The Emperor, the Mare, and the Wild Return

Some blog posts come slowly, teased out over days or weeks.

This one landed with a flash of violet and was written in a heartbeat.

Because something magical happened this week. Something rare. Something that still has me walking round the woods with a grin I can’t quite shake.

I saw a Purple Emperor butterfly.

Not just anywhere, but in the grazing meadow, in the very part of the woodland where my horses wander. And not just fluttering past, he landed. Briefly. Boldly. On the tail of Bynke, my Friesian mare.

Of all the horses he could’ve chosen, it had to be her.

Not the shy one. Not the soft one. Bynke is a force. Punk and powerful. Bigger than life. Regal in her own right. A mare who makes her presence known and doesn’t care what you think of it.

And there he was. Resting for a second on her tail as she grazed beneath the silver birch. The Emperor and the Empress. One brief meeting, like something out of folklore.

Then he was gone. A shimmer. A ripple of light. Vanishing into the trees.

I haven’t seen a Purple Emperor since I was a child, when summer meant long afternoons chasing butterflies through tall grass with a net in one hand and a jar in the other. I’d pore over field guides, trying to name the flickers of colour I managed to catch. But the Emperor? He was the dream. Always elusive. Always just out of reach.

So to see one now, here, in my own woodland… It’s hard to put into words.

These butterflies aren’t common. They're most often found in the south of England. Knepp, the well-known rewilding estate in Sussex, is home to the largest colony. The Emperor’s habitat requirements are exacting: goat willow for caterpillars, oaks for perching, a wild tangle of understorey and sun-dappled shade. He doesn’t do neat. He doesn’t do predictable.

His flight season is short, just a few weeks in July. Blink and you’ll miss him. Most people do.

But rewilding changes that.

We didn’t plan for the Purple Emperor here. I didn’t order seed packs or install butterfly shelters. What we did do, is leave room. Room for scrub. For goats' willow. For the awkward corners and brambly bits that don’t look like much but hold everything.

We didn’t reintroduce him.We re-invited him.

And he came.

That’s what rewilding is about. Not about turning back time but turning towards relationship. Towards what the land might become if we listen more and manage less. It’s the work of patience. Of surrender. Of falling in love with what already wants to be here.

And maybe, just maybe, being surprised by who shows up.

That one small landing, on the tail of a horse, was a reminder of everything I believe in.

That wildness still lives here. That healing is possible. That beauty doesn’t need controlling.

It just needs space.

From the forest edge, Sarah x