Saturday, 4 July 2020

Can I still just go birding?

Time and again in recent weeks I’ve found myself watching old footage on the TV and becoming wistful for what were far simpler times. It isn’t just a case of these times being pre-Covid, although that certainly has a major impact on such feelings.

You could call them thoughts that are indicative of an ageing individual, looking back at times that are comforting through familiarity. But that would be too simplistic.

Can you remember when birding was about, well.... birding?

It has now become politicised.

There is now (at least within the realm of social media) a suggestion that we measure our activity against our carbon footprint. That we have to have an opinion on whether or not we are inclusive enough towards race, gender and sexual preference. That we know exactly where we stand on driven grouse shooting, owning cats, bird photography, twitching, patch birding, noc-migging, etc, etc, etc.

Of course, some of these subjects are important. But... sometimes the want to turn back the clock to a time when going birding, talking about birding and writing about birding was just ABOUT BIRDING. And nothing else. We did have a social conscience back then, but it was not tangled up with the social issues of the day. Social media does, of course, play its part in the combining of these subjects. Opinions about ANYTHING - sport, food, travel, lifestyle, you name it - have become entwined with the social issues of the day. You are expected to know where you stand. You are called out on it.

Where are the oases from the chatter of politics? Do we have to now accept that everything requires us to question what everything means? That we have our own clear policies and that they are clearly stated?

Or can I still just simply go birding?

Wednesday, 1 July 2020

Meeting the butterfly people

They stood in small groups. Mostly men, and mostly of a 'certain' age. Cameras at the ready, a few carrying binoculars. They had their own areas to patrol, a few hundred metres of a path or a clearing in the woods. Quite a few knew each other and spoke of previous glories or looked up at the sky to discuss the weather. Some were earnest to the point of being lost in their own little world. Others looked around and sought communication with likeminded souls.

They were, quite simply, groupies of the Purple Emperor butterfly.

Last week this was all a bit of an eye-opener for me. It was my first time at Bookham Common and so never before had been exposed to this sort of adulation for an insect. On the first day I saw only the best of them, including a kindly gent who was full of local information and was keen for me to know exactly where to look and at what time I should be doing so. He knew all about the behaviour of HIM (His Imperial Majesty) and when I picked a male up above the canopy and was able to direct him to where it was perching in the open he was full of praise for my brilliant field work! He was of course being kind, it took no skill on my part to pick up such a large and stunning butterfly, but he made me feel a part of the gang. It felt good.

The following morning, back for more, I had the misfortune to meet his polar opposite. My attempt to regale 'this other gentleman' with my tale of having just seen a male Purple Emperor feeding on the ground was met by a dismissive wave of the hand and the curt words "I've seen hundreds." He carried on walking away as I was still talking. My 'polite' response, pointing out that his manner was not conducive to normal social behaviour, did at least get a rather flustered ", I'm in a hurry" from him. Twat.


These people are obsessives. They lurk. They know their quarry. And they made me feel many things. Welcomed. Surprised. Impressed. Confused. Annoyed. Afterwards I just had to go out and buy this book written by the chief 'Purple Botherer' Matthew Oates. And a fine read it is too.

Tuesday, 30 June 2020

One last glance backwards

Following on from yesterday's post, a bit more information has come my way regarding the Dungeness school, that was open between 1876 and 1940. The remnants of the school are situated a few hundred metres NE of the bird observatory, just north-west of the Pilot Path before it drops down into the Trapping Area. The picture above was taken some time in the 1920s.

The parcel of land it stood on was given to the Vicar and churchwardens of Lydd for the express purpose of erecting a church school, and was passed over in 1906 to the Kent Education Committee. The school was also used by the community for worship, with an alter and alter rail placed at the eastern window, with celebrations and whisk drives also being held. A measles outbreak caused a brief closure in April 1896. Those who held the post of head teacher were Miss Richards (1883-1885), Miss Bowrick (1885-1889), Miss Stevens (1889-1890),  Miss Abernethy (1890-1892), Miss Marsh (1892-1908), Miss Fox (1908-1925, who became became Mrs Stevenson on marrying the landlord of The George Hotel in Lydd), Miss Wilman (1925-1936) and Miss Bottle (1936-1940).

There is a most illuminating account of being a pupil at the school, written by the daughter of one of the railway workers who settled at the point and lived in one of the railway carriages. For the life of me I cannot relocate it...

