Category Archives: London Invertebrates

A Bit of a Panic

Dear Readers, when I was wandering through Cherry Tree Wood here in East Finchley a few weeks ago, I was fascinated to see that some of the trees had these ghostly nets in them. The silk is similar to that of spiders, but because it is protective rather than used to catch insects, it’s opaque and surprisingly strong. In the midst of the tent above I could see frass, the black droppings of caterpillars. Some little critters had obviously been having a lovely time eating the new leaves. It didn’t take me long to find the culprits – the caterpillars of the bird-cherry ermine moth (Yponomeuta yvonemella).

Bird cherry with webs of the Bird Cherry Ermine moth (Yponomeuta yvonemella)

These caterpillars will be gone by the end of June, giving the tree plenty of time to recover. After all, compared with some webs,  this was a mild one.

Photo One from http://www.growsonyou.com/photo/slideshow/157704-bird-cherry-tree-ermine-moths-larvae/all

A dramatic bird cherry ermine moth web in Essex (Photo One)

There is definitely safety in numbers – when the caterpillars all emerge at the same time it makes it less likely that an individual larva will be eaten. Furthermore, even the most diligent blue tit won’t want to foul her feathers with too much of that sticky stuff.

The caterpillars will pupate briefly, and then this rather elegant moth emerges. You can see how its resemblance to a winter-coated stoat gave it its name – just think of the white, black-spotted fur that lines the ceremonial robes of mayors and royalty. I always think that every black spot was once the tip of the tail of a small predator, and count how many died to make each outfit, but maybe that’s just me.

Photo Two by By David Short from Windsor, UK - Bird cherry ermine (rp), CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=63856375

Bird cherry ermine moth (Photo Two)

There are several other species of ermine moth in the UK, the commonest being the orchard ermine (which feeds mainly on hawthorn and blackthorn) and the spindle ermine that munches through (predictably) spindle. None of them are any threat to the plant, and their populations will naturally fluctuate according to the weather and to the availability of food and the number of predators.

As I was perusing the ermines and getting a few photographs, I was accosted by some young women who were anxious for their children.

‘Are these those dangerous caterpillars that I heard about on the news?’ they asked.

I was able to reassure them. The ‘dangerous caterpillars’ are the young of the oak processionary moth, a European mainland native that has been imported (just like ash dieback) on young trees for landscaping. These insects have been spotted in several places in West London, and they are considered a problem because they are ‘urticareous’ – that is, their hairs are likely to cause dermatitis and even asthma if inhaled. The clue to their behaviour is in the name: the processionary moth caterpillars follow one another around en masse. Their nests tend to be on the branches and trunks of oak trees, never among the leaves as with the ermine moths. You need to be in close contact with the caterpillars for them to cause any harm. The Forestry Commission are treating the outbreaks that they know about (probably with huge doses of biocides) and if you spot any actual Oak Processionary Moth caterpillars you can report it here.

Photo Three by By Kleuske - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19940595

Oak Processionary moth caterpillars having a trot around a tree trunk (Photo Three)

I do wonder, however, how many perfectly harmless caterpillars have been killed as a result of all the quasi-hysterical news reporting of the oak processionary moth. The story has all the ingredients for a media storm: invaders from overseas: a danger to children: an attack on that very bastion of Englishness, the oak tree. Many people have a fear of insects, and most of us have a fear of insects in very large numbers. I suspect that some people might have seen a caterpillar net in their garden and doused it with insecticide without stopping to identify it. Which would be a real shame, because some extremely rare species superficially resemble the oak processionary moth.

One of the most endangered is the Small Eggar (Eriogaster lanestris). This species lives in hawthorn, blackthorn and birch, and the caterpillars create a nest about the size of a small football. The larvae are attuned to one another and it’s believed that they communicate about where the best feeding opportunities are, before leaving to forage en masse. They have been under extreme pressure due to the loss of habitat in the countryside, and so are more likely to come into contact with humans. What a shame it would be to lose this creature because of mistaken identity.

