The weather recovered too, but it was time to move moors, to Exmoor. I had been asked to look in the Barle and Exe valleys upstream of Dulverton. If anything, the Barle valley was even more magical than the Teign valley, and much lonelier. The river here, too, was unduly low. Sunlight danced myriad patterns upon it, and warmed its ever-slippery pebbles. I walked the Barle from Mounsey up to Withypool and back, and ventured up Pennycombe Water valley above Withypool. There were small colonies of High Browns in Bracken patches all along this valley system. Two or three butterflies here, half a dozen there, intermingled with similar-looking Dark Green Fritillaries, ageing Small Pearl-bordered Fritillaries and freshly emerged Silver-washed Fritillaries. At one point, high up in the secluded Pennycombe valley, a battling pair of White-letter Hairstreak males took off from a lone stunted Wych Elm, spitting fire and brimstone at each other. This butterfly was unknown from the district, but butterflies here were seriously under-recorded. Where the Bracken stands were grazed, the High Brown colonies looked healthy, but where the Bracken was neglected the butterflies looked doomed. Shortly after my survey grazing either ceased or intensified in this valley system, and the butterfly disappeared. But in 1989 this survey work seemed far from futile, and I was absorbed, not by loneliness but by oneness.
Three new colonies were discovered in the upper Exe valley, downstream of Exford. One of these was remarkably uphill for the High Brown, being well above the 200-metre contour, its normal altitude limit, but this was a hot summer and the butterfly was expanding its range. Again, all colonies were based on south-facing stands of Bracken that were still grazed by cattle or sheep. Time was also spent searching the steep Bracken slopes between Porlock and Minehead. Eventually, the butterfly's headquarters here were identified – the lower slopes of Bossington Hill, above Porlock Vale. Finally, combes in the northern Quantocks were searched. Here, the Bracken stands looked ideal in terms of structure and litter breakdown, but were lacking in one essential detail – the soils were largely too acidic for violets, and acid-loving Sheep Sorrel grew prolifically instead. The 1989 High Brown Fritillary Roadshow had suddenly run its course. The journey finished by a waterfall in the Quantocks beloved by Dorothy Wordsworth. Here in the northern Quantocks she had run amok by day and night with her beloved brother and with their soul mate and William's muse, Samuel Coleridge, during their golden era in the late 1790s.
That evening I had to travel to Stroud in the Cotswolds, to assist with a training course for National Trust wardens on limestone grassland ecology. The course was based at Hawkwood College, a Georgian mansion at the head of a valley which offers spectacular sunsets. The college had been established by the Steiner movement in 1948, and it has a unique feel. It was an excellent halfway house after three weeks in the wilds. Strangely, though, I could not get used to sleeping in a bed again, missing my tent and the murmurings of the river close by. My shins bore the scratches of innumerable brambles and I was blistered by mosquito and horsefly bites, but I was completely unscathed by ticks – indeed, I never saw a tick until the hot summers of the mid-1990s, despite spending copious amounts of high summer time in tick-infested Bracken beds. More importantly, on this trip I encountered a depth of experience, belonging and wonderment few can claim today. The following day the slopes of Rodborough Common, one of the limestone hills above Stroud, were alive with Chalkhill Blues but my soul was still on the moors, dancing with the High Browns over shining Bracken fronds. It was inevitable that the High Brown would make off with the title of Butterfly of the Year 1989.
But the summer was far from over. In early July second-brood Holly Blues began to appear, and by mid-July they were everywhere. In some places they emerged in remarkable numbers. I counted over 50 on Yateley Common, a scrubby heath in north-east Hampshire, including seven feeding together on a bramble patch. To put that into perspective, that was the most of this often quite common butterfly I had seen since finding it commonplace on Guernsey in August 1970. All told, I saw about 130 second-brood individuals that high summer, compared to seventeen first-brood specimens – and seventeen itself was a reasonable tally. The Holly Blue vanishes for years before suddenly coming from nowhere and becoming relatively numerous for three or four broods, during a good summer sequence, before fading again. These boom and bust cycles are supposed to be driven by the abundance of a tiny yellow and black wasp, Listrodomus nycthemerus, which parasitises the larvae in a classic host–parasite relationship: host numbers build up, the parasite increases, the host declines, the parasite then crashes, the gap between host and parasite widens, and the host increases again. Something like that. Doubtless other factors are at play too, besides the weather. With Holly Blues, enjoy them when you have them, for there are more lean times than bountiful years. In 1989, the second brood had virtually fizzled out by mid-August, but a small and highly localised third generation occurred during September and early October. Above all, the Holly Blue had set itself up well for 1990.
