Flaming June came in, ablaze, then descended into darkness. One of the tasks that unmerry month was to show a party of American butterfly enthusiasts, from the Xerces Society, around butterfly sites in Hampshire and on the Isle of Wight. An eclectic group, under the leadership of beer-loving biologist Robert M Pyle, they visited Noar Hill where it rained heavily, Old Winchester Hill NNR where they saw a paltry few Adonis Blues, and Compton Chine and the adjoining downs on the island. At Compton the sun shone wondrously and the Glanville Fritillary was in goodly numbers, and looked and behaved like some of the American Checkerspot butterflies. But the highlight of the trip was up on the downs. There, in a moment of inspired serendipity, I led a group of twenty Americans laden with cameras through a gap in the gorse bushes, straight in upon a hyperactive pairing of Homo sapiens. ‘Don't stop for us!’ my American visitors shouted; ‘You two have fun while you're young,’ they advised; and best of all, ‘Hold it right there! I crossed The Pond for this shot!’ It was the highlight of their trip. The rest of June was an afterthought, though I did record my latest ever Duke of Burgundy, at Noar Hill on June 26th.
July began promisingly, seeking to redeem a weather-spoilt season that was running late. In perfect weather, on July 7th, our wedding anniversary, we joined a party from Butterfly Conservation Hampshire Branch on a field visit to Porton Down, the MOD's Chemical Defence Establishment site near Salisbury. This 1458-hectare (3600-acre) expanse of chalk grassland, scrub and woodland is one of the country's top butterfly sites, boasting some 43 species, many of which occur in huge populations over vast areas of landscape. I was bowled over. Quite ineffable, I wrote in the diary. It was the scale there that was so impressive.
Diary, July 7th 1985: The day belonged to the Dark Green Fritillary which was omni-present and omnipotent. We must have seen thousands, and it was hard to go a minute without seeing at least one. Regularly we saw, five, six or seven together. Mostly males quartering low over the ground in search of emerging females, but also some egg-laying females around the numerous Hairy Violet patches.
Above all, Porton illustrates the scale of what we have lost in this country, where quality butterfly habitats are reduced to fragments hither and thither. It also demonstrates the value of large-scale habitat mosaics.
In mid-July Mrs O and I set off up north for what was to be the highlight of the butterfly season, a ten-day survey of butterfly sites on the North York Moors, concentrating on the Duke of Burgundy. If the weather was indifferent down south it was positively vile in Yorkshire. That did not matter too much, as for the bulk of the time we were searching for the distinctive larval feeding damage on Primula leaves. His Grace was in trouble up here, struggling with issues of neglect and abandonment, heavy Rabbit and sheep grazing, and coniferisation – not to mention a less than clement climate. We concentrated on visiting sites in the valleys where the butterfly had been recorded in the recent past, but dabbled a little in terra nova, looking for new colonies. At Ellerburn Bank, in Thornton Dale, the butterfly was lingering on nicely – we found 46 Cowslip clumps supporting larvae on this nature reserve and others nearby. We were shown round by a black and white tom cat, out rabbiting. Shortly after our visit the Rabbits took over severely, and the butterfly died out. More tom cats were needed. At the south end of Newton Dale, above Pickering, a small but thriving colony was present in a young conifer plantation. Shortly afterwards, the conifers grew too tall and the colony was lost. There was also a scatter of tiny relic colonies dotted about further north, along the North Yorkshire Moors railway line. What was worrying was the presence of suitable but unoccupied habitat. There was no reason, obvious or otherwise, why the butterfly had died out from Gundale, from where it had been known for over a hundred years. An abandoned quarry system near Silpho was even more perplexing. This site, above a wooded dale delightfully named Whisperdale but full of screaming Girl Guides for our visit, looked to be in perfect condition for the butterfly, which was clearly absent. Presumably, there was no colony nearby from which colonisation could be sourced. At last, as the rain increased, we found a thriving colony amongst a few acres of scrubby limestone grassland above Rievaulx. There we counted 269 breeding sites (eaten Cowslip clumps), perhaps equating to 25–30 butterflies on a fine day in early June.