Photo Four by By User:MarkusHagenlocher - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2151016

Small Eggar caterpillar (Photo Four)

Photo Five by By Hans Gasperl [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Small Eggar silk tent (Photo Five)

Photo Six by [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Adult Small Eggar (Photo Six)

Another possible victim of over-enthusiastic caterpillar killing is the Nationally Scarce lackey moth (Malacosoma neustris), which has some of the most appealing larvae of all lepidoptera, at least to me – I spent a lot of time playing with these creatures as a child, and although they too could set off dermatitis in those who are susceptible, I never had any ill effects. These caterpillars also live in nets and their preferred foodplants include oak. cherry. plum, apple, willow and hornbeam. You can see how these chaps, spotted in an oak tree, could be doomed from the start, although their caterpillars look very different from those of the oak processionary moth, and their behaviour is quite different.

Photo Seven by By H. Krisp - Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19806408

Lackey moth caterpillar (Photo Seven)

The eggs of the lackey moth look as if they’re made of ivory, and are always laid around a twig. I wonder if the mother gets dizzy laying them?

Photo Eight by By José Manuel Benito Álvarez [CC BY-SA 2.5 es (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/es/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Lackey Moth eggs (Photo Eight)

In fact, to our human eyes, the adult moth is the least beautiful stage of the lackey moth’s life, although it is still a very handsome creature.

Photo Nine by By Ben Sale from UK ([1634] The Lackey (Malacosoma neustria)) [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Lackey moth adult (Photo Nine)

So it seems to me that the ability to identify an oak tree, and to tell the difference between a lackey moth caterpillar with its cartoon-like blue face and the ultra-furry oak processionary moth caterpillar are what’s required to prevent the accidental extermination of rare moths who are already under extreme pressure. And also, it helps if, having learned these things, we communicate them to our children. No one wants their little ones to be bitten or stung or hurt in any way, but the best way of keeping them safe is to help them to understand what’s safe and what’s not. Children are naturally curious, and when they’re outdoors they will probably fall off of logs, get stung by wasps and come home covered in bruises and dirty. It’s hard, I know, but we cannot protect those that we love from things that hurt them and nor should we. How can we learn resilience without a little adversity? And besides, exploring the outside world and discovering things for ourselves is so much fun that it will bring us joy for a lifetime.

Photo Credits

Photo One from http://www.growsonyou.com/photo/slideshow/157704-bird-cherry-tree-ermine-moths-larvae/all

Photo Two by By David Short from Windsor, UK – Bird cherry ermine (rp), CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=63856375

Photo Three by By Kleuske – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19940595

Photo Four by By User:MarkusHagenlocher – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2151016

Photo Five by By Hans Gasperl [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Photo Six by [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Photo Seven by By H. Krisp – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19806408

Photo Eight by By José Manuel Benito Álvarez [CC BY-SA 2.5 es (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/es/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Photo Nine by By Ben Sale from UK ([1634] The Lackey (Malacosoma neustria)) [CC BY 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

Pertaining to ashes

IMG_4612

Ashy Mining Bee (Andrena cineraria)

Dear Readers, when I first moved into my house in East Finchley in 2010, I was at a loss to know what to do with the darkest part of the side return, the gap between the kitchen and the house next door. I wondered if anything would ever be happy there. Fortunately, someone suggested hydrangea petiolaris, the climbing hydrangea, and after 8 years it has reached the roof. This year, it  was smothered in its strange, lace-cap flowers, and every time I stepped outside on my way to top up the bird feeders, it made me smile.

I didn’t, however, think that it was a very good plant for wildlife. My highest hopes were that it might provide a thick and leafy haven for birds’ nests at some point. But then, I noticed that, although there were only a tiny number of white flowers with petals on each flowerhead (known as a corymb), there were masses of tiny flowerets, which seemed to be composed entirely of stamen. I learned that the white flowers are sterile, but the unassuming smaller ‘blooms’ are not, and are in fact a rich source of pollen.

And so I started to notice that various pollinators were visiting the hydrangea. Bumblebees and honeybees collected the pollen, and small hoverflies seemed to be patrolling territories above the flowers. However, my happiest realisation was that I had a new visitor, or at least one who was new to me. The black and grey bee in the first photo is an ashy mining bee (Andrena cineraria), and she is busily collecting pollen.

How do I know that this is a female? The shiny black abdomen and grey and black-striped thorax are very distinctive. The males are smaller, and have white tufts of hair sticking out of the side of their thoraxes, rather like muttonchop whiskers (though in the wrong place). These are small bees, about two-thirds of the size of a honeybee. Their Latin name ‘cineraria’ means ‘pertaining to ashes’, a reference to their colour – incidentally the plant cineraria was probably named because of its grey furry stems.

