Western Gull (Larus occidentalis)

Dear Readers, this has been a good week for news about animals, and I shall be sharing a few stories over the next few days. However, to kick off with, here’s a story that reaffirms what I always thought about gulls – they are a lot smarter than we think.

Back in 2018, researcher Scott Shaffer was working with Western Gulls on a rocky outcrop close to San Francisco. Western Gulls are very similar to our Herring Gulls, with, it appears, a similar eye for opportunity. The gulls were being fitted with GPS trackers, so that the scientist could monitor their feeding behaviour. Imagine his surprise when the data recorded that one particular female Western Gull had travelled at 60 miles per hour along a highway to a rubbish facility 80 miles away. Western Gulls can normally fly at about 20 miles per hour.

Detail from https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/a-california-gull-hitched-a-ride-on-a-garbage-truck-and-took-an-80-mile-journey-to-a-compost-facility-then-it-happened-again-180986979/

Furthermore, a few days later the same gull made the same trip again.

Shaffer’s theory about what happened is  as follows. The gull was probably feeding on the food scraps contained in an 18 wheeler garbage truck, when she was inadvertently trapped beneath the netting that the workers throw over the back of the vehicle to stop the rubbish falling out. Off she went to gull heaven – a composting and recycling facility. She flew back home, and then, two days later, she voluntarily perched on another garbage truck and rode it all the way back to the composting facility.

Of course, there are still a lot of questions, because sadly we can’t ask the gull what she thought she was doing. However, my guess is that, having found the ‘pot of gold at the end of the rainbow’ when she originally rode a garbage truck by mistake, she was able to recognise the same kind of vehicle, and decided to see if this too would take her to a rich food source. Which it did.

I wonder if she’ll teach this behaviour to other gulls, and in particular to her children? It will be interesting to see if San Francisco garbage trucks become a kind of gull  bus service. I, for one, can’t wait to see what comes next. And how I’d love to have been in the lab when the data came in, showing that there were superspeed gulls out there. I imagine there was a lot of head scratching.

You can read the full story here.

Darwin’s Plant Carrier (Vasculum) from the Beagle

Dear Readers, on Thursday I popped to the British Library – I needed to renew my Readers’ Pass, following the massive cyberattack on the library last year, and I also wanted to see “Unearthed – The Power of Gardening” before it finishes on 10th August.

The Readers’ Pass must be one of the best bargains in London. All of those books and manuscripts (and sheet music) for free! No wonder there was a hefty queue. I always find the staff at the Library endlessly polite and patient, and there is also a rather fine new café which is always something of a draw.

New caff at the British Library

Anyhow, I was not just here for cake (a scurrilous rumour) and so off I went to the exhibition. As is usual at the British Library, there were many, many books, but also some things I didn’t expect, such as the vasculum that Charles Darwin had with him on the Beagle (vasculi were used to hold plant specimens). The exhibition had sections on medieval gardens, gardening for food, medicinal plants, community gardening, guerrilla gardening, plant collecting and colonialism, and gardening for pollinators, so when I came out my head was absolutely spinning. However, here are a few highlights.

The book above is the only known Anglo-Saxon herbal – it advises that chamomile is good for sore eyes (and indeed I’ve been known to use a cold chamomile teabag when my eyes have been playing up), but the plant on the left with a snake under it was known as ‘hart’s fern’, and was said to be good for snake bite.

This is the first known article on the poinsettia, that mainstay of Christmases everywhere….

Gertrude Jekyll’s gardening boots!

And above are Gertrude Jekyll’s gardening boots, looking suspiciously as if they may have been re-soled. I admire the hobnails, though.

The section on Gardens and Food had some splendid WWII posters…

…some photos of people from the UK’s many different communities working their allotments…

and this rather wonderful painting of the humble cabbage.

A Wardian case

The Victorians are responsible for introducing thousands of plant species to the UK, and many of them were carried here in Wardian cases, which acted as a kind of mini-greenhouse. In some cases, local people were recruited to help with the hunt for unusual and rare plants and were paid for their labour, but Sir John Sloane used to quiz slaves about the way in which various plants were used. Artists were taken on plant-hunting trips to illustrate the plants, and some of the illustrations are strikingly beautiful, such as the one of a rhododendron below. If the Victorians had known quite how invasive some species of rhododendron were going to turn out (not to mention Japanese knotweed, giant hogweed and Himalayan balsam) maybe they’d have thought twice.

