Dear Readers, it’s a grey, quiet day here in East Finchley, ideal for a slow hobble to see what’s going on. And there’s a surprising amount in flower at the moment! Plus, there was a wren singing so vigorously from a plane tree on the High Street that you could hear it above the traffic, quite a feat.

So, what’s going on? Close to the bus stop opposite the station, the Choisya (Mexican Orange Blossom) is in full bloom – they often flower in ‘late summer’ but November is just an indication of how wacky the weather has been. The scent is very heavy, almost jasmine-like to my nose.

And in the planted area by the gate to Cherry Tree Wood, there are still a few things in flower, including this Borage, one of my favourite plants for bees, though I didn’t see any today.

I am so pleased that there is some dead-hedging in one part of the wood, to protect the Wood Anemones – as in Coldfall Wood, the pandemic saw a lot of soil compaction as more and more people discovered these little patches of ancient woodland, so this will hopefully restore some of the biodiversity.

And then it’s out of the gate and along to the unadopted road – I haven’t walked here since I broke my leg, so I couldn’t wait to see what was going on. The Ivy flowers are gently turning into berries – if you hear a scuffle in the trees at this time of year, it’s often woodpigeons trying to eat them.

There are some new metal shutters protecting the garden/garage of the house on the corner, and some new Winter Jasmine just coming into flower…

And the  Hollyhock has one single flower left, with a single banded snail inside. Why didn’t I think of coming here when I was looking for a snail sample for my Open University course? I ended up with my tutor sending me a photograph of a sample of snails. Someone had found 136 snails. Lucky old them.

And there is a fine array of White Dead-nettle too. Incidentally, don’t forget the Botanical Society of Britain and Ireland’s New Year Plant Hunt – this year it runs from 29th December 2024 to 1st January 2025, and it’s a great way to get out and about in the middle of all those liqueur chocolates and turkey/nut roast sandwiches. You can find out all about it here.  All you are basically doing is going for a walk and taking note of what plants are in flower. If you end up in a cosy pub with an open fire that’s all to the good!

There’s some Purple Toadflax, always a favourite – I had some in the front garden, and now it’s colonised practically all the pots. The bees love it though, so I don’t mind.

And the Green Alkanet of course, Borage’s more rough-hewn cousin. I think this plant is perpetually in flower somewhere in East Finchley.

And then there are some more flowers that look very similar to those of the Ivy – this is Japanese Aralia/Fatsia japonica, a useful source of winter pollen/nectar for any queen bumblebees.

Mahonia is another invaluable source of food for queen bumbles at this time of year, right into January before the crocuses come into flower. This one is particularly fine!

It’s funny what you don’t notice – I’ve lived in East Finchley for nearly fifteen years now, but I’d never noticed these plaster shells on some of the houses around Baronsmere Road. I suppose I’ve spent so much time lately watching my feet that I’ve not been looking up.

 

And then it’s back into the County Roads. My legs are tired, but I’d say that the pain is only about 3 out of 10, which is pretty good going. And the Ginkgo tree always cheers me up.

And so does this Fuchsia bush, so full of flowers! I always have a quick look in case there are any late Elephant Hawk Moth caterpillars, but none so far. Still, it’s a very impressive hedge.

And then it’s home. We’re having a trial pack today for our trip to Ravenna in Italy which is coming up soon: we’re going to see if we can get everything into one suitcase so I have less to carry. There’s always a temptation to stick one more jumper in, but the weather looks promising – mid 50s Fahrenheit and sunny. It will be nice to see some sun!

Dear Readers, frogs are amongst my favourite animals, and I’m not sure why. Partly it’s because they make the work of looking after my pond so worthwhile – their eager faces peering up from the water is often the first sign of spring, and the sound of their half-hearted singing as I toddle out to the shed always cheers me up. Then there are the masses of tadpoles, and then the tiny frogs, and then they seem to disappear, although there’s often the tell tale ‘plop’ of a late frog diving for cover as the days lengthen. Plus, they have such terrible habits, what with mating with anything that stands still long enough although female frogs have come up with a variety of ways to deal with all that testosterone-fuelled nonsense. Well, this week New Scientist reports the finding of the oldest fossil tadpole in the world, dating back some 161 million years. The scientists involved were searching a rock formation in Argentina for feathered dinosaurs, but I hope they were just as delighted with the world’s oldest fossil tadpole.