IMG_4609 (2)

Although ashy mining bees are solitary in the sense that they don’t form colonies like honeybees or bumblebees, they do like to nest together. They build long nesting tunnels, usually on sunny south-facing slopes, and sometimes a favoured site can be peppered with hundreds of individual nests, the bees coming and going with a frequency that  reminds me of Heathrow airport. The bees seem to prefer bare soil, but will sometimes nest in lawns, leaving little ‘volcanoes’ of soil. They block the tunnels when they’ve finished foraging, or if it looks like rain. If disturbed they will rush to blockade their nest entrances – these are not aggressive creatures, and I have never heard of anyone being stung by one.

As is often the way, I noticed the bees last weekend, and by mid-week the hydrangea had gone over, and the bees had disappeared. Much like the hairy-footed flower bees that are around on warm days in April, ashy mining bees have a short, single flight period, and will all be gone by the end of June. The females spend their time busily gathering nectar and pollen to feed the larvae who have hatched in the brood chambers at the end of those tunnels. Once they have fed enough, the larvae will pupate for the rest of the year, ready to emerge in spring – the males pop out before the females so that they’re ready for them when they come out (much as the male frogs emerge in my pond a few days before the females turn up). The male bees hover around the nest site in a behaviour known as ‘lekking’, a term that I associate more with black grouse than insects.

IMG_4611 (2)

Ashy mining bees are not at all particular about what plants they use for pollen, and are very important for the pollination of oil-seed rape in some areas of the country (an indication that honeybees are not the only important pollinators). They go about their work largely unnoticed, appearing for a few weeks every year and then disappearing. I shall certainly watch for them next year, and will keep my eyes open for whatever species comes next. There is a dance in the gentle succession of species that emerge, or bloom, or die-back every month, and getting to know these patterns has been one of the most wonderful things about writing this blog. It gives me a sense of belonging and groundedness that is most reassuring when so many other things are in flux.

In her wonderful book ‘The Enchanted Life’, Sharon Blackie refers to the importance of having a ‘Sit Spot’ – somewhere that you sit every day, whatever the weather, and just observe. I know that plonking down on my kitchen step and paying attention to the hydrangea and to the plants has given me a real sense of the turn of the seasons and of how plants and animals and humans interrelate. It has given me peace when serenity was in short supply. It reminds me that life goes on, literally right outside my back door. And it is cool, and green, in the way that a forest is cool and green. It has become a sanctuary, thanks to this plant that doesn’t mind the shade, and flowers with such generosity. It reminds me how lucky I am.

I recommend ‘The Enchanted Life’ for anyone who would like to foster a deeper connection with the area in which they live, and who yearns for a sense of belonging. You can find out more about it (and purchase it directly from the author) here

 

 

 

Wednesday Weed – Flowering Currant

Flowering currant (Ribes sanguineum)

Dear Readers, when I was planting up my garden some eight years ago, I was wandering around the garden centre with my wonky trolley, trying to stop my phlox from capsizing, when I spotted a bush standing all alone in the corner. It seemed so lonely and unappreciated that I ground to a halt and wandered over for a closer look. The plant looked decidedly disheveled, but the leaves were just starting to emerge, and the buds were the most delicate pink-tinged things. I looked around. I looked back. I considered. And then,shoving a couple of ox-eye daisies to one side, I grabbed the plant.

‘You’re coming home with me!’ I told it. I still had no idea what it was but, just as when I was fostering cats and could sometimes see what a beautiful animal lay under the scratty fur and watery eyes, so this plant seemed to me to just be in need of some gentleness and consideration.

Eight years later it is the plant that delights both me and the hairy-footed flower bees most in the early days of April, as its cerise buds unfurl into a mass of flowers. You can’t beat a flowering currant for a spectacular show, and as this one is right next to the pond I get the double benefit of its reflection in the water.

Photo One by By Charlesjsharp [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

A hairy-footed flower bee (Anthora plumipes) feeding on spring snowflake (Photo One)

Flowering currant is actually a North American plant, growing on the west coast from California up to British Columbia. It was brought back to the UK by the Scottish explorer David Douglas in 1826, A friend remembers that the plant had a wonderful sweet scent, but mine has unperfumed flowers, and leaves that smell rather like the pee of a tom cat if crushed.