Some of the most interesting sections,  though, were where people were reasserting their power through gardening, whether by taking over land and planting  allotments, or guerrilla gardening. One project that particularly stood out for me was The Pansy Project. Artist Paul Harfleet has been planting pansies at sites of homophobic abuse since 2005, and has written a book, Pansy Boy, about bullying, and being different, and how the love of the natural world and of beauty can help.

So, I left the exhibition with my head spinning. There are so many things to think about here – after all, gardening has meant so many things to so many people. But what really came across was the way that growing plants is so often a force for good, be it through providing food or medicine, bringing people together, or broadening peoples’ horizons. It’s well worth a look if you’re in London, but hurry – it finishes next week.

https://events.bl.uk/exhibitions/unearthed-the-power-of-gardening

Dear Readers, as I was walking along East Finchley High Road today, I was gently walloped on the head by a chunk of bark from one of our magnificent London Plane trees. And not for the first time! Marcel Proust wrote a whole series of novels based on the flavour of a madeleine that took him back to his childhood, but for me, a piece of bark took me back to 2018, another hot dry summer. This was when I first noticed that the Plane trees were shedding a lot of bark, so much so that some of them looked white, and the same thing is happening this year.

High Road Plane tree this year

It turns out that this is a known phenomenon. What happens is that the trunk of the tree, which conducts water to the leaves, actually shrinks during drought conditions, such as those in 2018 and potentially this year. This loosens the outer layer of bark, which then falls. London Planes lose bark regularly anyway (and this is thought to be a reaction to pollution, and a protection against fungi/parasites), but this is independent of the drought-induced bark shedding.

A study in Mainz was conducted during the drought of 2018, to see if the location of 349 London Plane trees affected the amount of bark loss. The trees were measured for location, the impermeability of the soil round about, and various other measures. It was expected that the most urban trees would have the worst bark loss, but this turned out not to be so – trees were affected not so much by the lack of water, as by the temperature. This is an uncomfortable finding, because it suggests that no amount of watering/improving soil permability will improve the outcome for the trees – climate change and increasing temperature is the main cause of the bark loss, and it appears to be this that causes the shrinkage in the trunk, rather than the lack of water on its own.

Bark loss on its own won’t kill a London Plane, but it is an indicator of stress. This might make the tree more vulnerable to fungi, viruses or insects like the Plane Lace Bug.

Whenever I walk under the Plane trees en route to East Finchley Station, I am always so grateful to them for the shade that they provide. You can feel the drop in temperature as you enter their shadow. Let’s hope that their famous resilience to urban stressors will be great enough to encompass even the challenge of our increasingly long, hot summers.

London Plane tree in Temple Gardens, probably planted in 1770

Wood Thrush (Photo by By Charles J. Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, sharpphotography.co.uk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=130686357)

I think this poem sums up the arc of living with depression better than any that I’ve ever read. See what you think.

Having It out with Melancholy

Jane Kenyon 1947 – 1995

If many remedies are prescribed
for an illness, you may be certain
that the illness has no cure.
—A. P. CHEKHOV
The Cherry Orchard

1 FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad—even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours—the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.

2 BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.

3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.

4 OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.

5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors—those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.

6 IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life—in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

7 PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.

8 CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.

9 WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird
singing in the great maples;
its bright, unequivocal eye.

Dear Readers, you might remember that a few weeks ago I mentioned that I’m putting some wildflower turf around the pond (of which more in a couple of days). Well, the rolls of turf arrived on this massive pallet, and I am wondering if any of you have made use of such a thing – I’m not the world’s best DIY-er, so something easy would be good. It just seems a shame not to take advantage of all that wood.

So as to not just take advantage of everyone’s good nature, I have done a bit of research myself. First up, it appears that the wood in pallets is treated in different ways, and in some cases they’re sprayed with extremely toxic chemicals and pesticides, presumably to stop invasive invertebrates and other organisms from travelling from one country to another. You can tell how your pallet has been treated by looking for a code which should be etched into the wood – the following information is from Pallet Online (who even knew there was such a thing?)