Monday, 29 June 2020

Ghosts - Dungeness Part Three

The beach and its hinterland are scattered with the remnants of past lives, set out before us in the guise of concrete bases, broken glass, shattered ceramics, twisted metal and rusted pipes. These can be found strewn across the shingle in several places. The crunch of shingle beneath your feet becomes the crunch of man-made debris without warning, swapping geological crunch for that of the Anthropocene. It is hard not to come across these reminders of the past without wishing to know more, to be able to delve further, for here are long lost lives, largely forgotten and eroding with every winter storm, each blast of summer sun and slowly crumbling by the actions of the roots of vegetative succession. When you look across at the modern re-imaginings of the developments that hug the single-track road which follows the shoreline, it can be hard to fathom out where all of these ‘ghost’ buildings originate from. Dungeness may never have been the home of a bustling town, but the shingle has seen much in the brief time that human beings have decided to call it home.

Dungeness human footfall began in earnest with the erection of the first lighthouse in 1615, beach expansion leading to a re-siting in 1635, and again, in 1790. A redoubt/fortress was built in 1798 in response to the threat of invasion from Napoleonic forces. That was short lived, being abandoned in 1803. An enterprising family settled on the point to sell water to ships that stopped off in the mid-to-late 19th century. With fishing and coastguard families consequently moving in, a school was opened in 1876, the classroom register being swollen when, in 1883, a railway line was laid to the point and with it came the rail company employee’s families. Many of them moved into old railway carriages which they modelled into functioning homes. More beach action required a new lighthouse to be built in 1904. The site of the old redoubt was used as ground to build a row of houses for the use of the Royal Naval Signal Station around the same time. The end house was reserved for the Commanding Officer and today houses Dungeness Bird Observatory. Several hundred metres west of the coastal track shingle extraction took place in the early years of the 20th century, and much temporary infrastructure and a network of carriage lines were put in place, particularly during the 1930s and 40s.

Remains of the school
But time stands still for no man or building. Lighthouses were pulled down or decommissioned. The school was evacuated at the start of World War Two and never re-opened, finally being demolished at the end of the 1960s. The railway line was closed to passengers in 1937 and stopped functioning altogether in 1953. The bases and debris of these buildings are still clearly visible. If you find yourself alongside them, take a moment to reflect on those who’s lives revolved around these places. Imagine the schoolchildren running in through the door to the sound of the bell, listen on the wind and try and pick up the incantation of alphabet and times tables from the young voices. What were their names, these long-gone beating hearts? What were their hopes? What did they see when they looked out across the shingle? In your mind’s eye, observe the train driver as he steps down from the engine at the Dungeness halt, clutching his sandwiches in greaseproof paper, chatting to the guard about the sheep on the line or the squall that he can see coming from the south-west. All been and all gone. Bit part players in the social history of Dungeness, as we too will become. Footnotes.

The beach is literally littered with reminders of the once larger fishing fleet of Dungeness. Lurking amongst the modern plastic netting and fish boxes are old boats, winches, engines and tanning coppers. As much as this abandon of tidiness could be condemned, it holds an aura. I tend to wait until the day trippers have left, and wander through and around this grotto of grot in the early evening. It is the haunt of the artist, the photographer and the soul-searcher. It says as much about the beach life of 2020 as it does of the long-lost fisherfolk.

The site of The Hope and Anchor pub
There is one place above all others that I let my imagination soar within this human history. You will find it at the end of the Dengemarsh Road, close to where the flooded gully ends. You could easily miss it, but if you want a hint as to where to find it, wait until the late-Spring and look for a large clump of Red-hot Poker growing off the eastern side of the road. Here are the foundations of two buildings. One of them was Myrtle Cottage. The other was a pub - The Hope and Anchor- that was used by the crews of passing boats that had rested up in Rye Bay. Today the power station, with its accompanying pylons, dominate the skyline. But when the pub was active – certainly by 1879 and most probably before – this was a lonely, desolate place. I sit here and imagine the sailors walking up from the beach, laughing and joshing as they look forward to their beer, entering the hostelry and greeting the landlord, keen to hear the news. They would have discussed the Boer War, the death of Queen Victoria and many would have lamented lost family and friends during the Great War. By the time the Second World War came along both buildings had been abandoned to the elements and were left at the mercy of the fierce south-westerly winds. It is a wonderful, if maudlin spot to reflect on time and place, of our own role in life, and of what we leave behind.