On the limestone grassland slopes the Northern Brown Argus was almost omni-present, though for much of the time these butterflies were to be found at roost on the grass heads, jewelled with raindrops; but being hardened northerners, they sprang to life immediately the sun glimmered. The Dark Green Fritillary was present in modest numbers on many of the open grasslands, but was loath to take to the air due to the cold temperatures. In the valley bottoms some sizeable colonies of the Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary were found, based on Marsh Violets growing in wet flushes. Everywhere, Ringlets abounded. They, almost alone, relish a damp summer. The Small Skipper and Marbled White were moving in, as recent colonists, and we also found a couple of White-letter Hairstreak colonies, based on Wych Elms which abound on the valley slopes. We also visited Fen Bog, the famous Large Heath site along the North Yorkshire Moors railway line below Goathland. In this valley fen and mire system the middle race of the Large Heath occurs – the moderately spotted race. They were bobbing up from in front of us and allowing themselves to be carried away downwind. I found a freshly emerged female and located the vacated pupal case. However, tired out that evening, I failed to describe where the pupa occurred in my diary, and cannot for the life of me remember anything about it now. This may well be the only record of the pupa of the Large Heath being found in the wild, and it is useless – and there is no excuse for bad natural history recording.
Perusal of the weather forecast suggested that Yorkshire was going to be plagued by endogenous cloud whilst the western fringe of Britain bathed in glorious sunshine. There was only one thing to do: abandon the Moors and spend a couple of days on the Morecambe Bay limestone hills. High Brown Fritillaries leapt to greet us on Hutton Roof, a partially wooded limestone pavement east of the M6, the nearest High Brown site to Yorkshire. But after one glorious day Yorkshire's weather crossed the Pennines. The M6 southbound enveloped us in motorway spray, all the way back to a sunny Hampshire.
Down south, a reasonable August and September were spent surveying new territory in and around Hampshire – primarily chalk downland fragments trapped within vast acreages of arable farmland. Many of these places, remnants of the extensive tracts of downland that had characterised Hampshire, were surprisingly rich, supporting colonies of Chalkhill Blue, Small Blue, Brown Argus and the like, and even tiny relic populations of the Duke of Burgundy. The season was running so late that many of the high-summer and August species lingered unusually long, usefully extending the surveying season. The problem was that many of these newly found sites were tiny, isolated fragments, too small to maintain their butterfly faunas indefinitely and, above all, neglected because they were too small to be viable as grazing units or because the farms had converted to arable farming. They were last-ditch stand places, tiny corners into which butterflies had been pushed by wave after wave of agricultural intensification, backed up by afforestation of downland fragments. In effect, this was depressing work.
Outside Hampshire, a number of sites for His Grace the Duke of Burgundy were visited, localities known to support sizeable populations, primarily to advise on habitat management for this rapidly declining butterfly. Judging by the abundance of eaten Cowslip plants, Edge Common in the Cotswolds and Ivinghoe Beacon in the north Chilterns threatened to rival Noar Hill for the privilege of holding Britain's premier Duke of Burgundy population. I was somewhat blown away.
Women, especially wives, can choose their moments carefully, such that Mrs O chose the precise moment when I was being blown away by the scale of the Burgundy population at Ivinghoe to announce that we were going to become parents in May.
Some redemption was necessary after the deprivations of the previous year, but 1986 started wet and cold, with widespread flood
ing. The last thing the country needed was February, but we got it, big time, for we were subjected to the second coldest February of the century (after 1947). Snow arrived in the South on the 6th, and remained on the ground for over ten days as temperatures struggled to rise above zero, boosted by a biting wind from Siberia which dominated the whole of the second half of a loathsome month. At The Lodge, we again retreated into a single room, the toilet froze and our beloved resident cock Blackbird, a partial-albino called Percy Bysshe, died on the windowsill. On Noar Hill, the sheep and Rabbits were both reduced to stripping Ash bark, as the grass lay buried. The beginning of March saw no improvement, but then, quite suddenly, at the end of the first week something approximating to spring arrived: Snowdrops immediately popped up, Robins began to trill and a Small Tortoiseshell appeared in the garden, thought better of it and retreated back to hibernation in a densely foliated conifer.
March concluded with a vicious gale, borne on a very deep depression, which took a while to blow itself out. Worse, Easter came early, at the end of March, and as the diary bemoans: Why is it that every time Easter comes early the weather is Vile? The omens were not looking good: there was still no sign of a Chiffchaff, and England's cricketers were getting pulverised in the West Indies.