The tadpole measures about 16 centimetres/6 inches long (comparable with the largest tadpoles found today), and it is so beautifully preserved that scientists can tell that it was just about to undergo metamorphosis when it met its untimely end. There are lots of adult frog fossils in this particular rock formation too (the La Matilde Formation of the Deseado Massif in southern Patagonia) , so it’s unclear exactly what happened to cause the tadpole’s demise.  However, the climate was warmer, wetter, and there were few other frog species or fish around to act as predators, so you could describe it as ‘frog heaven’.

What’s interesting is that the frog’s form of metamorphosis hasn’t changed in all these millions of years – it’s proved to be a robust method of reproduction despite all the changes that the Earth has gone through. When the frogs gather in spring we’re watching something that has been happening for time immemorial, which I find strangely comforting. And how adaptable these creatures are, from frogs that lay their eggs in pitcher plants in tropical forests, to desert frogs that bury themselves for most of their lives, only emerging during the wet season. They are truly extraordinary animals, and I always feel so privileged to live alongside them.

You can read the New Scientist article here, and the research paper is here.

Well, Readers, after all the excitement of the past few days I thought it must surely be time to bring things back to the personal, so here is a photo of what is possibly the most unattractive footwear that I’ve ever owned. But Readers! These boots, which make my size eight feet look even more like flippers than usual, are possibly the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn. Furthermore, I took them for a road trip today – down the hill to East Finchley Station, along Upper Street to pilates and back – and for once I could feel the ground under my feet, which made me feel much more confident.

I definitely have some form of neuropathy, but I’ve found that this is exacerbated by thick soles – shoes like that might protect my ankles, but they make my feet feel more numb than usual. With these barefoot shoes, my feet spread, and the soles are both thin and very slip-resistant, so I can feel the different levels on the pavements and surfaces. Plus, they are warm – my feet get cold very easily, which adds to the numbness, so being toasty is a nice change.

Finally, they seem to encourage me to move my ankles – they are pretty flat, so I have to roll through the foot and use it how it’s meant to be used, if that makes any sense. My legs are tired now I’m back home, but I do think that they’re marginally less tired than they were last week.

The only drawback is that they’re not waterproof, which is a shame. I shall have to keep my eyes open to see if I can find some that are.

Anyhow, thanks to everyone who was enthusiastic about barefoot shoes – if these help me to stay vertical for a longer period of time, they really will be a gamechanger.

And in other news, my appointment for a nerve conduction test came through – it’s for the 3rd February. It seems like a long time away, but the speed that the months are going past I’m sure it will be here in no time!

 

Dear Readers, believe it or not I read the first book of Maya Angelou’s autobiography, ‘I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings’  not  long after it had been published in 1969, so I was only about 9 years old myself. It tells of Angelou’s childhood, which included rape and a period during her adolescence when she was electively mute, following the murder of the man who raped her. Strong stuff for a child, but I was I loved it much more than most of my other reading material (‘1984’ by George Orwell, for example). She filled me full of hope, and a sense that troubles would come, but could be overcome.

In all there are seven volumes of autobiography, and she needed it because she had an extraordinary life: Wikipedia tries to sum it up with:

“She became a poet and writer after a string of odd jobs during her young adulthood. These included fry cook, sex worker, nightclub performer, Porgy and Bess cast member, Southern Christian Leadership Conference coordinator, and correspondent in Egypt and Ghana during the decolonization of Africa. Angelou was also an actress, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programs. In 1982, she was named the first Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Angelou was active in the Civil Rights Movement and worked with Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. Beginning in the 1990s, she made approximately 80 appearances a year on the lecture circuit, something she continued into her eighties. In 1993, Angelou recited her poem “On the Pulse of Morning” (1993) at the first inauguration of Bill Clinton, making her the first poet to make an inaugural recitation since Robert Frost at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961.”

