Category Archives: General Stuff

Look what they found

The How to be a Curious Entomologist workshops were set up to teach people how to make an insect collection — simply, with easy, cheap, often home-made equipment. But why, in this day and age of electronic wizardly, high-spec digital cameras, email and internet should you need a collection? Because only about 5% of UK insect species can be definitively identified from a photo. Large moths, butterflies, dragonflies, grasshoppers and a few others are unmistakable. But that leaves 95% which can only be firmly named by looking at obscure characters under a microscope — often individual bristles on individual legs.

I recently undertook a reconnaissance survey visit to a small local nature reserve. It was late in the season, but I was told there were quite a few invertebrate records on file, collected over several years of casual observation. These would, no doubt, be useful. What I got was a list of common garden butterflies and bumblebees. The reserve warden was slightly disappointed when I all but dismissed them as useless. The trouble is they were all obvious common species that could be found in almost any garden in London. They gave no insight into the special habitat or distinct insect community of the site. If I had only been handed a scruffy box full of badly pinned and awkwardly carded insect specimens, oh how different it would have been.

Late-in-the-season finds from Ladywell Fields.

After three curious workshops, we now have three prospective insect collections. They can be added to, piecemeal, over many years if need be. But whenever it comes to finding out what occurs on one of these sites, at least the incoming surveyor will have a starting point. And I know there are some gems in there.

The identifying bit of entomology is often what takes the time, and I just don’t have the time to work thoroughly through all of the collections we made, but here, at least, is a taster of some of the more unusual things that turned up.

Brachycarinus tigrinus Schiller, a small pale speckled ground bug (family Rhopalidae). This distinctive bug is a recent colonist to Britain, and was first found here in 2003, in Battersea Park, central London (by some chap called Jones, apparently). It has since been found in several brownfield localities in Essex and London, but is still very rare and confined to a narrow belt of localities in the Thames Gateway. It was almost the very first insect collected at the Deptford Creekside workshop, 30 June 2012.

Chaetostomella cylindrica, a very small pale picture-winged fly (family Tephritidae). Breeding in the heads of various thistles, and especially knapweed, this is a fairly widespread fly, occuring through most of Britain and Ireland, it is nevertheless not common, and I don’t come across it every day. Two specimens were collected during the Ladywell Fields workshop, 13.x.2012.

Cordylura albipes Fallén, a small black and white dung fly (family Scathophagidae). Much more secretive than the common yellow dungfly, Scathophaga stercoraria, and more rarely seen. No doubt feeding in the plentiful dog dung in Ladywell Fields, where it was found 13.x.2012.

Icterica westermanni (Meigen), a small orange picture-winged fly (family Tephritidae). This nationally scarce fly is known from an area south-east of a line from The Wash, to Gloucester to Weymouth. It breeds in the heads of ragwort, Senecio species. Despite its widespread and common foodplant it remains very elusive. This was one of the rare insect species highlighted by Buglife when it challenged proposed legislation to make ragwort a notifiable noxious weed. One was found by general sweeping at the Devonshire Road workshop, 29 July 2012.

Olibrus flavicornis (Sturm), a minute black flower beetle (family Phalacridae). According to the beetle review (1992), this beetle was considered to have red data book status ‘K’ — rare but insufficiently known. It can only be distinguished from others in the genus by microscopic examination of the microsculpture of the wing-cases. At the time it had not been seen since it was recorded in 1950 from Camber on the East Sussex coast. However, it is now known to occur, often in large numbers, on brownfield sites in London and the Thames Estuary. It is still very confined, geographically, and unknown away from this narrow region. It is usually found on autumn hawkbit Leontodon autumnalis, and possibly other similar plants. The larvae are thought to develop in the flower heads, while the adults feed on pollen. Several were found at the Deptford Creekside workshop, 30 June 2012.

Omalus aeneus (Fabricius), a very small metalic blue and green cuckoo wasp (family Chrysididae). One of the rubytails, so called because many are brilliantly red coloured, but not this one. Rubytails are cleptoparasitoids, or cuckoo wasps, laying their eggs in the nests of other wasp species; the hatching grub then devours the host egg and the food stores laid in for it. This one is known to parasitize various common species, but it is very local itself; it is more or less restricted to Kent, Surrey, Hampshire and Devon. One specimen was found during the Devonshire Road workshop, 29.vii.2012.

Pantilius tunicatus (Linnaeus), a large reddish brown and green capsid bug (family Miridae). Found on hazel, birch and alder, this handsome and distinctive bug is fairly widespread in southern England, but not common. Several were found in Sue Godfrey Nature Park, during the Deptford Crossfields Bioblitz, 15.ix.2012.

