Irish Butterflies.

I'm supposed to be researching hotels and B-and-B's for our summer Ireland trip. Really, I'm supposed to be prepping for Easter, but I've got a nasty cold.

However,  instead of googling Irish get-aways, I typed the words Irish butterflies.

Fritillaries (silver-washed and pearl-bordered instead of our gulf frit), holly blues, and essex skippers.

Red admirals (central and north Florida on this side of the pond), ringlets, graylings, and gatekeepers.

It's truly a beautiful way to get to know the country's natural side - words like wood (versus forest),  burren (a rocky landscape) and bog (that's Irish for a spongy swamp)  dot descriptions of butterfly habitats.

Bogs throughout the  UK risk overharvesting of peat - a coal used for fuel and heating. The Scots like peat for whiskey, too, but alas, even the Scots have given up 30 hectares to conserving the Wester Moss, a bog outside the charming city of Stirling host to the rare large heath butterfly. Actually, I came across a ton of UK websites and articles about bfly conservation and plans for the world's largest butterfly house. I guess their yesteryear fascination with butterflies filtered into later generations.

I do have a little Irish bfly - a gift from a dear friend and fellow bfly gardener. She visited the Waterford Crystal factory during her trip to Ireland, and came back with these gems, one for another dear friend and bfly gardener, and one for me:

She's landed on my Easter table for the weekend. In time, she'll flit back to my kitchen window to perch by the violets.

Happy Passover, Happy Easter, and Irish bfly blessins' to yeh, dear Confessions Readers.