Wye River is morning sunlight, open again to the appeal of April warmth after a cold night. Haphazard untended edges of hill garden respond to air networks. Nasturtiums, only a few flowers, stream in ever direction their round leaves, and from their white undersides white butterflies, two three, move about seeking invisible je-ne-sais-quoi. Unwanted blackberry, scourge of the bush, takes their fancy. They flutter toward wandering jew or investigate the je-ne-sais-quoi of some clandestine weed, but return to the green dish-leaves of nasturtiums, a favourite for some indiscernible reason, when a fourth descends, antennae up, to these unlikely landing pads.