The codes are:

• DB – debarked – the bark of the tree has been removed from the wood. This will probably appear on most pallets
• HT – heat treated – the pallet has been heated to a minimum of 56°C for at least 30 minutes
• KD – kiln dried – the pallet has been heated in a kiln to kill bacteria and pests
• DH – dielectric heated – the pallet has been heated and disinfected using electromagnetic energy
• SF – sulphuryl fluoride – the pallet has undergone fumigation using sulphuryl fluoride
• MB – methyl bromide – the pallet has been treated using methyl bromide, a highly toxic pesticide

And for garden projects, the website recommends not using the bottom two, which makes perfect sense to me.

Hang on a second while I run down to see what the code on my pallet is….

And there’s no code that I can see, but then it has been painted blue. Sigh.

Anyhow, let me know if you’ve undertaken a pallet project, and how it went. I am quite taken with the kind of thing in the photo below, but my pallet would need a fair bit of work to make it look as nice. Plus mine is a massive pallet, as you can probably see, so I’m not sure where I’d hang it.

Over to you, Readers!

Dear Readers, I am delighted to announce that I’m now a Fellow of the Linnean Society – this is the oldest natural history society in the world, and it has had many distinguished naturalists as members, including Charles Darwin. These days, its membership is open to those who are working to help to preserve and protect the natural world, and as well as research scientists its membership includes archivists from places such as Kew Gardens (the current president is from Edinburgh Botanic Garden), artists, writers, and indeed at least one humble blogger. At the moment, to gain membership your application has to be supported by two current members, but going forward there will be a membership committee, which will make the whole thing a bit more democratic. There are members from hundreds of countries, an excellent education programme and a whole range of talks and lectures, both online and in person.

The ‘swearing in’ ceremony is quite something. Fellows need to sign a book, and sign up to the values of the Society, which you can read at the link at the top of the page. Then you shake hands with the President of the Society: she or he wears a tricorn hat, which they doff, and very exciting it is too. The hat was only worn in the presence of strangers, so removing it indicates that you’ve been welcomed into the Society. I found it all strangely moving, especially with the portraits of Darwin, Wallace and Linneaus himself watching from the walls.

You can read about upcoming events here.

And here’s another piece that I did about the building that houses the Linnean Society and some of the treasures that it holds.

So now I can put ‘Bug Woman – Fellow of the Linnean Society’ (FSL) on my business cards, and very chuffed I am too.

Dear Readers, I am always amazed by the persistence of spiders. It’s the end of July, and so they’re just getting big enough to notice. This one is on the inside of my kitchen door. The inside! That’s not going to work too well from the spider’s point of view. There are surely more tiny insects outside the kitchen than in it, in spite of my less-than-perfect hygiene.

I actually noticed her yesterday (and I always assume spiders are female unless they are sporting those attractive boxing-glove pedipalps that the males wear). I had a whole conversation  with her, as I tried to gently catch her and put her outside.

“You’re not supposed to be in here”, I say. ” What are you doing in the kitchen?”

My husband shouts down from upstairs to ask who I’m talking to. From previous experience, he knows it could be:

• a neighbour’s cat
• a fox trying to muscle its way in
• an ant
• a frog
• a slug

Fortunately it has never (so far) been a burglar, or indeed any other human being.

“I’m trying to persuade this spider to go outside”, I shout.

Silence, but I can sense the most delicate of eye-rolls.

The spider folds her legs and drops to the doormat, where she is invisible amongst all that coir.

And today, she’s back, with a perfect web across the door panel. Not that you can see it, so she looks as if she’s floating in mid-air, like some kind of arachnid angel.

So, Readers, I may try to move her again, or I may leave her and see what happens. When the world seems to be going to hell in the proverbial hand basket, sometimes I find myself laser-focussed on some small ethical dilemma, because there is so much horror, and so little that I can do about most of it. And most people, I’m sure, have bigger things to worry about, and who’s to say that they’re wrong? But I’m going to carry on talking to spiders, and considering what I can do to help them to survive, and if I get a reputation as a bit daft I shall wear that badge with pride.

But I am curious. Will anyone else own up to talking to spiders, or houseplants, or other living things that I’m sure have never replied? Do share! It would be a great thing if there are more of us out there…..