I am particularly interested, however, in her writing routine, which makes me scratch my head about my own. Clearly I need to go to bed with a bottle of sherry, instead of hunching over my laptop.

Beginning with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Angelou used the same “writing ritual”for many years. She would wake early in the morning and check into a hotel room, where the staff was instructed to remove any pictures from the walls. She would write on legal pads while lying on the bed, with only a bottle of sherry, a deck of cards to play solitaire, Roget’s Thesaurus, and the Bible, and would leave by the early afternoon. She would average 10–12 pages of written material a day, which she edited down to three or four pages in the evening.She went through this process to “enchant” herself, and as she said in a 1989 interview with the British Broadcasting Corporation, “relive the agony, the anguish, the Sturm und Drang“. She placed herself back in the time she wrote about, even traumatic experiences such as her rape in Caged Bird, to “tell the human truth”about her life. She was quoted as saying: “The way I deal with any pain is to admit it – let it come.” Angelou stated that she played cards to get to that place of enchantment and to access her memories more effectively. She said, “It may take an hour to get into it, but once I’m in it—ha! It’s so delicious!” She did not find the process cathartic; rather, she found relief in “telling the truth”.

If you haven’t read any of Angelou’s books, I would highly recommend them – she has a very distinctive voice and nobody can tell a story better than she does. But for me, there’s something about ‘Still I Rise’ (which I blogged about yesterday), and one of my poetry-loving readers, sllgatsby (thank you!) pointed me towards this short video of her reading her poem. There is such power in it, and I suspect that’s what many of us need as the world goes to hell in a handbasket. See what you think. If you don’t watch anything  else today, make some time to watch this.

 

Dear Readers, I think many of us were in shock after the US election results came in – I know that I had dreaded this result, but managed to convince myself that Harris stood a chance. What a mess. I am so sick of living in ‘interesting times’. My heart goes out to my American friends, with the threats to reproductive rights, the racism, the attacks on LGBT rights and the climate change denial. We will feel the effects here in the UK too, with the impacts on the war in Ukraine and possibly on other parts of Europe, particularly the Baltic states, with the potential for the break up of NATO, plus the risks associated with a major nuclear power governed by someone who is so random, and who has such thugs behind him. But still, we go on. And as usual, there is some solace in poetry, and if you have any that have helped or are helping at the moment, let me know and I’ll share them here.

I liked this one, by American poet Ada Limón.

Instructions on Not Giving Up
Ada Limón
1976 –

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

And this one, by Brendan Kennelly

“Begin”

Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of the light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

And I love this Maya Angelou classic, so hopeful, so defiant.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou
1928 –
2014

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

And finally, this one. I love, love, love this poem. Sometimes it’s all about keeping on keeping on.

Optimism by Jane Hirschfield

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs – all this resinous, unretractable earth.

Dear Readers, following on from my post yesterday about Kew Gardens trying to future-proof its tree collection, today I’m looking at the future of street trees. Paul Wood, author of London’s Street Trees, has excellent form on  this subject – in 2019 he suggested that the Bee-bee Tree (Tetradium daniellii) might become a popular planting in London, and so it has – this Korean tree has flowers that are abuzz with bees in June and July, followed by masses of berries. You can now see it in Bermondsey, Islington and Hammersmith and Fulham, to name but a few spots.

In his latest edition, Paul Wood bets on four species that might become popular in London, due to drought-resistance and tolerance for all the usual ills of urban trees (pollution, traffic, shallow root systems etc). First up is the Pecan Tree, originally from the southern states of the US – from the photos it looks as if it can grow into a very fine tree, but it’s probably one for broad avenues rather than side roads. You can see it in the photograph at the start of the blog, and there is apparently at least one in London already, on Pitfield Street, Hoxton.

