In which I go orchid hunting

Orchid hunting sounds tame. But it’s not. William John Swainson brought tropical orchids to Europe from Brazil in 1818. Soon, the weird architecture of these colourful, fleshy plants inspired a craze: orchid fever. With fortunes to be made, in the century that followed intrepid orchid hunters set forth to seek rare and exotic specimens in the far corners of the Earth.

The world was a lot bigger back then. Not literally but figuratively. The orchid hunters travelled for weeks by sea to reach their destinations, then continued by horse or on foot into wild, roadless terrains. These were difficult, dangerous expeditions. In 1868, botanist David Bowman was attacked and robbed of his collection in La Paz, Colombia. He died of dysentery in Bogota soon after. William Arnold drowned in the Orinoco River. Augustus Margary was murdered in China, Osmers was killed somewhere in Asia, Bestwood vanished in Madagascar… and the list goes on. Perhaps the most unfortunate expedition was to the Philippines in 1901. One member was doused with oil and burned alive. Another was killed by a tiger. Five others vanished in the deep forest. The lone survivor returned with around 7000 orchid specimens.

Luckily for me, the wilds of Lincolnshire are considerably less perilous. And so it was that Dog the Smaller and I set out in the noonday sun to hunt for orchids.

Around 50 orchid species are native to Britain. Different species like different habitats so you may find orchids in woodland, meadows, on heathland, in marshes. On paper, the area I went orchid hunting looked promising for several species: chalky soil, plenty of open swathes of long grasses and wildflowers.

We wandered along paths that are now no more than creases in the early summer growth. We pushed valiantly through a seemingly endless exuberance of brambles. I was wearing knee-length shorts, which was a bad move – my legs are still buzzing with nettle stings.

Bees droned.

Butterflies flopped.

Path after overgrown path.

There was dog rose:

There was lesser stitchwort:

There were delicate ropes of vetch twisting around grasses:

And not a single bloody orchid did I see.

Until at last we walked along the stony track leading back to the lane. Then there was this solitary but unmistakable spike of speckled pink:

The common spotted orchid.

Not so common around here.