And there's more! The day markers for boats that are now slowly falling over are of a more modern vintage but still part of the evolving Dungeness museum. Groynes that were long buried are re-emerging after storm action, like disinterred skeletons. And you will come across many objects that defy precise categorisation - old walls, shattered bases, rusting metal objects that once were built, served their purpose but then fell out of favour and into disrepair. If only they could talk...

Loads more, and in more detail, here:

Sunday, 28 June 2020

Meeting DBO - Dungeness Part Two

In April 1976, I had booked accommodation at Dungeness Bird Observatory, in Kent, along with my birding friends Mark and Neil Greenway. Being one of the places that was dear to HG Alexander's heart, I was more than a little excited about being there, but my first impressions as we drove onto the peninsula were not favourable. It appeared an open waste of shingle, strewn with ramshackle dwellings and set against the backdrop of a vast nuclear power station that had squeezed perspective to such an extent that it appeared two-dimensional, as if it were merely an enormous theatrical backdrop. Peering from the car as it made its way along the single road towards the peninsula’s point, I wondered what on earth I have let myself in for.

I had tenuous links to Dungeness from family trip’s taken to Camber Sands. On a cool July afternoon in 1972, sitting on the edge of a picnic rug, bare feet pushed into the sand and a frown on my face, I looked around in petulant boredom. I didn’t want to be on the beach, this wasn’t my idea of having fun. The land all around was flat, allowing uninterrupted panoramic views which, for nothing better to do, I started to take in. To my left, maybe a couple of miles away, I could not help but notice several lines of electricity pylons on a frozen march eastward. They appeared to be converging at some distant point just out of view. The juxtaposition of the giant metal frames and the unassuming wilderness was disturbing. My vision was drawn eastwards time and time again – just what was this all about?

Later, after the sand-infused sandwiches and the warm lemonade had been consumed, with a little arm-twisting, my Father was persuaded to drive towards this ‘parliament’ of the pylons. We drove in bemused silence along a twisting road that flirted not just with the coastline but also the rows of high voltage cable overhead. The green fields quickly became shingle. The roadside fences increased in height and took on an altogether more menacing character. Disappointingly, on reaching a small town (Lydd), where a Norman church tower tried valiantly to take on the pylons, my Father and various squabbling siblings had seen enough, the car was turned and headed back westward. The discovery of where the power converged had yet to be made. But I was intrigued. Looking at my Father’s road atlas it seemed as if these power lines met at a place called Dungeness. Even the name sounded disturbing, not unlike ‘dangerous’ or ‘dungeon’. And, as if to confirm this uneasiness, it was the site of a nuclear power station. To leave the comparative safety of the dunes at Camber and visit this nuclear theme park would be sheer folly, as I imagined it to be a poisoned shingle desert where all life had mutated.

But being driven there four years later is what was happening to me on this early spring day. The focal point of our passage along to the peninsula’s snout was always the power station, dwarfing the two lighthouses that, as recently as 1960, had been the tallest buildings for miles around. My attention then turned towards the shacks, half in wonder as to who could possibly live in them, the other half searching frantically in their small gardens for any movement that would betray the presence of a rare migrant bird – after all, Dungeness was famous for rare migrant birds. In my naivety I somehow expected that there would always be one about. We passed the new, smartly liveried lighthouse on our left and were soon upon the older, decommissioned version, which looked far more like what a lighthouse should do - squatter, fatter and strong. I imagined heavily bearded men in cable sweaters manning the light during times of peril at sea. The new one smacked of not needing people at all – which in some respects it didn’t. Terribly efficient no doubt but terribly bland all the same.

At the old light the road violently kinked and sent us on our way along the perimeter fence of the Power Station. We virtually cowered from the monstrous buildings, not just one vast station but two, with a plethora of outbuildings, pipes, huts and industrial bric-a-brac spilling like innards from their sides. As we approached the cottages, which housed the bird observatory, we noted that they had seemingly been barricaded from the threat of nuclear fall-out with a high-sided moat. The road breached this earth mound as if it were a lowered drawbridge. On entering the inner sanctum of the mound, there, before us, was the not unattractive end cottage, 11 Royal Naval Service Signal Station, Dungeness, Kent – otherwise known as Dungeness Bird Observatory. I got out of the car with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Bedding and food were carried into the observatory. The building was musty. It obviously hadn’t seen any interior decoration for a while, if ever. The carpet was threadbare. The furniture had seen better days. Third-hand cooking utensils populated the damp kitchen. I loved it!