Next is the Katsura tree (Cercidiphyllum japonicum), a tree with bronze buds that ripen to crisp green in the spring, and fantastic autumn foliage, which apparently has a biscuity fragrance. Plus, very impressive bark! What’s not to like? You can see this tree in a few places already, including Highbury in North London.

Wood’s third tree(s) are Chinese or American Yellow-wood (Cladrastis sinensis or Cladrastis kentuckea). At the moment both species can grow happily in the UK, but with warmer temperatures and milder winters they may well flower, which would be quite something. These are actually members of the Fabaceae or bean family, which would be obvious if they did flower – just look at those leguminous blooms! There is currently at least one of these trees in Wood Green.

And finally, a South American tree, the  Maiten (Maytenus boaria) – an evergreen tree with a weeping habit. Wood thinks that it could be an ideal street tree – relatively small and hardy. Apparently a trio of the trees have recently appeared in Highgate, just around the corner from me, so when I’m a bit more mobile I must hobble over to have a look. The Maiten is in the same group of trees as the Spindles (Euonymus), another splendid small tree that I’m surprised doesn’t pop up more often as a street tree. Maybe I should start making my own list!

It is very interesting to see how much more varied street trees are becoming in London, and probably in other parts of the UK. On my road alone, we’ve suddenly acquired some Crape Myrtles, a Hibiscus and several Amelanchiors (including the one that fell over outside my house). Local residents are increasingly being invited to sponsor street trees, which is an interesting idea. What’s going on where you live? Have you noticed any new species? And how well are your street trees doing?

 

Dear Readers, when you work with trees you have to have a long-term strategy, and never more so than in these changing times. At Kew, a recent study showed that up to 54 percent of the trees currently growing in the botanical gardens could be at risk by 2090, through a combination of rising temperatures, changes in rainfall patterns, biosecurity hazards and potential flooding. Some of our most familiar trees could be affected, including silver birch, horse chestnut, Scots pine, ash, larch, alder, oaks (both sessile and pedunculate) and even holly. Some of these trees will survive further north than their current range, and for some species there may be more resilient genotypes in other parts of the world, which have already adapted to hotter conditions. However, Kew is taking no chances, and may start to grow trees that are better adapted to the weather that we’re facing. Here are just a few of them.

First up, Iberian Alder (Alnus lusitanica). This is closely related to the Common Alder, but is more heat-resistant, and the hope is that many of the animals that currently rely upon it will make the jump to this species – it is often smothered in blue and great tits feeding from its cones in autumn  and winter.  Iberian Alder  could also prove to be a resilient street tree, though at the moment  Paul Wood (of London’s Street Trees) points out that a lot of Italian Alder (Alnus cordata) is being planted, even though it’s (whisper it) a bit of a boring tree outside of catkin season.

You can already see that Horse Chestnut is under stress, with a variety of insect and fungal attacks happening every year. Kew is thinking about using Indian Horse Chestnut instead – it seems to be more resilient to temperature, and the leaf miners aren’t so fond of it.

Scots Pine is clearly going to have a struggle, being a plant of open windy places with cold winters, but Kew is looking at a couple of possible pines, including the Stone Pine (Pinus pinea), which has a few examples in the roundabout outside Archway Station if you happen to be passing. The local pigeons seem to love the shade and can usually be seen in large numbers passing the time of day. This is where pine nuts come from, so maybe the pigeons are on  to something.

As all of our oak species are most likely going to be pushed hard as temperatures go up, Kew is looking at some more resilient species – while the oldest, best established trees will hopefully live out their life spans, it makes a lot of sense to grow related species that, again, some of our insects, fungi, galls etc may be able to use. One very unusual tree is the Holly Oak (Quercus baloot),  with leaves that look, well, like holly. As holly is also threatened maybe this tree could stand in for both (though of course for animals that feed on a plant it’s about much more than how it looks, ditto fungi.)