April started ominously – perishing cold in fact. By mid-month I had seen a mere ten individual butterflies, of just two species, and had yet to hear a Chiffchaff. Some improvement then occurred, bringing in the migrant birds and, on the 30th, the first Orange-tips – some two weeks late. April 1986 later won the accolade of being the coldest in southern England since 1922. The first leaves only started to appear on the Beeches and oaks in early May, though within a week they were well in leaf and the early Bluebells were starting to flower. Mid-month the first Duke of Burgundy males appeared on Noar Hill, two weeks late. They then struggled, as the weather found diverse ways to irritate – rain, wind, convective cloud cover, the lot. The month was, however, redeemed by the birth of our first child on May 27th. We named her Lucina, after the Roman goddess of light, and of course after the Duke of Burgundy (Hamearis lucina). The name could readily be shortened to Lucy. It was.
First-time dads go off on an adrenaline rush, especially if blessed with a daughter. This one went off searching for Duke of Burgundy colonies in obscure parts of Hampshire. The insect was, though, suffering from the effects of a poor May. At Noar Hill, its numbers were decidedly substandard, partly on account of the weather and partly on account of rising Rabbit numbers. The Rabbit is probably this rare butterfly's Number One enemy, for Rabbits graze too close to the ground, lowering the sward height such that the Cowslips on which the larvae feed become stunted and the leaves turn yellow before the larvae are fully grown. Something had to be done about the rising Rabbit population on Noar Hill. Done it was, by means of dawn shooting with a .22 rifle and silencer, aiming safely down at targets in the chalk pits. My cat, Mouse, also helped – just as, on other occasions, he also helped by discovering Yellow-necked Mouse and Harvest Mouse on the reserve. Later, after fifteen happy years, he was buried there.
Spring and early summer were so poor that I did not see the first Red Admiral of the year until June 10th, when it suddenly arrived in modest numbers, borne on some reasonable weather. A disappointing June ended well, though by now the butterfly season was running decidedly late, so late that the Orange-tip lingered into early July and butterflies such as the Marbled White, Ringlet, Silver-studded Blue and White Admiral did not appear before around July 7th.
A change in the weather was due, and we got one. It was ushered in by the following event:
Diary, June 22nd 1986: An excellent thunderstorm. It began at 11 pm with a 45-minute preamble of distant sheet lightning, after an evening of eerie pallid light. Around midnight rolling thunder came over, in waves, accompanied by both sheet and forked lightning and some torrential bursts of rain.
There are people, like me, who just have to be outside in a storm like that – to be amongst it, and within it, and to absorb its energy.
In mid-July ten days were spent surveying for High Brown Fritillary colonies in the Malvern Hills and the Wyre Forest in the West Midlands, commissioned by the NCC. Simon Grove, a young Hampshire naturalist of considerable ability, joined me on this venture. He was recovering from university finals, and from a broken heart. I was temporarily escaping from fatherhood. To make the money run further, and to escape deep into Nature, we took tents and camped in Eastnor Park, an ancient pasture woodland below the west flank of the southern Malverns, adorned with veteran oaks and grazed by sheep and a long-established herd of Red Deer. Incredibly, the weather was set fair; our noses burnt and then peeled.
We knew that the High Brown had strong colonies at the southern end of the Malverns, based on Swinyard Hill and over to Eastnor Park, via Gullet Quarry, but had little other information. Those were the places which the West Midland butterflyers of the time visited, but few ventured beyond those safe havens. Swinyard Hill is a steep Bracken-covered slope on the east flank of the southern Malverns, directly above Castle Morton Common. A large number of sheep then grazed on the common and roamed onto Swinyard Hill. It was particularly important that they grazed off the soft grasses that grew amongst the Bracken in spring, to ensure the warm microclimate conditions required by High Brown larvae. In the process, these animals trampled down the dead Bracken and so enabled the necessary violet leaves to abound. Gullet Quarry, with its deep blue lagoon water, naked swimmers, naturalised goldfish and exposures of ancient rocks, was little more than a staging post for High Browns flying between Swinyard and Eastnor, stopping by to feed on its bramble and Buddleia flowers.
