First proofs for Wasp are in. These are just a few samples to give a taster.
Watch this space.
First proofs for Wasp are in. These are just a few samples to give a taster.
Watch this space.
NOTE: If you’re a journalist and you’ve come across this article researching false widow spiders, there’s a useful fact box at the bottom of the page that will give you all the necessary information you need.
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Five years ago I made mockery of the tabloid media for descending into the realms of garbled fantasy and blinkered ignorance. Schools were being closed because of infestations of false widow spiders and journalists the length of the country were sharpening their ill-honed wits to sell more ill-informed guff to an unwitting public hungry for sensationalist claptrap.
It’s happening again. Despite 5 years of ever-improving scientific knowledge and a resurgent interest in the natural world amongst their teachers and pupils, schools are still being closed because of fears over spiders. Urgh.
It started in London.
But whose fears are being pandered to? I doubt it’s the pupils. It seems the disconnect between humans and nature is not just a case of children no longer playing in the countryside, it is that adults (in this case some teachers, school governors, education department executives, parents too maybe) are falling victim to ancient prejudices and silly stereotypes, and these are being reinforced by the failings of the usual clamorous tabloid inanity. The sooner Mary Colwell manages to get a GCSE in Natural History established, the better.
This is my response, and to help get the message across I recruited the willing helpers of Ivydale Primary School in south-east London.
Not all spiders are dark and sinister bundles of threat and danger. What if they were are prettily coloured as butterflies?
Next up — produce powerpoint presentations on why spiders are our friends. It wasn’t long before they were googling ‘cute spider pictures’ or ‘how many flies does a spider eat in a year?’ or ‘how many species of spider are there?’
The head teacher Helen Ingham came in to see how we were getting on. I think she was pleased that none of her pupils had been traumatized, or bitten.
So now the serious part. What did the pupils of Ivydale learn? Here are some important facts:
Ostensibly it’s a simple stylized tile around one of the fireplaces below stairs at the splendidly handsome 17th century National Trust property Ham House, near Richmond. And despite its wiggly tail and unfeasibly long legs of uncertain number, it is obviously a dragonfly. But what species?
Ordinarily it would not matter, and anyway identification would be impossible, because the artists of most insect-themed antiquarian objets more or less made up the designs based on rather vague patterns that appear to have been copies of copies of copies of imaginary beings.
But this one actually looks like a genuine and obvious insect. The 12-spotted skimmer, Libella pulchella, is a beautiful and distinctive North American dragonfly, with pale blue body and strongly spotted wings.
Could this really be a North American species that has somehow been morphed through Chinese-influenced Low Countries ceramic tiles to end up in a Home Counties manor house?
Or perhaps I’m imagining things.
I found this lovely bristly caterpillar in the garden a few days ago. I’m not sure whether it was eating the peony flower, or leaves, but it was perfectly posed, including a few morsels of frass.
The gypsy moth, Lymantria dispar, was once native to Britain, more or less limited to East Anglia, but had disappeared after the widespread draining of the fens during the 18th and 19th centuries. When it re-established itself in the London area at the end of the 1990s there was a flurry of activity trying to control what could potentially be a major forestry pest. In some parts of Europe, and in North America (where it was deliberately released during the 19th century for a putative domestic silk industry), it can cause defoliation of large swathes of trees.
The moth, however, seems to be well-esconced here, and eradication plans have subsided. When I found an adult moth in the Olympic Park near Stratford a few years ago there was some mild consternation from the park authorities, but there is precious little anyone can do unless the gregarious caterpillars can be found early enough and the whole nest of them cut out and destroyed.
I’m not sure where my singleton on the peony came from. There are several very large pear trees in neighbouring gardens and we’ve got an apple. I’ll have a closer look over the next few days. The only time I ever saw the caterpillars before, they were feeding on oak trees at the London Wildlife Trust nature reserve at Gunnersbury Triangle. Here they were creating their characteristic silk trails up and down the trunks, moving upwards in procession to feed on the leaves during the night, but returning, following the silk lines down, to huddle in a great knot on the bark during the day.
Earlier this week a London environmental email group produced several reports of sightings in north and east London. It’s obviously doing well in London.
There has also been a spate of recent sightings of the oak processionary moth, Thaumetopoea processionea, in London. Like the gypsy moth it appears to have colonized Britain very recently, and its caterpillars also move in long lines, follow-my-leader style, but only on oak trees. Again, there has been some activity to try and get the public to report outbreaks so that they can be located and destroyed. I’ve just had a notice of work going on in Catford. Concern is centred on possible tree damage, but also on the caterpillars’ long brittle hairs which contain a venom and which can cause irritation in some people. There is a risk of rashes if the caterpillars are handled, or of eye-irritation or asthmatic breathing difficulties since the hairs break and fragments float in the air.