What of the observatory building itself? You entered through a small, fortified porch, which had the front door placed on the eastern wall. This led to a narrow hallway, with stairs on the left. From a line of pegs along the wall hung a collection of assorted jackets, mostly weatherproofed and in various stages of disrepair. These did not appear to belong to anybody in particular, seemingly abandoned. A cupboard under the stairs housed the electricity meter (which accepted 50 pence pieces) and an ageing selection of household cleaning agents, whose price tags hint at days gone by - pre-decimalised days to be precise. To the right was the ringing room, which reminded me of a cross between a provincial museum and a junk shop. It was an Aladdin’s cave of bric-a-brac, with virtually no visible wall space. This was hidden behind cupboards crammed full of equipment, cases of stuffed birds (Shelduck, Pintail, Long-tailed Duck), cabinets of bird skins, cardboard-boxes overflowing with paperwork, chaotic piles of books, ancient scientific instruments, fading posters and old black-and-white framed prints. An old pram sat on the floor, annoyingly in the way, but was tolerated as it transported a large heavy-duty box in which a binocular telescope was housed. At the far end of the room, in front of the windows, was a wooden shelf. Above this, a line of cord was strung between the walls, on which were placed a series of hooks. Laid out on the shelf were the tools of the ringer’s trade – different sized rings (for different sized birds), pliers (for enclosing the rings around the bird’s legs), rulers (for measuring a bird’s wing length), pesolas (for recording a bird’s weight), callipers (for taking other measurements such as bill and tarsus length) and an obligatory copy of ‘Svennson’s’, the Holy Bible of how to identify, age and sex species in the hand. A wooden chest was hidden underneath the shelf which was stuffed to overflowing with bird bags. These hand-made bags (fashioned from any old material) had a string-pull opening, into which the trapped birds were placed. This was done for the ease of transporting the bird from trap to ringing room, but also because it calmed the bird down. These bags, when with bird, were then hung onto the hooks above the shelf. The catch would then be processed. All information gathered would be written into a log book and the bird then released back into the wild, through a small opening in the window, in the hope that this bird will be subsequently recovered and such information as its movement and longevity would be learnt.

Straight ahead from the hallway was the common room, the heartbeat of the observatory, dominated by a large table around which hard wooden chairs were placed. Comfort was but an afterthought. A radiogram (it really was that old) sat on the window-sill and proved its worth when we gathered to listen to the shipping forecast, hoping that conditions would be favourable for a fall of birds at Dungeness. Cupboard space was in plentiful supply. Across one wall a notice board was festooned with information leaflets and notices, mostly produced in the warden’s spidery handwriting. From here you gained access to the small, but well-equipped kitchen. A back-door lead into a tiny yard where a dilapidated and slumped coal shed spewed its contents - a medley of wire, off-cuts of wood and coal - onto a small area of weeds. There was also an outside toilet, which only the brave, desperate or foolhardy actually used.

Back inside, and moving up the steep, narrow stairs, you reached the first floor (not before negotiating a wickedly tight turn and a sign that read ‘No muddy boots’). To the left was a bathroom with two small basins, an ancient washing machine and a toilet cubicle that had been added as an afterthought. The next door along found the warden’s room and opposite that was a large bedroom which boasted a panoramic view of Dungeness Nuclear Power Station. Continuing up the final flight of stairs took you into the top floor bedroom, which had five beds. In the far corner of the room was a door, which lead to a smaller bedroom affectionately referred to as ‘The Firetrap’ due to the lack of exits provided should flames sweep the building. All the bedrooms were stocked with old, uncomfortable beds, fit for a convention of masochists. The mattresses were thin and obviously once belonged to a home for the incontinent before DBO gratefully inherited them. The pillows were lumpy and dirty. Piles of damp, grubby blankets were free to be used. The Hilton it wasn’t. There was no central heating. Cold could be combated with a couple of electric fires that, once plugged in would make little difference to the room temperature, while eating up all of the 50 pence pieces that had been fed into the meter. The original sash windows, while charming, were draughty, and rattled with the merest hint of wind. For some reason I found all of this acceptable and, what’s more, actually paid for the privilege to stay.