The place of most interest was Eastnor Park, particularly the south-facing Bracken slope below the obelisk. That slope was a revelation. It had recently been used as a venue for ad hoc four-wheel-drive training events, with the vehicles following no fixed course through the Bracken and regularly changing route. By happy chance, this rather mindless activity produced the best breeding conditions for the High Brown I have ever seen, for the trackways consisted of an open, knee-high Bracken cover with huge drifts of violets amongst the masticated remains of the previous season's Bracken fronds and stalks. Grasses had great difficulty coping with all this and were consequently sparse – and the High Brown requires drifts of violets amongst broken Bracken litter, without the grass that cools the microclimate down. On this slope the High Brown Fritillary abounded, such that I counted 90 in an hour one afternoon. Best of all, a muddy puddle along one of the trackways attracted a dozen males one hot and humid afternoon, to imbibe moisture. The photograph had to be carefully lined up, requiring lying down prostrate, elbows in mud. But coming towards me was a jogger. ‘Please! Go left! Slow down! Let me take this photo.’ But no, he ran straight through, scattering the host of golden butterflies, and splashing me. A paltry four High Browns returned, and were duly photographed. Forgiveness can take a long time to materialise: nearly thirty years on, there is no sign of it arriving yet.
Perhaps that jogger was an outrider of the Four Riders of the Apocalypse, because soon afterwards the High Brown Fritillary collapsed at Eastnor. First, the four-wheel vehicles were persuaded to keep to an established route, which produced wholly unsuitable High Brown breeding habitat. Second, the number of deer and sheep declined greatly, and no longer ventured onto the obelisk slope. Finally, Bluebells increased dramatically and ousted the violets, and provided microclimate conditions that were far too cool for this heat-loving butterfly.
Simon and I searched almost the entire length of the Malverns, though avoiding the high northern summits where soil conditions were too acidic for violets to grow. We found small colonies on and around all the southern hills, places with haunting names like Ragged Stone Hill, Chase End Hill, Midsummer Hill (where several ley lines converge), Hangman's Hill and British Camp. The butterfly was thriving there. But we could see that it was highly vulnerable, dependent on high levels of commoners’ stock and threatened by neglect a
nd abandonment. Within a few years those fears were fully realised.
We searched northwards along the Herefordshire/Worcestershire border, discovering dwindling populations on Bringsty and Bromyard Commons, above Bromyard. These Bracken-invaded commons were grazed by large numbers of sheep, but even so conditions were deteriorating rapidly, as the sheep were not penetrating the Bracken stands adequately and the commoners were giving up the practice of periodically burning blocks of Bracken, on advice from the fire brigade. The butterfly was lost from these two sites when grazing animals were culled during the 2001 foot & mouth outbreak.
Finally, we spent two days looking for the High Brown Fritillary in the Wyre Forest, on the Worcestershire/Shropshire border. Two days to search a 3333-hectare (8200-acre) forest is clearly inadequate, but we were assisted by Mike Williams and other members of Butterfly Conservation's West Midlands Branch. All told we saw thirteen High Browns, some of the last ever seen in Wyre, but little suitable was habitat found. Our conclusion was that the butterfly was lingering on in Wyre through inertia, breeding in tiny fragments of suitable habitat dotted about amongst open-grown trees on south-facing slopes. Shortly afterwards, the Wyre race of the High Brown Fritillary became extinct. They were the largest High Browns I have ever seen, the size of Silver-washed Fritillaries. Of course, the High Brown Fritillary stormed its way to win Butterfly of the Year for 1986.
Inspired by what was clearly a very good year for High Brown Fritillaries, I searched yet again in the New Forest for the butterfly, but failed to find it. At the end of July I journeyed up to South Lakeland to search for High Browns there, but on crossing the Cumbrian border I found that foul weather was moving down from the north. In five rotten days I managed a measly five High Browns, during glimmers of watery sun. But I did discover a Large Heath colony new to science, and on a National Nature Reserve to boot. Incredibly, it seemed that no one knew that the Large Heath occurred on Rusland Moss NNR, in the Rusland valley south of Windermere, despite it being one of our oldest National Nature Reserves. I had only gone there because I wanted to see Arthur Ransome's grave in the nearby churchyard. Finally, a lone fine day on Arnside Knott produced a scatter of soggy High Browns, drying out, and the first Scotch Argus males of the summer. Then, yet again, I was flooded out of the Lake District.
In Pursuit of Butterflies Page 17