Holly Oak is an Indian tree, but another candidate is Quercus urbani, which is Mexican and is drought and  heat tolerant.

Quercus pannosa is a tree from Sichuan in China. I am honestly amazed at the variety of different oak trees out there. Let’s hope that some of them will take to the UK’s changing conditions.

So, it’s good that Kew is thinking about the future of the gardens. Unless I live to be 130, I won’t be around in 2090, but I like to think that although changing conditions may be too much for some of our species, at least in West London, others will thrive. What’s important is planning and adapting (and trying to do our bit to stop the worst ravages of climate change wherever we can, whether it’s what we do personally or what pressure we put on our governments, or preferably both).

And here’s one final tree that is, surprisingly, on Kew’s list of Resilient Trees. Yes, it’s my old favourite the Swamp Cypress (Taxodium distichum). I first met this tree in St Pancras and Islington Cemetery, and then  in the Cleary Gardens in the City of London, and from its green spring foliage to its rusty red autumn hues, it’s a spectacular tree. And as it’s in the woodland grave part of the cemetery, I like to think that it gives comfort to people who visit. It certainly does to me.

 

Dear Readers, I have been attending a wonderful online  writing course for a number of years now – I’m currently working on a kind of memoir about Mum and Dad and dementia and death and all those very cheerful things. And one thing that we’re very keen on is letting one another know when we’ve ‘been thrown out’ of a piece of writing. You know the kind of thing – you’re reading the ‘story’ when suddenly there’s a change of speaker, or tone, or you don’t understand a phrase ( a regular occurrence as the rest of my classmates are American, so either I won’t understand what a Winnebago is, or they will be confused by a sentence  such as ‘I reckon I could do that tomorrow’). It’s a case of two nations divided by a common language indeed (or three nations if you count Canada, which you definitely should).

Anyhow, I am reading the book in the illustration above, about the neuroscience of grief. It’s absolutely fascinating. The writer knows ridiculous amounts about how the grieving brain reacts to things because she did the first ever study that involved popping recently-bereaved people into an MRI scanner to see how their brains behaved. So far so good. She describes how we all have a kind of ‘mental map’ of how the world should be, and how when someone dies, our  whole ‘map’ suddenly doesn’t work. And this is all in the first dozen pages.

And then, she describes how meerkats have a mental map of their territories. But Readers, she describes them as ‘rodents, similar to prairie dogs’.

How is that critter a rodent? Holy moly people, get a grip. I’ve been nipped by a meerkat (long story) and believe me, although a rodent can give you a nasty bite if cornered, these little guys are definitely carnivores, and are in fact members of the mongoose family. I was so indignant that I had to put the book down for the evening. Where is this person’s editor?

And then I wondered if it was just me. I am, in truth, in a constant  state of irritation. Articles about bees have illustrations of hoverflies. Articles about bumblebees have photos of honeybees. Asian hornet articles are illustrated by photos of European hornets. Does it matter? Well, partly I’m aggravated by the sheer laziness and ignorance. But then, I read an interesting article in New Scientist a few weeks ago, where the author pointed out that there is literally no fact-checking in most popular science books, which leads to a whole shelf load of inaccuracies and actual untruths being promulgated every week. Such a shame! There is a lot of interest in scientific subjects, and readers deserve better information. A case in point was the recent book about Artificial Intelligence by Yuval Noah Harari, who is a medieval historian  most famous for his book ‘Sapiens’. In the new book, ‘Nexus’, he seems to have wandered out of his zone of expertise and into a field that he knows much less about. And yet, no one seems to have pointed out the holes in his arguments (apart from in the New Scientist review, which is a humdinger).