Rhyzobius chrysomeloides (Herbst), a minute black and pink ladybird (family Coccinellidae). This tiny beetle is extremely similar to a very common species, R. litura (Fabricius), and its occurrence in Britain was only recognized in 2000 when it was found in several Surrey localities. It is probable that this is a recent arrival in Britain and its spread has so far been monitored in Surrey, Kent, Middlesex, Berkshire, Hampshire and Sussex. One was beaten from some hawthorn hedging at the Ladywell Fields workshop, 13.x.2012.

Stictopleurus punctatonervosus (Goeze), a medium-sized brown leaf bug, family Rhopalidae. At the time of the national review of British Hemiptera, in 1992, this species was regarded as being extinct in Britain. It had been recorded from only two localities here, the last in 1870. It has now successfully recolonized Britain since it was recorded in Essex in 1997 and has now become a species typical of the dry, well-drained and sparsely vegetated brownfield sites in and around urban London, Thames Estuary and beyond. Specimens were found at the Deptford Crossfields bioblitz, 15.ix.2012 and at the Ladywell Fields workshop, 13.x.2012.

Not a bad start.

Oh, oh, unwelcome visitor in the collection

Luckily I have a separate museum beetle breeding facility. So when I uncovered this Dermestes larva chewing its way through some old specimens I have somewhere safe to keep it until it turns into an adult beetle.

I do occasionally get outbreaks of Anthrenus beetles, but I’ve never seen anything this large before.

Constant vigilance!

The four-spot ladybird

It’s always interesting to find a new ladybird in the garden, and today’s is Nephus quadrimaculatus. At just over a millimetre and a half long it’s not really a ladybird in the popular sense, but it’s a perfectly valid member of the ladybird family Coccinellidae.

Once regarded as one of our rarest beetles, it was formerly called Nephus pulchellus (beautiful) because of its pretty markings. When Canon W. W. Fowler wrote his beetle monograph in 1889 he knew of only one genuine specimen, from Kent.

Things have changed a bit since. There have been a recent spate of records from Surrey and Kent, and a few other localities in southern England. It seems to like ivy, and maybe feeds on scale insects and mealybugs.

But it’s still decidedly uncommon. OK, it’s not a brilliant photo, taken down the barrel of a microscope, on my phone, but it’s still a nice thing to drop out of the ivy on my garden fence.

Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2012

For several years running, as BBC Wildlife‘s Bug Czar, I’ve managed to wangle an invite to the Wildlife Photographer of the Year award ceremony held up at the Natural History Museum. It’s a great bash — fantastic, subtly lit setting around the Diplodocus skeleton in the museum’s main atrium, interesting chat with photographers and the bods from the magazine and the environmental industry. Good food and stunning pictures.

I always have a slight moan about not many insect pictures. Although I had to shut up two years ago when a photo of leaf-cutter ants won the final overall prize. This year was even more pathetic — only two insect photographs, both flies, and one the stereotype of bad insect behaviour, a mosquito sucking blood from a bare arm.

Bill Oddie (he said, name-dropping), who was sitting one person away from me at table 18 was almost equally disparaging about all the pretty pictures of penguins and cheetahs and flamingoes. His gripe, and I follow him here, is that when people see pretty pictures of animals they feel good. But what they really need to see, even if they don’t want to, is pictures of the terrible destruction, desecration, corruption and dilution of nature. Then they’ll do something about it.

It’s a difficult one. The competition is now so big, and for all its partners (BBC Wildlife, Natural History Museum and Veolia Environnement) it has become a prestigious showcase of wonderful pictures that are flashed all around the world. These are aspirational brands, rather than campaigning organizations, and they need feel-good images. A selection of pictures is available through the websites of The Guardian, MSN, or The Metro; they show some of the typical portraits.

There were some challenging images, the photojournalism themes showed harrowing pictures of rhino poaching and tiger rainforest destruction, there were bleak pictures of African wild dogs and melting ice floes. But during the presentation itself I felt slightly underwhelmed. This was partly because I find pretty pictures not so very interesting. It was also partly because of the format of the evening. We only got to see runner up and winner of each category — a small proportion of the pictures on show in the display gallery. But we had to wait until after the dinner and awards announcements before we were let into the exhibition hall to see the rest.

It was not always so; until 2010 the initial gathering always took place amidst the displayed pictures, and there was much commentary and debate about which photos might be winners, and why. Here was a chance to see all the cuddly mammals and awe-inspiring landscape pictures, and the disturbing ones too. There has always been a smattering of insect photos, which, by the very nature of getting close to a bug, are challenging or disturbing — much more likely to elicit the response “so what’s going on here, then”, rather than “wow, pretty”. To select 2 insects from over 48,000 entries seems a bit lame. Either the judges need to get their thinking right; or entomologists need to submit more pictures.