The daily routine of the observatory seeped its way into me and the idea of what a ‘proper’ observatory day entailed was forming in my mind: getting out of bed before dawn; helping erect mist nets in the half-light; alternating between drinking tea, chatting and birding until lunch; sea-watching for a couple of hours; checking the recording area for migrants; going back down to the sea until early evening; having a last look around the moat before dark; and finally sitting in the common room and partaking in the calling of the log. This last act was one that I thoroughly enjoyed, an amalgamation of everybody’s observations in the DBO recording area during the day. It gave meaning to the counts that I was amassing in my notebook. It took on the feeling of a religious act, from the handling of the leather-bound log sheets to the incantation of each species name, read out by the warden in scientific order.

On that first visit we were given a thorough grounding in observatory life and a whistle-stop tour of the varied habitat to be found in the vicinity of the peninsula. Vivid images from these few days were to replay in my mind, and still do to this very day: looking towards the heavily lit power station at night as we went wader ringing at Lade Pits whilst being serenaded by unseen Redshank and Oystercatchers; watching a Long-eared Owl drifting silently past on a perfectly still, golden evening at the Open Pits; walking to the far-flung Airport Pits, leaping ditches and flushing Grey Partridges; a second-year Mediterranean Gull that looked shockingly exotic (for a gull) on the ARC pit. I also was aware of treading in the footsteps of my birdwatching hero, HG Alexander. I was at the place where he found his Cream-coloured Courser in 1916! His Kentish Plovers and Stone Curlews may have gone, but in my vivid imagination he was still here, wandering over the shingle, just out of view.

Saturday, 27 June 2020

Dungeness, a personal account - Part One

If you ever find yourself standing at Dungeness, crouch down and pick up a pebble. Any pebble will do. Weigh it in the palm of your hand. Roll it around between your fingertips and feel its smoothness and its imperfections. What shape is it? Round? Oval? It could be either of these or it could be one of a multitude of other shapes. The chances of you having chosen this particular pebble defy the odds, a contemplation and calculation that would drive you mad and be born of folly. This shingle beach is vast - eight square miles of exposed beach to be precise with an additional four buried beneath sand and soil. And this beach has depth. You are standing on shingle that plummets metres beneath your feet. That’s billions upon billions of individual pebbles. And you have just chosen this particular one. A representative of the area’s violent geology, recent when compared to the old hills further to the north.

Five thousand years ago - in an area of sea just west of Dungeness that is today Rye Bay - we would have found offshore barrier beaches that were constantly shifting with the insistence of the tides. Over several thousand years this shingle was moved and deposited in stages eastwards and started to accumulate on tidal sands. Each mini era of activity formed shingle ridges, mimicking the waves that had given birth to them, and within each peak and swell was laid bare the genesis of the place that would later become the Dungeness that you are now standing on, holding that pebble. As much as this process was a gradual one, at times, during the dark ages, great storms quickened proceedings, not only reconstructing the shoreline with brutal immediacy but also altering the flow of the nearby rivers. The area inland from all of this activity was a volatile place too, what with the rising of the landmass, formation of marshland and periodic inundation of the sea. Man had also played his part in altering the landscape to serve his own needs, draining it to create fertile farmland and the building of sea walls to protect these precious gains from the very element that he had stolen them from.

Written accounts do exist of what happened on a February day in the late 13th century, and even today meteorologists still refer to this event as one of the fiercest storms ever recorded. There were, apparently, portents – a red moon that shone a sickly light over the shingle shoals and marshland; a relentless gale force wind that refused to subside; a flooding high tide that allowed no ebb between its next, equally high incursion and mountainous waves that crested with thick white spume. The marauding sea tore across the beaches and temporarily took back the marshes far inland. Two sleepy coastal hamlets were cast aside and dragged down into a watery grave.