Flowering currant is a member of the Grossulariaceae family, along with the other currant species such as redcurrant, whitecurrant and blackcurrant, although the family is actually named for another member, the gooseberry. The berries of the flowering currant are not particularly juicy or flavoursome , but all the currants have a lot of gamma-linoleic acid in their roots, leaves and seeds which is proven to be efficacious for pre-menstrual syndrome. Native peoples of the Pacific Northwest also ate the berry, in particular saving it for winter food – like all of the family, flowering currant is rich in vitamin C. One method for doing this was to turn the pulp of the berries into something called fruit leather, thus avoiding the numerous annoying seeds. If you want to see how this is done, have a look at the Wild Harvests website here.

The caterpillars of many moths and butterflies will feed on flowering currant, but the confusingly-named spinach moth only eats the leaves of members of this family.

Photo Two CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=880141

The spinach moth(Eulithis mellinata) (Photo Two)

Plus many other moth caterpillars will also make an occasional meal of a currant, and I make no apology for this gratuitous picture of an ermine moth, one of my favourites.

Photo One by CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=861293

Ermine Moth (Spilosoma lutea) (Photo Three )

It is said that birds will also eat the berries, although the ones in my garden are extremely picky and seem to prefer the (very expensive) suet pellets.In their native Pacific Northwest the flowers are a prime early nectar source for hummingbirds – the colour and shape of the flowers is a dead give away.

Photo Two by Andrew A Redding at https://www.flickr.com/photos/seaotter/32933756594

Male Anna’s humminbird on flowering currant (Photo Four)

I had never made the link between the name ‘Ribena’ (the blackcurrant cordial) and the Ribes family, which proves that I am not always paying attention. Incidentally Suntory, the company that makes Ribena, has gotten itself into a whole heap of trouble after changing its formulation to try to avoid the UK sugar tax. The drink  now contains a heap of artificial sweeteners, which are also problematic as we know. There is a theory that, in addition to the various correlations between artificial sweeteners and diseases such as cancer, having too much of the stuff in your diet can screw up your glucose metabolism. So, maybe a reason to start making my own cordial  (though the only time that I have ever drunk Ribena was when I was six years old and ill in bed with a bilious attack).

Photo Two by By Patrice78500 - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22431600

Flowering currant berries (Photo Five)

In spite of its prettiness, bringing a bough of this shrub into the house seems to be considered unlucky all over the UK. Maybe it’s the smell of cats’ pee that does it.

And bringing it all together, as always, is Seamus Heaney. In his collection ‘Field Work‘ he writes of many things, one of them being his love for his wife. Have a look at this, both the close observation of the plant, and the skin, and the last two lines which, like the last line of a haiku, seem to leave a kind of silence.

IV

Catspiss smell
the pink bloom open
I press a leaf
of the flowering currant
on the back of your hand
for the tight slow burn
of its sticky juice
to prime your skin
and your veins to be crossed
criss-cross with leaf-veins

I lick my thumb
and dip it in mould
I anoint the anointed
leaf-shape. Mould
bloom and pigments
the back of your hand
like a birthmark
my umber one
you are stained, stained to perfection.

Photo Credits

Photo One by By Charlesjsharp [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, from Wikimedia Commons

Photo Two CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=880141

Photo Three Photo One by CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=861293

Photo Four by Andrew A Redding at https://www.flickr.com/photos/seaotter/32933756594

Photo Five by By Patrice78500 – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22431600

 

 

Bugwoman’s Fourth Annual Report – Part Two

August 2017

Dear Readers, one of my most popular posts from last year was created during a deluge. ‘Twenty-six Ways of Looking at a Rainy Day’ was so much fun to write. The main challenge was keeping the camera from getting water-logged during the downpour…

It hasn’t been a particularly ‘foxy’ year, unlike 2016 when I was spending a lot of time with the foxes in the cemetery, but I did spot this little darling, sleeping under the whitebeam in the garden.

And I also spotted some common carder bees buzz-pollinating in the garden, a first!

September 2017

The month started a visit to the new gardens around Kings Cross station, for an assessment of how helpful they were to wildlife. The answer was that it’s early days, but the signs are very hopeful. Sparrows, vanishingly rare in central London, have already moved in, and there was an active wasps’ nest. I shall have to visit again soon to see how things are shaping up.