Photo By Robert Pittman – NOAA (http://www.afsc.noaa.gov/Quarterly/amj2005/divrptsNMML3.htm]), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1433661

Dear Readers, Orcas have cropped up as a subject for the blog on a couple of occasions, most recently because they’d started to wear fish on their heads, and no one knew why. However, scientists all over the world are noticing that orcas are bringing ‘gifts’ to scientists – in Canada, Jared Towers, of marine research firm Bay Cetology, was offered dead birds by two young orca, Quiver and Akela. Both whales dropped the birds in front of Towers, as if waiting to see what he’d do, and then, when he didn’t react, swam off with the birds. Previously, Towers had been offered a dead harbour seal pup by a different orca. 

Towers reached out to other researchers to see if his experience was unique, and soon found that other scientists had been offered everything from stingrays to seaweed. Apparently the behaviour is not uncommon between Orca, who live in close-knit social groups, but to my mind it takes one helluva brain to extrapolate from this to offering food to a completely different species. It feels as if the whales are both curious about what would happen, and exploring the possibility of relationship.

Lots of animals give gifts, from crows to primates to domestic animals such as dogs and cats. With some animals, I get a distinct feeling that they’re being playful, even showing a sense of humour – Towers documents how one Orca, memorably named ‘Funky Monkey’, approached a researcher while wearing a stingray on his head. I love the idea that these whales are literally ‘testing the water’ with humans, and are curious about what we’d do with a chunk of blubber, or a dead gull. I only hope that they aren’t disappointed with us.

You can read the whole article here.

Large White Butterfly (Pieris brassicae) Photo By Alvesgaspar – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4087693

Dear Readers, today I started the Big Butterfly Count for 2025 – I’m planning on doing one in the front garden, where there’s a buddleia, some scabious and various other pollinator-friendly plants, and one in the back garden, where the hemp agrimony seems to attract a whole other range of small butterflies, such as Gatekeepers. But, as is usually the case, as soon as I set my timer for 15 minutes all the butterflies head off for a tea break. In the end, I had two Large White butterflies, who chased one another round and round for a bit before heading off up the road.

Sigh.

Still, there are lots of other things to look at, and in particular I’m intrigued with these teeny tiny little bees. They are some species of Lassioglossum or Furrow bees, but I’d have to trap them and dissect them to be sure, which seems very inhospitable. They love my Mexican Fleabane, and good luck to them! While the butterflies might be absent, these insects are having a fine old time.

And here’s a hoverfly – I’m used to seeing the big ones just lately, but this species is very small and neat. I’m pretty sure this is a Syrphus hoverfly, but which species would require someone who could examine the hairs on the fly’s legs, which is unlikely to be me.

And so, tomorrow, if the weather holds, I shall investigate what pops into the back garden. I hope if any of you are doing the Big Butterfly Count you have a few more ‘flutterbys’ to report!

Andrea Gibson (Photo By Andrea Gibson – Friend, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=152126249)

Andrea Gibson died aged 49 of ovarian cancer a few weeks ago. Such a loss, but what a legacy they have left us. See what you think.

How the Worst Day of My Life Became the Best

Andrea Gibson 1975 – 2025

When you are trapped in a nightmare, your motivation to awaken will be so much greater than that of someone caught up in a relatively pleasant dream.
—Eckhart Tolle

When I realized the storm
was inevitable, I made it
my medicine.

Took two snowflakes
on the tongue in the morning,
two snowflakes on the tongue
by noon.

There were no side effects.
Only sound effects. Reverb
added to my lifespan,
an echo that asked—

What part of your life’s record is skipping?
What wound is on repeat?
Have you done everything you can
to break out of that groove?

By night time, I was intimate
with the difference
between tying my laces
and tuning the string section

of my shoes, made a symphony of walking
away from everything that did not
want my life to sing.

Felt a love for myself so consistent
metronomes tried to copyright my heartbeat.

Finally understood I am the conductor
of my own life, and will be even after I die.
I, like the trees, will decide what I become:

Porch swing? Church pew?
An envelope that must be licked to be closed?
Kinky choice, but I didn’t close.

I opened and opened
until I could imagine that the pain
was the sensation of my spirit
not breaking,

that my mind was a parachute
that could always open
in time,

that I could wear my heart
on my sleeve and never grow
out of that shirt.

That every falling leaf is a tiny kite
with a string too small to see, held
by the part of me in charge
of making beauty
out of grief.