How to be a curious entomologist — 3

 

Saturday 13 October 2012 saw 15 people huddled into the cosy (= small) Ladywell Fields Environmental Centre for the third Curious Entomologist Workshop run by the London Borough of Lewisham’s Rivers and People Project.

For follow-up information on techniques and equipment, and links to suppliers, organizations, societies and recording schemes, go to the report of the first workshop and scroll down the page.

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As usual, the first thing was to find some specimens, and despite the lateness in the season we had no trouble.

You can’t beat a sweep net.

A river runs through it, even.

A lime tree provided several colour morphs of the harlequin ladybird.

I, again, found it really satisfying talking and enthusing about entomology, and the importance of keeping some specimens to make a collection. And I think everyone who attended came away with some satisfaction that we had amassed a reasonable number of specimens at the day’s end.

 

Several people felt inclined to take photos of the final collection.

The specimens, along with those from Deptford Creekside and Devonshire Road Nature Reserve, will now be kept in the hope that they will be added to, and eventually become part of any baseline environmental surveys of the sites.

Peekaboo

I’m not sure whether it’s hiding, or maybe it’s eating the remains of the snail, but this distinctive little beetle did not notice me until I unceremoniously pulled it from its shell.

Silpha (Ablataria) laevigata is one of the carrion beetles, but I generally find it under logs and stones rather than corpses. Its smooth, slightly shining, wing cases distinguish it from others in the genus which have a wrinkled or corrugated appearance.

This is an easy group to get into. There’s an excellent introductory article, with identification key and plenty of pictures here (scroll down to page 5): http://www.amentsoc.org/publications/beetle-news/2009/beetle-news-october-2009.pdf

Behind the scenes at the museum

On Tuesday 4 September I took 7-year-old up to the Natural History Museum, the last day of the summer holiday before going back to school on the Wednesday. It was the perfect time. Most kids had already gone back to school by then, but school trips to the museum had not started yet. There was us, and a few tourists, the quietest I have even seen it. Bliss.

While we were there I took the opportunity to go and have a look at the Angela Marmont Centre for UK Biodiversity.

The Angela Marmont Centre, part of the new Darwin wing of the Natural History Museum.

I’d heard about the place, but never been in. As a teenager, and after university when I first moved to London, I often heard about entomologists ‘going to the BM’. In those days it was still the British Museum (Natural History) or BM(NH). At the time I did not know anyone working behind the scenes, and always felt a bit too daunted to go and have a look at the national collections to try and identify some tricky specimen or other.

The Angela Marmont Centre is set up for people just like me. In the introductory video, here, it is specifically touted as a ‘way in’ to the perhaps fusty and dusty academic expertise behind the scenes. But, more than this, it tries to offer visitors a chance for them to make their own discoveries, and identify their own finds.

There are extensive representative collections of UK insects (and other organisms no doubt), and there is a good starting-point library of identification guides. So, rather than just hand over a specimen and have an expert name it there and then, a visitor is much more likely to be guided to the relevant drawers of potential genera, and allowed to browse through the collections,  confirming an identification by using the ID guides and monographs. It is the obvious place for the novice entomologist to take along a boxful of troublesome specimens to work through.

You are supposed to make an appointment, but we just rolled up and rang on the doorbell. Luckily Chris Raper and Stuart Hine were on hand to give us a brief guided tour.

Death’s-head hawk-moths. Anything with a skull on it is cool for a 7-year-old.

There are plenty of practical identification guides and manuals, actually the library of the London Natural History Society.

The stuffed fox is for decoration rather than identification.

There is plenty of laboratory bench space, enough to house visiting groups from natural history societies when not being used for coffee breaks.

It’s not just insects, here Stuart Hine shows us a pretty, if slightly archaic, display of British lichens.

The centre is open  10.00-17.30 weekdays and the first Saturday and Sunday of the month. More information, and contact details for making appointments, are on their website here.

Run, Iguana, Run!

I know two things about Costa Rican iguanas: (1) they nod their heads in a bizarre courtship ritual of overenthusiastic agreement , and (2) they run by flailing their legs like windmills.

The usual cabin roof-top iguana mascot, ready for a long day of serious head-bobbing.

The head-nodding was easy to observe most days at La Pacifica eco-ranch, where we stayed for several days in August and September 1991. The occasional scritch-scraping of reptilian claws across the tin roof of the cabin told us that an iguana, usually about a metre long, had taken up position for a day of head-bobbing on the sunny roof apex.