The month continued with my friend A bringing me a Knotgrass caterpillar for me to identify. What a fine creature! It has now pupated, and is back in A’s garden, with a barricade of twigs for protection. One day, no doubt, it will emerge and fly away, probably when no one is looking.

A theme throughout last year was my Mum and Dad’s 60th Wedding Anniversary party. At times it was all very stressful, and it was good to go for a walk around their village, Milborne St Andrew, and to reconnect. There’s always something wonderful to spot, and slowing down to actually see things is a very fine way of gaining perspective.

The party was held on 21st September. Mum said it was the best evening she’d ever had, so every bit of hassle about table-settings and whether or not to have a photographer was worth it.

Mum, Dad, my brother John and I at the cake cutting….

October

A few days after the party, we had the heart-breaking news that one of the people who had attended, someone who had battled for years with depression, had killed themselves. It was so hard, especially after the event had been such a good one. I wrote this piece in the days afterwards, and believe every word.

I also took a visit to Dundee. I worked as a carer in a night-shelter for homeless people in the city when I was in my twenties, and wondered how things were going. The shelter is about to be converted into luxury flats, the pub where we used to drink is now a college, and there’s a new branch of the Victoria and Albert Museum going up on the quayside, but there are still people asking for change on the streets. Everything changes, everything stays the same.

The sign above the door of the old Dundee Cyrenians night shelter

The garden was visited by an amazing visitor in October: a female emperor dragonfly, trying to find a spot to lay her eggs.

And some birds in the garden had a narrow escape when we had another visit from the sparrowhawk…

November 2017

November saw me back in Milborne St Andrew, following Mum and Dad’s spectacular double fall down the front doorstep. Fortunately neither of them were seriously damaged (though after spending two and a half hours waiting for an ambulance while laying on the front lawn Mum was a little less sanguine than usual). But once in hospital, they were delighted to be placed in adjacent beds, and even more delighted to be sent home after a couple of hours. Suffice it to say that my visit the next day was well-timed. But I did manage to get out for a walk, and finally got photos of a buzzard, and my first ever meadow pipit.

We even managed to make the Christmas cake. By the time we ate it, Dad had fed it with so much brandy that I’m glad I wasn’t driving.

Once home, I went for a walk in East Finchley Cemetery, where I found a strawberry tree, some greenfinches, a handsome jay, and this lovely gravestone. How I would love to find out a bit more about Muriel….

I also had a few thoughts about the use of fruit trees as street trees: there is a crab apple on our street which causes all kinds of mess, but which does attract such exotic creatures as this one.

What are you looking at?

I finished off the month with some thoughts about the passing of time, which seems to be have been a theme last year. With so many people that I love in their eighties and nineties, and with my own seventh decade approaching, I suppose that it’s inevitable that mortality should be on my mind, along with other existential thoughts, such as ‘what’s it all about’? ‘How do we live a good life, and what is a good life anyway?’ All this was prompted by watching a band of sunlight move across the garden in the space of a few minutes. I had a similar sensation last week as I watched the moon rise with Mum, and we both realised that you can actually see it moving,  and wondered why we’d never noticed before.

December 2017

December saw Mum and Dad struck down with a chest infection, and so I headed West again. It was a stressful time: the carer who normally looks after Mum and Dad was struck down by her own health emergency, and so I had to negotiate to try to get Mum and Dad to accept a carer who came from an agency, rather than someone that they already knew. I found it unbearable to think of them struggling on, sick, without someone to help them, and so I took myself off to the frozen fields for a walk and a think. Oh, the light on those December days. It felt like a blessing.

Then we had a spot of snow, the first that’s fallen and stayed for about five years.

Pied wagtail

And then it was Christmas, on the County Roads...

and in Dorset. We hadn’t expected to be in Dorset (Mum and Dad usually visit us in London) but they were both still too sick from their chest infections to travel. This didn’t reduce their appetite fortunately, and ridiculous quantities of the aforementioned Christmas cake were eaten, along with chocolates, roast potatoes, stuffing, brussel sprouts. Just as well we were able to get out for a walk.

It’s a pig!

January 2018

So, now we’re nearly back to the present day. January saw me exploring Hampstead Village, and falling in love with an angel.

It saw the very welcome arrival of a song thrush in the garden (still here as I write in February), and the continued presence of a single pied wagtail, who has been here since November. We are all hoping that he or she soon has some company.

And I took a bus ride down to Tate Modern, and a tube ride back.