Such was the force of the storm that enormous quantities of shingle were ripped from the peninsula, and, together with mud and soil from the hinterland, all were transported northwards, to be dumped, with little ceremony, at the feet and over the ankles of the inhabitants of New Romney, a few miles to the north. This harbour silted up in a matter of hours and was sealed from the sea; the level of the land rose by five inches in a day; the river which had exited into the English Channel found itself dramatically diverted over 15 miles to the west. Overnight the bustling port found itself a mile from the sea that had, until the day before, lapped against its streets. It is not too fanciful to claim that Dungeness had, in effect, killed off the port. Even after such murderous manoeuvres, Dungeness still remained in place, albeit cruelly scoured by the storm. It was a day that irrevocably changed the geology of the area.

Even today, the beach has not finished forming and will continue to do so. Its western shoreline wants to migrate northwards and eastwards, while the east of the peninsula feels compelled to head towards the southeast. Standing on this land is taking a ride on a slow – a very slow – geological rollercoaster. The beach extends much further inland than most other beaches dare venture. Man has tried to halt its advance as much as the sea tries to throw the loose shingle back on dry land.

Over time wind-born detritus has lodged between the pebbles and given refuge for the seeds of pioneer plants to germinate. Generation after generation have flowered and died, giving more volume to the burgeoning soil, and so more room for plant life to establish. Wet spells, droughts, varying water-table height and drying winds have helped or hindered the botanical community of this beach into what is present today.

What colour is Dungeness? For a place constructed of billions of stones it is surprisingly varied. It depends on the current weather conditions. It depends on the season. It also depends on the time of day. Look at the pebble that you picked up again and now glance down at those by your feet. No two pebbles are the same, are they. What appears to be a mono-coloured landscape is one made up of a multitude of colours. There’s white, brown, buff, honey, copper, purple, blue, grey and every colour in-between. Some are multi-coloured, others of a single hue. At times, viewed on mass, the shingle can appear sandy. When the sun comes out it appears as if it has been smothered in honey. And then a cloudbank comes along and everything takes on the hue of grey sludge, although if you are looking into an oncoming storm, the dark clouds then casts the shingle as a contrasting powder white or a shimmering silver. A sun-kissed dawn or a red-skied evening paints the landscape with wide brush-stokes of gold and pink. Botanical forces also come into play, which, during the spring and summer, transforms a land of stone into one of flower, colouring the landscape with wild abandon – a panoramic rusty red from Sheep’s Sorrel; subtle green-creams of Wood Sage; lemon blots of Cat’s-ear; smoky white banks of Nottingham Catchfly; random golden smears of Bird’s-foot Trefoil; star spangled splatters of yellow, white and blue from Stonecrops and Sheep’s-bit; vibrant purple pronouncements from spikes of Viper’s Bugloss; and the confection of reds, pinks and whites of the ubiquitous Red Valerian. Every year is different depending on the fortunes of the plants themselves. In 2012 there was a mass flowering across the peninsula that created, for those who saw it, a never-to-be-forgotten botanical visual overload. Luckily enough, during that year I spent the whole of July at Dungeness and possess a photographic record of that wonderful time. Even during the winter, the stone has contrast with lichens and mosses, whose subtle colours and intricate structures soften the hardness and break up the mass.

And we cannot introduce Dungeness without paying homage to the Big Sky. We stand on flat ground, with no appreciable rise until reaching the old sea cliffs several miles inland. The nuclear power station may dwarf the lighthouses and the churches at Lydd and New Romney, but even these buildings cannot compete with what is above them, a sky that reaches the horizon without interference, that looms up with almost an absurd feeling of weight. It makes you feel small, insignificant, vulnerable. These feelings are doubled if you walk out across the sands at low tide, opposite the lifeboat station, and look back inland. Now, at distance, the power stations are only just peeking above the shingle ridge. They have lost any visual power that they had. The sky is bigger. Heavier. Mightier. Now slowly turn 360 degrees. An emptiness of sand and sea. You are the tallest object for what seems to be miles. You will never feel so exposed.

Friday, 26 June 2020

Close up

The garden MV is producing a half-decent catch each night, although that anticipated 'macro' highlight is missing so far. Fortunately there are plenty of micros to wade through, and a few of the more visual are shown below. If I've mis-identified any then please let me know! Some of these are so small that it is a struggle to make out their markings and colour - sometimes it isn't until I look at them through a magnifying glass - or macro lens - that I can really appreciate them.

Pammene fasciana
Argyresthia pruniella
Caloptia alchimiella
Coleophora deauratella - possibly...
Notocelia rosaecolana