oystercatcher forages in the mounds of seaweed.  Apparently oystercatchers are found all around the world, but this little all black bird is a so-called variable oystercatcher or toreapango (Haematopus unicolor), a species found only in New Zealand.  (They can be pied rather than all black - hence the "variable" in the name.)  This particular species doesn't migrate and the birds tend to stay put, in pairs, around the coast where they nest.  They are distinctive characters, bobbing around actively looking for food - digging for little shelled critters, not only oysters despite their name - and they are adept at using their strong orange beaks to open the shells up.  They can be very bold and brave in defending their space and their peep peep peep calls announce their presence or flight overhead.  They are a very engaging sight, and it is as if we know them, because they seem to be permanent occupants of certain parts of the beach. 

A familiar and engaging sight, an oystercatcher foraging near the old bait shed at Island Bay beach.

Spring surprise

At the Wellington Botanic Garden, the flowering of thousands of brightly coloured tulips is a feature of the Spring Festival.  This year they have arrived rather earlier than anticipated, courtesy of a milder and wetter winter.  I was surprised and delighted when I saw what had been hiding underneath the edible bedding plants that I described in winter...the brilliantly red tulip "Parade" has emerged and taken centre stage.  I had no idea what was in store when I was admiring the combination of silverbeet "Bright Lights", white bedding chrysanthemum and parsley.  But hiding under their cover were the tulip bulbs - like marvellous little plant-packages sheltering through the winter in the safety of the soil, waiting to spring up into leaf and flower once conditions are right.  In this image the tulips are backlit by the bright noonday sun - not usually a good time for photography - but it does convey the almost uncomfortably intense contrast of red and green.

Looking beyond this bed, there is a glimpse of more tulips...colours almost eye-wateringly bright...

A busy, busy scene around the Joy Fountain - tulips, spring blossom and new spring growth, people admiring, sitting, strolling, and gardeners gardening in the background.  It is certainly not winter now!

Mega-beautiful

A honeybee visits a Chatham Island forget-me-not (Myosotidium hortensia).  No, it is not a miniature bee - the flowers that have opened are indeed much larger than the little forget-me-not after which it is named (but to which it is not related).  One of the oddities of New Zealand plants is a tendency to have giant forms of what are much smaller plants in the northern hemisphere - we have tree-sized daisy, lily and fuchsia plants, for example.  "Megaherbs" is the term used to describe large-leaved flowering plants which are found on the subantarctic islands and although not from a subantarctic island this forget-me-not is also described as a megaherb.  It is an endangered coastal herbaceous perennial plant endemic to the Chatham Islands, which lie east of the South Island of New Zealand.  

The glossy leaves are rich green and deeply ribbed and make a very large clump.  They look so lush and beautiful it is hard to believe that they come from islands which are very exposed to harsh weather.  But the subantarctic islands, further south and even more inhospitable as their location suggests, are home to even more extraordinary flowering plants, which I have (as yet!) only seen in pictures.   Those megaherbs are pretty much impossible to grow in the kind conditions found in gardens, but the Chatham Island forget-me-not can be a lovely addition to a garden, albeit somewhat tricky to please.

Chatham Island forget-me-not, the glossy leaves and soft blue flowers with their darker blue centres.

The spider's spectacle

Silhouetted in the early evening light, a spider was perching by its web, woven between leaves of the golden sand sedge pingao (Ficinia spiralis), one of the dune grasses at Island Bay beach.  The sky was clearing after the rain, the clouds parting, and the sea a soft blue.   And looking across Island Bay towards Baring Head, there was a sight that is always magical to me - a rainbow...  

I recall as a child memorising the sequence of colours, drawing the arc of a rainbow, being intrigued by the idea of a pot of gold at the end... then later, getting a sense of the complexity of light in the way that the colours are revealed by refraction - how I loved prisms!  And later again, being fascinated by and struggling with the idea that light is a form of energy that moves in packets and waves (how can this be?).  I also love the transience of the bright colours decorating the landscape, and the surprise of seeing a rainbow, even though it is associated with such a common event - rain! 

Dwarfed by the spectacle two kayakers paddle towards the tip of Taputeranga, while (the ubiquitous) seagulls do their evening fly-past. 

The island itself is lit by the rather golden evening light, the rainbow fades, and to the south more clouds seem to be amassing.

Tenacity

Well, so much for my pessimism.  Despite northerly and southerly gales, these cherry blossoms held on tight.  I underestimated their tenacity!  When the sun was bright and I made a brief visit to the Wellington Botanic Garden rose garden - lo and behold - there it was, the graceful form of Prunus "Awanui", not denuded by the winds as I had imagined.  Perhaps this was a more sheltered spot than I thought?

But no - en masse a pretty froth of pink but on individual blooms the impact of the wind is indicated by the bruised and ragged petals.  So - being soft pink and delicate in appearance does not mean weak or insipid.  And my assumptions again turn out to be mistaken.  Fittingly, the sculpture beside the blossom trees is titled "Dance of Life".

Wild and woolly waves

After the northerly gales subsided the southerly gales arrived from Antarctica bringing the cold - sometimes they drop a frosting of snow on the Orongorongos, but there was not much this time.  There can be glorious quite still periods in between with blue skies and sunshine, before another weather front arrives.  Here on the south coast the arrival of the front can often be clearly seen - a dramatic bank of clouds, a change of colour in the sky, a stirring up of the ocean waves.  And following the southerly winds there is a southerly swell.  I learned the description "wild and woolly" when I was young.  I think it describes very well the foaming southerly swell as it crashes onto the rocky shore by Houghton Bay beach on Wellington's south coast.