At the moment there is still an expectation that outbreaks should be reported and attempts made to contain and destroy them.
London has a long history of ‘dangerous’ caterpillars, ever since the serious 18th and 19th century outbreaks of browntail moth, Euproctis chrysorrhoea, caused the local beadle to offer a bounty of 6d per bushel for their silk-strand nests cut from the orchards of Clapham and Battersea. There was a massive bonfire to destroy them. Every so often there is a plaintive warning about the stinging browntail caterpillars from various London borough councils, and warningly titled information sheets are circulated.
I can be fairly blasé about browntails since I seem to be able to handle the larvae with impunity. But my sister suffered many years of tearful eye complaints because she lives on the south coast where the moths and their caterpillars are always common. I’ll expect to come across more oak processionary and gypsy moth caterpillars, and will handle them cautiously when I do.
We missed the Nunhead Cemetery Open Day in 2017 — we were told it must not happen again. So this year we made our come-back.
Lillian was in charge of putting together the display boards, which featured a selection of Extreme Insects spreads, some gate-fold identification guides to popular groups, and various show-off book covers.
And on they came. We reckoned on something like 200 visitors. Cardinal beetles, Pyrochroa serraticornis, were frequent finds, as were Lithobius centipedes (none bit me this time), the usual woodlice (four species), the scarce brown tree ant, Lasius brunneus, and then this lovely….
He wasn’t the first person to peer inquisitively over my shoulder that day, but he certainly had the most questions.
“Are you an actor?” was his first.
“No,” I reassured him earnestly, “I really am an entomologist”. As if to prove the point, I stared even more intently into the microscope. I continued to manipulate the fly specimen carefully under the light and then pored over the identification key. Almost subconsciously, as if to further support my claim, I muttered to myself, probably something like: “Hind femur…terminal anterodorsal bristle…present.”
“And you do this all the time?” he followed up.
“Yes,” I claimed, “but this is the first time I’ve been on public display.” I could tell by his penetrating look that he wasn’t completely convinced. He tried another tack.
“This is a really nice shed.”
Looking about carefully at the joinery, he stated this with the extreme authority of someone who knows their stuff, someone who is, perhaps, an internationally acknowledged expert on temporary wooden structures, possibly a garden building twitcher, a doyen of sheds. “Did you build it?” I had to admit that I had not built it.
“Really nice.” he repeated, cocking his head slightly as he appraised the roof joists. “Really well built. Was this your idea?”
Again, I had to rebuff his admiration and acknowledge that, no, it was not my idea. I declined to join him in further shed appreciation, merely nodding and coughing and gripping the microscope even more firmly.
But he persisted. “I’d really like a shed like this.” I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. There are too many anecdotes about odd men in sheds, and here was I, carrying out the relatively eccentric activity of studying insects, in a shed, being quizzed by someone who was probably only marginally less peculiar than me. I was beginning to think that maybe he was someone too sad even to have his own shed, but who coveted those of his neighbours. “It’s clever the way the skylights are arranged; that’s a neat design feature.”
By now I was dreading an extended conversation on tenon and mortise joints, door furniture, all-weather paint treatments and the benefits of shiplap over featheredge. But luckily some other visitors arrived and he had to move out of the way to let them see what I was up to.
And just what was I up to? Well, I must admit, I still have an anxious feeling that I’m not entirely sure what I was up to. Ostensibly I was collecting and cataloguing the insects from a tiny derelict garden next to Camberwell’s South London Gallery. That much is fairly straightforward. But this was not part of some academic enquiry into garden insect biodiversity, nor was it an ecological study or an environmental impact assessment. No, I was making art. I was being part of art. In fact I was part of an art installation. It was all very odd — very, very odd.
The “Secret Garden Biological Field Unit” was designed by American artist Mark Dion. It was an octagonal wooden building about 3 metres in diameter and 4 high. It had windows and skylights, mains power, heating, lighting, furniture and with its varnished marine ply, aluminium flashings and weatherproof fitted windows it was, as my inquisitive visitor had so keenly observed, really well built.
