Here is one of my rare nature moments, from a few years ago, at university.
I was experimenting with texture in screenprinting. I wanted to build dense prints from layers of simple strokes and flecks.
This piece was intended to be a subtle evocation of damp, velvety mosses on a wall. The staff were not at all sure what I was trying to achieve with this variety of blobs and smudges. I put it down as another instance of me having some atavistic feeling in my head that doesn't translate into reality.
Moss, lichen, heather and grasses have two associations for me. The first is homely and human: a part of nature that sits, semi-cultivated, in a human environment, the subject of diligent but leisurely botanical study; knowledgeable but twee. I see shafts of dusty sunlight in the country gardener's shed in an Edwardian children's book.
The second is primal and timeless: windy, prehistoric or post-apocalyptic heath and fenland, silent but for a few marsh birds or the sound of a Jute being scalped in a bog; ancient buildings fallen to ruin and repopulated by unassuming but patient plantlife.
Most of the time I need to make pictures relatively quickly. In my case, that leads to a lot of little people, buildings and boats. But I could enjoy spending weeks in a print room, making backgrounds, surrounded by pots of honesty and heads of pampas grass, studying the leaf-structure of heathers and hebes... and drawing them with a more refined series of blobs and streaks.