The humble Green-veined White, so often overlooked and lost amongst the ubiquitous ‘cabbage whites’, also produced a bumper second brood. Back at The Moors, near Bishop's Waltham, the summer brood was even more prolific than the spring brood had been. In searing heat on July 23rd the butterfly was probably twice as numerous as in early May. Again, the females were seeking out the basal rosette leaves of Lady's Smock, now hidden amongst lush meadowland grasses. I could see up to a dozen rising and falling over the fen meadow, seeking to lay their eggs. Also, females were watched freely laying eggs on Fools Watercress growing midstream in one of the chalky watercourses there. So we have an aquatic butterfly, the diary states enthusiastically.
In late July, the heaths started to frazzle, cracks appeared in exposed clay, trees dropped leaves and the downs turned a Mediterranean grey. A trip to the western Isle of Wight downs found the Chalkhill Blue in super-abundance, but they were having to disperse away from the downs to find nectar, for the downland flowers were in desperate need of rain. The Chalkhills wandered downslope into fields which had been cut for silage in June, and where plants were consequently re-flowering. They were also imbibing moisture from cattle dung, deposited by the Galloway cattle that have grazed the length of Brook and Compton downs since the herd was established there just after the Second World War. The drought was alleviated by showers and patchy drizzle in mid-August.
In early August I revisited one of my old heartlands, Watlington Hill on the scarp slope of the Chilterns, a couple of kilometres south of the M40. I had known it well during the late 1960s and early 1970s, visited again in 1976 and then briefly in 1981. I was surprised how much it had changed. The Rabbit population had increased massively. The areas of rough grass so prominent during the late 1960s were all gone, replaced by short billiard-table turf ideal for the Silver-spotted Skipper. Twenty years previously, the skipper had been restricted to a few acres of north-facing and south-facing slope at the east end of the National Trust holding, whilst rough-grassland butterflies like the Marbled White abounded elsewhere. Now the Silver-spotted Skipper had all the open grassland for its own, and the Marbled White & Co. were restricted to deeper soil pockets along the slope bottoms. I had never seen so many Silver-spotted Skippers, counting 350 at a rate of 1.96 per minute during a zigzag count across the main short-turf areas. Few butterflies are harder to count than this minuscule, hyperactive jet fighter of a butterfly that relishes hot sunshine.
The heat intensified, and brought out second broods of butterfly species which in normal summers are single-brooded. On the downs, and even on Yateley Common, quite a number of second-brood Dingy Skippers were seen. These were novel, for they were feeding on August flowers, not their usual spring flowers. The Small Blue produced quite a sizeable second generation at many sites, and in Alice Holt Forest the Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary was double-brooded. I counted over a dozen there on August 12th, though all were dwarf in size, mostly about the size of a Chalkhill Blue; one was tiny, the size of a Small Copper. Another feature of great butterfly sum
mers is the way normally sedentary species turn up in strange places, miles from their normal habitat. Some Chalkhill Blue males become wanderers during prolonged hot weather, and in 1989 several turned up in the New Forest. I also rescued a stray Small Blue from Pamber Forest, and released it 25 kilometres away at the nearest known locality.
The hot summer weather finally broke on September 14th, when a vigorous depression came over from the west. I watched it advance, and the sun vanish, whilst having lunch by the Albert Memorial in London, my favourite piece of architecture. The best aspect of it is Asia's right breast, which was blasted into the Royal Albert Hall by a Nazi bomb – you can see the join line where they glued it back on.