Acceptance

Wellington is known for its dynamic weather, and sure enough, the spring gales that have been battering Wellington have been "severe" - wind gusts up to 170km/hr on a hillside road near the coast north of here, and around where I live they have been up to 140km/hr - planes unable to land at the airport, loss of roofing, trampolines airborn, that sort of thing.  When I first lived in Wellington I was really upset by the way these spring winds battered the tender new spring growth.  I used to think that acceptance risked being too passive, resigned, defeated.  But the weather just is, the winds will happen no matter what I think or how I feel, and the plants manage on the whole and I do too.  Acceptance is living with rather than struggling against.  A much better energy somehow. 

A few days ago, before the winds hit hard, I had a few minutes late in the day and made a quick visit to the Botanic Garden.  The area around the rose garden is a lovely peaceful spot for quiet contemplation.  I was very surprised to see a cherry blossom out - Prunus "Awanui", a graceful and floriferous cultivar discovered in a New Zealand garden, covered in a gorgeous froth of white and pale pink.  I like to practise with my camera, and snapped away briefly as the light faded.  I expected I would be back in a few days to get pictures in a better light.  So much for expectations - so often a cause for suffering!  I imagine that the tree now has a lovely carpet of shattered blossoms under it...

The ephemeral beauty of spring - cherry blossom.  Its brief presence a delight, but not lasting long enough for a hanami (Japanese cherry blossom viewing party).

In bud, in leaf, and in between

Every year I am intrigued by three mature oak trees at the top of Willis Street in Wellington city on the fringe of the business district.  This area, Te Aro, was settled early on and has some impressive old houses.  The trees stand in front of one of these, on a busy road - a rather unprepossessing spot.

The thing that catches my eye is the distinct sequence of spring growth that occurs every year, with the tree on the left starting first.  In the photo it is in leaf, the middle tree has baby leaves with that soft golden colour of fresh new growth, and the tree on the right is in bud, with only a few signs of bud burst.  Why?  Is it because the first tree to show spring growth faces north and therefore gets the sun most?  Is it then like a chain reaction? - I have read recently about how much trees and other plants communicate and sense changes in their environment.  Whatever determines this pattern, it happens reliably.  I took this photo in less than perfect conditions because a gale was predicted.  It eventuated - another regular spring feature of Wellington - damaging gales that the plants, and we, are somehow not daunted by.

A closer view of the tangle of branches and branchlets and wires, with the leaves, leaflets and buds in their green, gold and reddish hues.

Looking up to the branches - in leaf and in between

.....and in bud

The most advanced leaves and flowers in more detail - they were the only ones I could get close to!

Kowhai gold

There is warmth in the sunshine and the days are getting longer and suddenly it's as if everything is bursting with energy (including the wind!)  It's a bit like cooking popcorn - there doesn't seem to be much happening in the pot, then there are a few ping ping ping noises as some corn pops and hits the lid, then suddenly there is a burst of popping and pinging, and the pot is full of the froth of popcorn.  Well, all around is the froth of spring - bright pinks and yellows and blues of spring flowers, and the rather acid green of new leaves on some of the deciduous trees. 

New Zealand native plants tend to have less showy flowers than introduced plants, but the kowhai is gloriously golden. 

There are a number of species of kowhai and many cultivars, and I am unsure about identifying them.  Some are small trees and others are more shrubby, some are semi-deciduous and flower when there are few leaves in evidence.  The most dramatic time is in spring, when trees are laden with clusters of golden flowers - and because the spring winds are ferocious, this means there are soon golden carpets under the trees, and dangling from the branches are the developing seedpods that remind us this is a leguminous tree - they look a bit like pea pods.  And keeping the colour theme, they even have golden seeds!

Divarication?

The native plants of New Zealand are a pretty interesting bunch.  Quite a few show divarication, a growth habit where the stems branch frequently and at wide angles.  This makes a kind of spreading zig-zag pattern with the stems multiplying and spreading into a big intertwined tangle - like the Muehlenbeckia astonii which I have already pictured and described.  The plants with this structure typically also have very small leaves which tend to grow within the tangle, so that the twiggy branches have a protective effect.  Divarication is quite a common feature, found not just in shrubs but also in juvenile forms of trees which start off as shrubby divaricating forms that then mature into a recognisable tree form. 

Above - a golden Coprosma virescens side-lit by the morning sun, showing the foaming tangle of twiggy stems and surrounded by smaller divaricating shrubs in shades of reddish brown - in a section of Otari Wilton's Bush.

A rather appealing theory as to why this form developed was that it protected foliage from browsing by the now-extinct moa - a very large flightless bird even bigger than an emu or ostrich.  However, a more prosaic explanation for the development of this pattern of growth in a number of different species is that this structure protected the plant, and leaves especially, from adverse weather conditions - wind, desiccation, and so on. 

Being a Wellingtonian, I tend to imagine that the weather is more dreadful to plants than a big bird would be!  But that is because Wellington is renowned for its wind, and we are beginning to get the spring gales...

Whatever the reasons for divarication to have become a feature, I think there is beauty in the oddness of this form.  A closer view shows in more detail the golden branches and the tiny green leaves in a lacy tangle.

A plant of Coprosma virescens, side-lit, showing the lacy intertwining tangle of divarication.