So, readers, that’s the end of the review of the past year. Thank you for all your input  – I read every single comment, and love the community that we’ve built together. Don’t forget that if you’re on Facebook, you can find me here. I look forward to ‘meeting’ with you all in the year to come. And during the next few weeks, you will find that Bugwoman has been on a very exotic adventure, and has been living up to her name, for once. Stay tuned…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bugwoman’s Fourth Annual Report – Part One

Dear Readers, it’s that time of year when I review what’s been going on during my fourth year of producing the Bugwoman blog. What’s been happening in the past twelve months? This week, we’ll be looking at February 2017 through to July 2017 – the rest of the year will make an appearance next week. Stay tuned!

February 2017

 

We started the Bugwoman year in a celebratory mood. After a year of no blackbirds (following the death of a male at the hands of the local sparrowhawk) a new couple moved in, and it was such a pleasure to hear the song of the male from the rooftop in the evening. I’m pleased to report that I still have a pair of blackbirds in 2018, and I’m hoping that they’re the same ones.

 

March 2017

In March London suffered the first of several terrorist attacks last year, when a car was rammed into pedestrians as they crossed Westminster bridge. I was on the South Bank when it happened, and wrote a piece about it here.  I find that nature has a way of restoring balance to our troubled minds in times of trouble, and it was especially consoling during my walk, the arrival of spring coinciding with the terrible injuries and loss of life.

And I also made a visit to Crossbones Graveyard, close to London Bridge. This is a site for the outcast dead, and they are remembered in a ceremony every month at the main gates. It is a very special place, and it felt entirely appropriate to be making my first visit there in the week after the terrorist attack. I hope to visit it again soon.

 

The gates at Crossbones Graveyard

‘A poor man taken out of the street, December 2 1725 – one of the ribbons from Crossbones Graveyard

A bee feeding on willow in the graveyard

And the frogs were back, singing away in the pond.

 

April

April kicked off with a garden visit from a female sparrowhawk, who plucked and ate a collared dove that she’d knocked out of the whitebeam tree. A spectacular but discomfiting event.

And then some Bohemian Waxwings visited a tree at the end of my road, something I hadn’t seen for years.

April also found me on my annual visit to Canada – my husband John is Canadian, and I love observing the wildlife on the other side of the Atlantic. The similarities and differences always intrigue me. For example, we have no grackles in the UK.

Grackle

 

 

 

And our goldfinches are not North American goldfinches…

And we don’t have any cardinals..

But we do have house sparrows.

And these guys of course….

 

 

 

 

May 2017

At the beginning of May I was still in Canada, and paid a visit to the Royal Botanical Gardens in Burlington (just outside Toronto). I met up with my lovely friend M, who lives in the States but had motored across the border. She is also a writer and a nature-lover. We had a wonderful day!

Trillium (Trillium grandiflorum)

Red-winged blackbird

Back in London, I took a walk to look at the street trees of Archway, just down the hill from where I live. It was based on one of my favourite books from last year, ‘London Street Trees: A Guide to the Urban Forest‘ by Paul Wood, and it was so much fun that I plan to do another walk later this year. You can read about the walk here and here.

Chinese Lacebark Elm

A Dawn Redwood (Metasequioa glyptostroboides) just off Holloway Road in North London.

A Bragania visited by a carder bumblebee in Dresden Road, a few hundred metres from the hubbub of the Archway junction.

June

June saw my monthly visit to my elderly parents turning into something of a drama, after Dad got a chest infection and had a fall. Still, spending time in Milborne St Andrew in Dorset is always a pleasure, and even if I didn’t have much time to admire the scenery, I did get a few brief minutes to look at the garden and take a deep breath.

White-tailed bumblebee on the ceanothus in Mum and Dad’s garden

June also saw the great willowherb in my garden infested with the caterpillars of a tiny moth. Surprisingly, they still flowered rather splendidly. ‘Weeds’ are resilient plants, for sure.

July

In July I made my annual visit to Obergurgl in Austria, for walking in the mountains and admiring the flowers and the insects. Oh, and for cake.

Large Copper butterfly on yarrow

Hoverfly on rampion

Early flowering orchid

Cake!

Closer to home, I paid a visit to East Finchley Station, and to the N2 Community Garden beside it. There are many new goings on in the entrance to the station…

 

…on the platforms

 

….and in the garden itself. It was lovely to go travelling, but it’s always nice to be home.

