I was taking a turn around the walled gardens this morning, the deciduous forest with its fresh spring leaves the perfect backdrop to the scene. It was early June and warm, despite the early hour.

As I passed a patch of peonies, in shades of palest pink with bright yellow stamens, dusky rose and blush red, I heard a loud and particularly angry buzzing. I turned towards it, observing a bumblebee, legs coated with a thick layer of pollen, staggering and stumbling across the surface of a pale pink petal as if overcome by the sweet nectar. It tumbled over the edge and plunked unceremoniously to the ground.

I stifled a laugh and was about to walk away when I was delayed by a gentle touch to my shoulder. I turned to find myself gazing, once more, into the mesmerising eyes of the Dryad who had become my friend in the past three weeks. I’m sure she’d bewitched me at our first meeting. Her name, as far as I can understand it – she doesn’t speak English – is ‘Oakryn’.

“Karl,” she said, rolling the ‘r’ in my name. She spoke with a soft burr, much like that of the Scots. “You,” she continued, pointing to her eyes and then to the bee who was now upside-down, buzzing feebly as it tried to right itself, “Stay.”

As I watched, a tiny humanoid type being with wings, very similar to those of the bee, and bright yellow hair, the precise shade as that of the peony’s stamen, stepped to the edge of the petal, gesticulating to the bee in much the same way as Oakryn does with me.

 “Oh, a pixie,” I breathed, my words barely above a whisper. The minuscule being poked his finger into the nectar and lapped it off with his tongue, smacking his lips in satisfaction. He pointed to the flower, then to himself, before pointing to the bee and waving it away, his meaning clear.

I dropped a kiss onto Oakryn’s nose, pulled out my notebook and wrote, ‘Pixies love nectar. They do not like to share!’