A running iguana was altogether a much more uncommon sight. For one thing, the iguanas all seemed to be vying for the best vantage points high up on trees, rocks or buildings, and if they did move it was by a slow belly-dragging motion dictated by their low-slung bodies and splayed legs. But occasionally we startled one sunning itself at the side of the road and it would take off with a start, lurching away from the tarmac and propelling itself along by virtue of its whirring leg action. Needless to say it’s gait was rather ungainly, but it would thrash off into the undergrowth at quite some pace.

We more or less had the run of La Pacifica to ourselves. The eco-ranch was part  grazing land, part wilderness regeneration and part hotel. Ordinarily they would be host to various scientific meetings, scout camps, educational school visits and the like, but it was out of season and we were virtually the only guests.

During the day we would wander along the nearby River Corobici or into the surrounding woods, I’d be watching and photographing insects and Catrina would look at birds flying past or listen to the howler monkeys. One day saw us in a hay meadow down by the river. I was wading through the waist-high grass across the middle of the field, occasionally stopping to check out a large beetle or bug sitting atop a flower. Catrina was strolling, parallel, along the mown path that skirted the meadow, beside a narrow woodland.

Perhaps the ugliest reptile in Central America: baggy, flaccid and ungainly. But they can move some.

As usual we had seen a few iguanas on the rocks down by the river and disturbed one, larger and greener than usual, from the narrow tarmacked track down through the ranch’s scattered cabins. The long grass of the meadow seemed an unlikely haunt for these large, ugly, snout-nosed reptiles, but as I adjusted my position leaning over a particularly large stink-bug, readying the camera for a close-up shot, a startled beast took off from close by, and thundered away in a madcap  careen. It was heading straight for Catrina, standing quietly on the path.

I can’t quite remember, but I may have shouted something helpful like: “Coming your way”. She didn’t need the warning, she could see the ridge of parting grass, and the wake of trampled stems. Things suddenly went into action movie slow motion. It was heading straight at Catrina, so she moved off, out of the way. But the crazed monster was wildly zigzagging and changed its tack to keep right at her. She moved the other way, but the animal’s trajectory changed with her.

By now Catrina had departed from character and adopted a stereotype scared  girlie pose, elbows in, hands on face, knees twisted, like some prim schoolmistress who has seen a mouse. She was probably screaming too. She obviously had visions of the scaly critter emerging and scrambling straight up her, instead of the nearest tree. It seemed to take forever, but could not really have been more than a few seconds. The frantic shape emerged from the edge of the long grass, right at Catrina’s feet and she braced herself for the seemingly inevitable assault.

It’s hard to say who was more startled — Catrina or the small terrified rabbit that bolted out of the greenery and almost crashed into her. At the last second it checked its course one last time and plummeted into the woods. A silence hung in the air. With Catrina’s breathless cries now stopped, I turned my attention back to that stink bug.

I found a psychedelic toothbrush

Coquettish, I thought, with that flick of the tail.

I’m not really very fussed about moths. What an awful confession for an entomologist to make. I can get excited about microscopic beetles, and often also about bugs, bees, ants, flies, obscure parasitoid wasps and even false scorpions. But moths? They’re just a bit tame really, aren’t they?

The words of Oliver Wendell Holmes ring very true in my ear: “Lepidoptera and Neuroptera for little folks; Coleoptera for men, Sir!”

Perhaps it’s because I never went through a moth phase on my early entomological journey. I went more or less straight from butterfly collecting to beetles.

However, I do like caterpillars. As they’re wingless perhaps I think of them as honorary creepy-crawlies. And this is one of my favourites — the psychedelic toothbrush that is the caterpillar of the pale tussock moth, Calliteara pudibunda. With its all-along lilac side bristles, its delicate yellow tail blush and the extraordinary black velvet intersegmental flashes, it presents itself a bizarre creature.

This one had chosen a peculiar resting place; it was tucked deep inside the chiseled hole made by a woodpecker in a willow tree on the banks of the River Stour, near Sandwich. Perhaps it reasoned that having dug there once and moved on, the bird was unlikely to return. Something a bit like lightning not striking the same place twice? I prodded it with a grass stem and it shuffled out for a picture before heading further up the trunk.

It is definitely one of my favourite caterpillars. What a pity it turns into such a dull-looking moth.

You just can’t beat gruesome

It’s a bug-eat-bug world out there.

A family-oriented bioblitz in the middle of Deptford was never destined to find many great rarities, but it did turn up some memorably disgusting behaviour.

I don’t think enough is made of cannibalism. It’s one of those taboo subjects best avoided by serious natural history documentaries. But it makes a great spectator sport, especially for children.

So when two harlequin ladybird larvae turned on each other I knew my audience was hooked. Despite squeamish grimaces, they kept coming back, just to see how much oozing of body fluids was going on, and to double check the mandible action of the victor.