Fennel (Foeniculum vulgare)

I also spent some time posting about my amazing artist friend, Robin Huffman, and her portraits of the monkeys and apes that she cares for when she volunteers at wildlife sanctuaries in Africa. I think her work is absolutely stunning, and to see more of it you can visit her website here. She is currently in Cameroon at the  Ape Action Africa sanctuary in Mefou, looking after several baby monkeys. I imagine that she’s covered in poo, bitten half to death and dreaming of Japanese food, but I bet she’s also deliriously happy.

Sunshine, Olive Baboon (Robin Huffman) (after a photo by Perrine DeVos)

Diva, moustached guenon

Ayla, vervet monkey

So, Dear Readers, that’s the end of part one of my annual review. Stay tuned for next week!

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas on the County Roads

Dear Readers, it’s fair to say that Christmas has broken out all over the County Roads here in East Finchley, so, on a particularly damp and misty morning I went out for a walk to see what was going on. I am going to be away from home for Christmas for the first time since I moved here in 2010, and it feels a little strange: I haven’t put up the Christmas tree, the pink velvet reindeers are still in the box in the eaves, and several Father Christmases will be feeling very irritable if I don’t fish them out soon. But, somehow, I feel a need to let go of expectation and to simplify this year, and to that end I thought I’d enjoy what everyone else was doing rather than feel as if I had to do it myself.

The door wreathes, for example, are particularly splendid this year, and very varied. As with the Christmas trees, there are those who favour natural materials, and those who have an artificial one that lasts for many seasons.

  And then there are the decorations. I am very taken with the little glass creatures in the photo directly below.

But as I walked around, I quickly became aware that although much of nature is quiescent at this time of year, there is still a surprising amount going on. After all the snow I was surprised to see fresh spiders’ webs, bejewelled with mist.

And what is more festive than a shrub full of fruit?

The cotoneaster below was a mass of berries

The black fruits of ivy promise some respite for the thrushes if the weather turns cold again.

And I shall need a hand with this one, gardening friends. The fruit reminds me very much of spindle   but the leaves are different. Maybe it’s from the same family.

A relative of the spindle?

There is a strange beauty to the decay of plants. For example, I think I prefer the browning heads of the hydrangeas to the blooms in their fresher, more pristine state.

And in the insect-damaged leaves of mahonia and holly there is a flame of colour that the perfect ones lack. It reminds me that the beauty of a face that has been through trouble is often more profound than the picture-perfect features of someone who has not yet been tested by life.

And who should pop up when I was walking down Bedford Road but Bailey, the King of the Cats? He didn’t want to stop for a chat, but headed off down the road at a brisk trot, yowling all the way. He is a most determined puss cat.

To my surprise, some things are in flower, like the pink camellia and the clematis below. Although there are less blooms about at this time of year, the ones that there are seem all the more precious.

But what lifted my heart most today was not one of the more obvious things, but a tiny seedling. A few months ago, I captured a green oasis at the bottom of a wall along from Kentucky Fried Chicken. There were approximately ten species growing there, all ‘weeds’ to be sure, but tiny spiders were making their homes between the leaves, and there was even a caterpillar.

Then came the paving improvements, and, whilst the new paving slabs are delightfully even, there is not a blade of grass to be seen.

Until today.

I love that the natural world never gives up. Where there is a teaspoonful of soil, and a spot of rain, some plant will put down roots and throw up flowers. it gives me such hope to see that whatever we do, nature can circumvent us.

So, by the time this is published I’ll be heading off to Dorset for Christmas with Mum and Dad. It will be a different kind of celebration, but none the worst for that, and I’m actually rather looking forward to it. At least the parents will be snug and warm in their own home, and won’t have to worry about braving the Christmas traffic, or coping with the air quality in London. I wish all of you a peaceful and happy holiday, and hope that 2018 brings you everything that you long for most.

 

 

 

 

The Empress

Emperor Dragonfly (Anax imperator)

Dear Readers, sometimes I get mildly irritated with my pond. It’s true that, because I replaced my lawn,  I don’t have to do any mowing. However, I do have to spend time cutting back the reeds and pulling endless leaves and debris out of the water especially at this time of year when a whole whitebeam’s worth seemed to descend in twenty minutes. But then, something happens that reminds me what it’s there for. It might be a whole bunch of singing frogs in the spring time. It might be a wagtail popping down for a drink. Or, as on Sunday, it might be an emperor dragonfly (Anax imperator) looking for somewhere to lay her eggs. I know that she is female not only by her behaviour, but by her colour – female emperors are green and brown, males are electric blue.