Nonetheless, 1989 had one magical trick left up its sleeve. On a visit to Pamber Forest back on July 25th I had noted that White Admiral larvae were entering their third instar, whereas normally they bed down for their winter hibernation as second-instar larvae. Perhaps they were going to produce a second brood, for the first time in Hampshire since 1947? Then, during late September and early October a few second-brood butterflies were indeed seen in Hampshire and Sussex, including one in Pamber Forest. This inspired Mrs O and me to name our second daughter, born on October 10th, Camilla, after the White Admiral (Limenitis camilla), the most graceful of all our butterflies. The name could readily be shortened to Millie. In due course, it was.
Gradually summer sank into autumn. Then the long-awaited rains arrived with Valkyrien vengeance in mid-December. But I was oblivious to them, for much of that winter was spent in the sanctuary of the most wonderful building in London, the Natural History Museum. There, in a world far removed from the bustling public galleries, reside many of the museum's butterfly collections (many more are in an outpost at Tring) and an oasis of sublime tranquillity, the museum's reading room. There one can while away the winter months researching the fascinating history of butterflying in the British Isles, oblivious to the darkness and dismal weather outside. It was the easiest winter I ever passed. I have every intention of spending another winter there sometime. It is a place of deep belonging for every natural historian.
The Gift
Psyche, silent
as a butterfly,
glided softly down
to bask beside me,
within the stillness
of ethereal time,
And gild a primrose bank
with gold on darkling moss:
A gift from a forest to
a wanderer of woods.
In that ecstatic moment
Spring herself lay down
before me, and told me
how much I loved her,
that I might love her
more.
Spring
Now I know that Spring will come again,
Perhaps tomorrow …
Edward Thomas, opening of ‘March’
Spring always comes, yet there is an intense push-and-pull relationship between it and winter. One day, or week, is spring-like, and the birds sing; then winter pushes back, the land is silenced, and clouds billow. Consequently, spring has no true beginning, and of course it has no clear ending. It is, at least for much of its journey, intermittent and episodic, occurring in ecstatic pulses that are punctuated by periods of often bitter retreat. Always, winter is loath to lie down and die; as Edward Thomas claims at the end of his pastoral journey In Pursuit of Spring (1914), winter must be entombed, alive.
We yearn for spring, and watch out for its signs ardently. These occur in a sequence that may begin in late December, when the first Hazel catkins and Honeysuckle leaves can appear. The butterflies are most eagerly awaited. The first of the year – effectively one of five species, Brimstone, Comma, Peacock, Red Admiral and Small Tortoiseshell – may have much significance. There is folklore in several European cultures, especially in Scandinavia, which holds that if the first butterfly of the year is yellow you will have a happy summer (see Chapter 8). The odds for us in the British Isles, though, are not good, with everything depending on the male Brimstone. Certainly, if I open my butterfly year with a Peacock or a Red Admiral a dire summer ensues – so much so that I actually fear encountering those two species in late winter, until the season has been opened by a Brimstone, a Comma, or a Small Tortoiseshell.
Each early spring, usually at the beginning of March, there is a day when the Brimstones take to the air – National Brimstone Lift-off Day, the first truly warm day of the year. At that time of year they fly only for a couple of hours or so, before bedding down again amongst the brambles or ivy growths. Those hours are deeply magical. Later, the first Orange-tip of the year is a celestial moment within Spring's dynasty; though it is wise not to seek it, but to let it find you – it is better that way, and it will seek and find you.
Being a springtime butterfly is risky. If they have high breeding success one year in three then they are doing well. In such years of plenty they can wander far and wide, to form new colonies, seizing the moment admirably. On calm days of azure haze in late April or early May they wander, seemingly into eternity. Follow the Orange-tips on such days. Frequently, though, entire spring broods are quickly blasted away. Yet somehow the butterflies return the following year, sometimes booming the year after busting. It is their ability to cope with the vagaries of spring weather that perhaps best demonstrates their true powers of resilience. Butterflies never surrender, they come back. The secret lies in staggering their emergence, over a period of two or three weeks, so that at least some part of the brood experiences reasonable weather, at least for a precious while.
