ferns at night

In our front yard, this evening.  I can't ever, truly, get enough of ferns.  If I'd been around a hundred and fifty years ago, I have a strong suspicion I'd have been a Victorian fern collector, peering at banks in Devon and the Scottish Lowlands, and probably the Himalayas, looking for perfect specimens.  I hope the Himalayas, anyway: I love the thought of myself as an intrepid plant gatherer (or unaware pillager), even if the reality would more likely have been Sunday afternoons in Leeds Zoological and Botanical Gardens - an ultimately failed venture that attempted to accumulate specimens from the British Empire.  There's still a remnant on Cardigan Road, in Headingley, that used to be the Bear Pit - ten minutes walk from where my paternal grandfather grew up.  The Zoo and Gardens were well gone by then, however: they were only - and only just about - functioning from 1840 to 1858: a relatively rare example of a municipal public space that never raised enough funds, and never managed to get going, despite the lonely bear, that would climb a tree to eat the bananas that were offered.