What an extraordinary animal she is, as long as my finger and with wings like smoked glass. Her lower left wing has a triangular section missing, possibly following a close encounter with a bird, or even an amorous male. Her eyes cover most of her head like a bifurcated helmet, and each eye has 30,000 individual lenses. They can see all the colours that we can see, plus ultraviolet and polarised light from the surface of water. She is, I know, a ferocious hunter, catching her prey on the wing by outmanoeuvering it. I once watched an emperor dragonfly hawking for speckled wood butterflies in Coldfall Wood, and wondered at his speed and the way that he popped up from underneath the butterfly, snatching it in his jaws and bearing it away with sublime efficiency.

Dragonflies seem to have a streak of curiosity, and to be keen to investigate unknown phenomena. I met a male emperor dragonfly in a Scottish woodland once, and he hovered a few feet from my face at head height. As I turned, he turned with me. I had the most curious sense of being weighed up: friend, foe, or just unimportant feature of the landscape? After a few moments he rattled away like a toy plane, leaving me covered in goosebumps and full of wonder.

But I was worried about this female. She was frantic in her search for somewhere to deposit her eggs, probing the ground with her lime green and chocolate striped abdomen. Most of the time, she seemed to be keen to lay between the wooden slats on the boardwalk beside the pond. This felt like a most unsatisfactory site to me, but how to convince her to lay them somewhere else? She seemed very single-minded.

I went to the kitchen and got a medium sized glass mixing bowl, and a side plate. For all her keen eyesight she was not the least bothered when I covered her up, and only slightly perturbed when I slid the plate under her, gently, to avoid damaging that sensitive abdomen. When she realised she was trapped she tried to fly up, her wings rattling alarmingly against the glass. I carried her a few steps and she turned to face me under the dome. I held the bowl out over the water and lifted it a few inches. She darted out straight at me, and paused a hands-width from my nose. Then she landed on my skirt, explored it as an egg-laying substrate, abandoned it and flew out over the pond, only to return to the boardwalk again. Emperors (or should  it be empresses) usually lay their eggs on pond weed, so I think the moss was confusing her, though I have plenty of pond weed left.

If any of her eggs do survive, the nymphs will become the terror of the pond, laying in wait to grasp creatures up to the size of small tadpoles in their forearms. The jaws of the creature in ‘Alien’ were modelled on the complex extending jaws of the dragonfly. These are creatures that are predatory in every part of their lives and they exude the confidence of an animal that is rarely preyed upon, at least in this country. A dragonfly  sat happily sunning himself on my bare arm for ten minutes one sunny day a few years ago, enabling me to look at his curious little face to my heart’s content.

Flight has evolved separately at least three times in the insects, and dragonflies were among the first to develop the skill (possibly only preceded by the weak flight of mayflies). Some of the ancestral dragonflies had wingspans of 30 inches. The wings are powered directly by the muscles – in the photo above you can see the bulges where the wings are attached to the body, and the depth of the thorax indicates how large these muscles are. The dragonfly needs to warm these muscles up before it can fly, which explains why you will often see dragonflies perched in south-facing bushes early in the morning. Once ready for action the dragonfly can fly at approximately 30 miles per hour, and has been estimated to accelerate at 4 g in normal flight, and up to 9 g when pursuing prey. Bear in mind that the Space Shuttle only reaches 3 g during launch and re-entry. These animals can also fly in six different directions (including backwards) and have four flight modes for different situations, from static hovering to pursuit of prey. They are, in short, the masters and mistresses of insect flight.

So often, I wish that I could talk to animals. I would have loved to persuade this beauty that she was wasting her precious eggs, but nothing I could do would dissuade her, and so eventually it started to rain, and I left her to it. And also, do I really know better? It’s a kind of hubris to think that I really understand what’s good for this creature and her offspring. I am reminded that interfering has unexpected consequences, and that often it’s better to leave off our meddling, however well intended. So, I shall have to wait and see if any dragonfly larvae turn up next year. In the meantime, travel well, empress. I am delighted to have met you.