But, above all, spring is about promise, the promise of summer's fulfilment; and release, release from winter's endlessness and vice-like grip. But promises are fickle things, easily misidentified, denied or lost in translation. And our weather too is at its most fickle in spring, often dashing from one extreme to the other, and seldom stable. It feels as if legion spirits up there in the sky are battling for control of the kingdom of Nature, grabbing the crown for a while, before being usurped. Somehow our wildlife has to adapt to this, even creatures as delicate as butterflies. Spring's eventual coming is one of joyous chaos, as if masterminded by Bacchus and his wild Maenads.
There are great springs, and poor springs, but surely there is no such thing as a bad spring – unless it is one you have wasted. Above all, spring is a riotous ministry, that rushes in delight, transforming the world with a rapid and dramatic metamorphosis that must make any butterfly green with envy. Butterflies transform themselves, spring transforms our whole world.
Some years, spring rushes ahead of itself, having got over-excited, and is gone all too soon. Blink, and you might miss it. Suddenly it is mid-May, or even late May, and spring has effectively passed: the countryside wears the colours of early summer; the Dog-roses and early brambles are in bloom, the Ash leaf canopy has closed over, and the barley ears are silvering. Blink, and you might miss it. Do not ever blink during spring, it offers too much vibrant wonder, and each drop must be drunk. Spring is the ultimate medicine, the ultimate metamorphosis. Throw yourself into it, utterly. It will cast you up on summer's shore.
Your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams.
Kahlil Gibran
17 Spring perfected
Diary, January 1st 1990: New Year was seen in by the Edward Thomas Memorial Stone on Shoulder of Mutton Hill, above Steep, where I saw in the 1989 new year. I've never known such an intensely dark New Year. A completely black cat joined me, appearing out of nowhere and purring ecstatically round me before melting back into the darkness, nonplussed when I purred back at her – obviously, she hadn't met a human who could purr before.
Years later, I began to ponder on what or even who that cat actually was.
The 1989/90 winter was ridiculously mild, bar a cold spell at the turn of November. It was also violent and extremely wet, memorable for the great ‘Burns Night Storm’ of January 25th when over fifty people lost their lives. Unlike the Great Storm of October 1987 this occurred du
ring the day, when people were out and about. The anger – or was it hatred? – in the sky that day filled me, not so much with awe, but with fear. Having seen that apocalyptic sky it was no longer possible to deny climate change as a reality. Another legion of trees was felled, both forestry plantations of untended firs and ancient woodland. The skyline of the chalk hangers south of Selborne became even more broken. Selborne Common lost several veteran Beech and, worst of all, the ancient Yew in Selborne churchyard, mentioned by Gilbert White and reputed to be 1400 years old, was uprooted. I had courted on the iron bench that ran round its circumference, and later played there with my first-born. Selborne changed with the loss of that tree. The storm was followed by floods, notably in the Severn valley. One week a storm, the next floods.
Then the Rooks began to build and the immortal spring of 1990 began. It broke through wondrously on February 22nd: the first butterfly of the year was a Brimstone, seen by the Black Dam roundabout on the edge of Basingstoke, flying over dandelion-studded grassland – I had failed to get out on site before butterflies took to the air. By the end of the afternoon I had seen four species, Brimstone, Comma, Peacock and Small Tortoiseshell. By early March Primroses were fully out down south, sallows were in full bloom and the Hawthorn hedges were flushed with vibrant green. Winter had failed to show up.
The spring of 1990 was sublime. The first Holly Blues appeared in mid-March, telling of what was to come. One sauntered through our little town garden in Alton on March 10th. Early Red Admirals were seen, most likely having successfully overwintered. The race was then on for the first Orange-tip of the year. I managed my first on March 30th, dancing over sunlit daffodils beneath Sweet Chestnut trees at bud-break, in the gardens of Wyck Place, outside Alton, near The Lodge. Half a dozen were seen there that day, and an early Speckled Wood. That visit was so profound, with such deep pathos, that I knew I would never return there – Charlotte Bonham-Carter, its owner and my patron, had died; this was her farewell. The following day the first Painted Lady of the year appeared, whilst I was looking optimistically for a mad March Duke of Burgundy at Noar Hill.
In Pursuit of Butterflies Page 21