It was provided with a binocular microscope, insect cabinet, entomological pins, glass vials, alcohol, card, plastizote mounting strips, ethyl-acetate, tweezers, scalpels, fine brushes, hand lenses, petri dishes, and all the other basic laboratory paraphernalia a field entomologist might require. And it was my place to sit there, for ten days during August and September 2005, to catch insects in the “garden” (now mostly bramble, bindweed, nettles and other rank weeds), mount them, identify them and display them for all to see.
It was not an onerous or arduous task. Admittedly it wasn’t the most enticing site I’d ever studied, but I am well used to visiting derelict brownfield sites, with disused buildings and overgrown gardens and finding the most unusual things.
There were some of the ‘usual’ oddities. Kalcapion semivittatum is a tiny weevil which feeds on annual mercury. Once regarded as exceptionally rare, it is now well established in London and the south-east and appears to be spreading. Agrilus sinuatus is a beautiful reddish pink jewel beetle. Once given red data book status it has since proved to be more widespread since the characteristic sinuous burrows its larvae make through dead hawthorn bark have been recognized. The distinctive D-shaped exit holes peppered a sad-looking branch of the straggling hawthorn bush in the garden. And although I don’t usually rate buddleja very highly as a nectar source it did bring in the huge hornet-mimicking hoverfly, Volucella zonaria. Again, once very scarce, as a rare migrant to Britain, it has increased in the last 50 years and is now firmly established breeding in the UK and is fairly common in London. And finally, the much media-hyped harlequin ladybird, Harmonia axyridis, turned up in various colour forms. I duly labelled the specimens and added short notes with a bit of commentary to some of the more interesting species. I tried to make the cabinet display as aesthetically pleasing as I could.
I was not alone in my ‘art’. I was joined at times by Lucy Smith, a botanical illustrator from Kew Gardens who was painting precise and delicate water colours of some of the ‘secret’ garden’s plants, and Victoria Papworth, botany curator from the Natural History Museum, who was constructing a herbarium collection of pressed plant specimens. Sometimes our visits coincided so we were able to chat over Radio 4 and exchange ideas about this unusual project. Even if we did not meet up on the same day, I could tell if one of my confederates had earlier passed through by the rearranged paper and brushes and by the extra sheets pinned up on notice-boards or piled into the plant press.
When we weren’t there, visitors could peek in through the windows to see our equipment scattered across the desks — some new flowers in a vase next to the latest painting, a glass-topped drawer full of carefully labelled specimens, and the odd identification guide supposedly left casually open on the tabletop. It reminded me, somewhat, of Charles Darwin’s study at Down House. There, various glass jars, notebooks, pens, ink, and lenses are now arranged on the desk, just as if the old man had, moments ago, interrupted his studies and decided to take a short walk in the garden, but would be back any minute.
However, it was not this tableau that was the art, neither was it the labelled display of my insect specimens, nor ironically the delicate water-colour flower paintings, nor even the very well built shed itself. It was the whole setting of garden, laboratory and the ‘naturalists’ working within. It was the whole installation and the interaction of visitors with the resident scientists.
As I sat there collecting, curating and identifying the 128 species that I eventually found, I contemplated the strangeness of my unusual situation. Should I be ‘performing’ to the visitors that quizzed me? Should I be ‘in character’ wearing a Panama hat or a pith helmet? Was the perceived triviality of collecting insects being mocked? And perhaps more fundamentally, how had what I normally regard as the ‘science’ of entomology been turned around into art?
I had long conversations with the many visitors to the gallery: teachers, schoolchildren, students, artists, art critics, the curators of the gallery, and even the originating artist, Dion, himself. We discussed the basics of insect taxonomy and ecology. I was able to enthuse about nature all around us, even in art galleries. I tried to infect my audience with the awe of the multitudinous microcosm that is the study of insects. We mused on the mutual significance (or was it insignificance?) of artistic interpretation and scientific understanding. We philosophized about beauty, and creation (but thankfully not creationism). We even considered the parlous state of funding, for both arts and science, in the UK. And although I enjoyed my time on display, I must admit that I am still slightly baffled by the whole scheme.
However, I have come away the wiser, because I have decided on one basic tenet of the human condition— the distinction between art and science is now clear to me. It does not matter how big or small the project; how significant the potential outcome to influence our future lives, or how practical or ephemeral the subject of our attention. Science and art share a sacred truth, a truth based on who and where, not on why and what for. It’s simple — science is what scientists do in laboratories, art is what artists do in art galleries.
And so it continued, for the ten days of what I now look back on fondly as my sabbatical, when I was co-opted, briefly, into the art world. And I never knew who would walk through the door next. It turned out to be an art critic for one of the nationals. She peered over my shoulder, then looked around.