So, when I read in a book about neuroscience that a meerkat is a rodent, I wonder what else is wrong in the text. Can I trust the writer on her field of expertise, or do I need to do some fact-checking myself? I find myself increasingly reading something and thinking ‘hmm’. Because of my Open University study, I have access to a whole world of papers and magazines, not just on science but on everything else, and it’s surprising how often it comes in useful. Most people don’t have access to such resources, though, or the time required to check things. But what I would say is, in this world of misinformation and confusion, if something feels ‘off’ it’s worth checking. For those of us in the UK, I particularly recommend the Radio Four programme ‘More or Less‘, where readers write in with a statistic that they’ve seen floating about and ask for the opinions of the statisticians and mathematicians on the programme. David Spiegelhalter’s input during the Covid-19 crisis was invaluable to me as a way of putting things in perspective and helping to explain the endless graphs and figures that were coming out at the time. He’s written a number of books too, including his latest about uncertainty, something that’s making a lot of us very nervous at the moment.

In spite of what you hear, not all opinions are created equal. Sometimes it’s worth finding an expert (or preferably several experts with differing opinions) and paying attention to what they say. And never trust someone who isn’t prepared to admit that they were wrong when new information is available. I suppose I am one of that apparently-dying breed who believes that there is such a thing as objective truth, and that a peer-reviewed paper should carry more weight than something that an ‘influencer’ believes and has put out on Tiktok. How old-fashioned of me!

So, Readers, what jolts you out of something that you’re reading? Does an inaccuracy in your area of expertise lead you to throw the book or magazine out of the window? Have you taken to writing to the Editor to complain (as it appears I have)? Do you have a pet peeve? I should probably take a few steps back now, as I know that some of my readers have strong opinions about such things (and I love them all the more for it). So have at it, Readers!

 

Dear Readers, you might remember that my Dad was a gin distiller for Gordon’s Gin. He travelled all over the world making up batches of the concentrated flavour that made Gordon’s unique, and then the local workers would dilute it with alcohol and sell it in the distinctive green bottles. As a result, Dad spent a lot of time around people who enjoyed alcohol, sometimes a little too much. And so he made sure that my brother and I were introduced to a little tipple early, so that we’d get used to how it made us feel.

Sometimes these experiments went awry, like the time he came back from Jamaica with a recipe for Caribbean cocktail, which combined gin, rum and a lot of pineapple. He made a ‘weak’ one for my brother and I (aged 15 and 13 respectively). The last thing I remember before passing out on the sofa is my mother asking Dad exactly how much booze he put in the drinks, and Dad shamefacedly replying ‘Only a little bit’.

Still, when I got off to University I thought I knew all about how to handle my drink, and I probably did until the unfortunate incident with the Dorset cider and the drinking game, that ended up with me being practically carried home. It was twenty-four hours before I stopped feeling nauseous and my head stopped pounding. If ever I’d known that alcohol was actually poisonous, I finally felt it in every pore of my body.

Which is a long-winded way to say that most animals can’t actually tolerate a lot of alcohol, including human beings. We’ve all seen the stories about drunken elephants feasting on fermenting amarula fruit, or Bohemian waxwings laying on their backs while sleeping off too many overripe berries. So it was a surprise this week to read that the Oriental Hornet (Vespa orientalis) (nb this is not the Asian Hornet that beekeepers are so worried about) can happily feed on 80 percent alcohol without any change to its behaviour or lifespan. To put this in context, this is four times stronger than any alcohol found in nature, and even animals that eat a lot of high-alcohol foods, such as fruit flies and tree shrews, can’t cope with more than 4 percent alcohol.

So, what’s so special about the hornet? The scientist conducting the study, Sofia Bouchebti of the University of the Negev in Israel, has identified that the hornet’s genome  contains between 2 and 4 copies of a gene that helps to break down alcohol into energy-providing sugars, and the hornet’s gut contains brewer’s yeast, which might further help in the process.

Whatever the reason, the Oriental Hornet (and possibly other hornet species) has found a way to live on something which is  poisonous to other creatures but is also extremely nutritious.  It would be like me living on methylated spirits without any damage to brain, body or long-term prospects. I’ve always thought that hornets were extraordinary creatures, and so they are.

You can read the New Scientist article here and the research paper here.