“This is a nice shed, are you the artist?” Oh no, here we go again.
This piece was originally published in Antenna, newsletter and bulletin of the Royal Entomological Society, 2007. I’m reprinting it today after discovering that Mark Dion is back in town with a new exhibition at the Whitechapel Gallery.
This is perhaps the rarest insect I’ve seen this year. Or it may just be the most obscure. The Bethylidae are technically (along with bees, wasps and ants) part of the Aculeata (they mostly have stings at the pointed end), but whereas those more familiar insects have a popular following and at least some popular recognition, bethylids are mired in darkest obscurity. This is certainly the largest bethylid I’ve ever seen, but at just over 5 mm it is minuscule beside yellow-jackets and bumblebees.
I like the bethylids, mostly because I started finding them when looking for beetles. They have a most un-wasp-like way of running around in the sweep-net, not flying, rather like a tiny rove beetle; they are dark, parallel-sided with shining thorax and a triangular or pentagonal head a bit like Sunius or Rugilus. I now have quite a collection of them thanks to my confusion.
It seems likely, though, that most other coleopterists ignore them, as do most hymenopterists. Consequently they are poorly understood and seldom recorded. There are zero records for Pseudisobrachium on the National Biodiversity Network database. According to the Bees, Wasps and Ants Recording Society page, there are old (19th, or early 20th century?) records for Kent, Surrey, Isle of Wight and Dorset; the only modern record is from South Essex in the 1990s.
This is a male; females of Pseudisobrachium are blind and wingless and possibly live in some association with ants, although nobody seems quite sure. This does mean that as a species it is very poorly adapted to finding and colonizing new sites, but well-suited to declining and become locally extinct.
I found it near Hounslow Heath, a worthy remnant of sandy heathland in west London. Sadly this area is under constant threat from urban encroachment, development and habitat degradation. There is now nothing remotely heathy about the once richly biodiverse Heath Row a few thousand metres away north-west, now buried under runways, hangars and shining terminal buildings.
The single specimen, swept on a sunny but cool 15 September, was just outside the genuine Heath, on the abandoned golf course. Here, a year after the course closed, the fairways have grown into long grass, but apart from some yarrow, plant variety is almost a herb-poor monoculture of coarse grasses. The only variation was in some of the old sand bunkers, and sure enough this is where Pseudisobrachium occurred.
Golf courses have a mixed reputation for nature conservation. On the one hand they are green open spaces with roughs and copses and hedges and trees, but on the other they are sometimes savagely manicured to within an inch of their wildlife.
But if left alone for a short while, strange creatures may eventually crawl out of the hazards — even if they are tiny, mysterious creeping things about which we know virtually nothing.
No blog post for 2 months — what is going on? Well, I’ve been rather busy, not least shooing the final proofs of the Beetles volume of the New Naturalist Library out of the door.
It’s on the website, though the front cover has yet to be finalized.
Nevertheless, the publication date of 30 November seems to be quite prominent, and the blurb is correct. [Note: just received notification from the publishers that although I might expect an advance copy some time in late October, the official publication date will now be 11 January 2018.]
Watch this space.
This is the third year that London Wildlife Trust have been able to fund a traineeship scheme in environmental conservation, and for two days in June they agree to be indoctrinated in entomology.
The theme is the familiar one — How to be a curious entomologist. In practice this means learning how to go out and find insects, look at them closely, then collect sample specimens for later identification. The simple act of making a small insect collection is fascinating, fun, and yet still scientifically worthwhile.
First find your insects, and this year’s habitat of choice is the Devonshire Road Nature Reserve in Lewisham. Unlike last year, when the monsoon came, the weather was perfect; comfortable for both insects and entomologists alike.
Devonshire Road has a classroom, easily converted to a laboratory, and a walk in the woods can now settle down to take on a scientific air.
As usual everything looks amazing down the microscope, but the importance of an insect collection is not aesthetic, it is scientific, and many of the finds are unusual.
After several years of running London Wildlife Trust trainee courses, and similar one-day events for all-comers, the Devonshire Road insect collection is starting to look good.
For some of the back story to the workshops, go to this previous blog entry from the workshop at Beckenham Place Park in 2016, and the original workshops in 2012. There are links onwards to further workshop reports, links on making and curating insect collections and other entomological websites.
There will be more entomologists at Devonshire Road later in the year — 22 and 23 July. At the time of writing there are still places available on both days.