Morecambe Bay was damp but impressive, especially the Cumbria Wildlife Trust's restoration of the raised bog at Foulshaw Moss, near Witherslack. Here 350 hectares of Scots Pine plantation and Rhododendron have been cleared from the bog, ditches blocked up and water levels raised. Ospreys were thinking about breeding. Meathop Moss, my old heartland by Witherslack, revealed its last Large Heaths of the year, two ragged females. The nature-reserve logbook indicated that the butterfly had started there on June 21st.
August limped in, but produced the odd good day and even two decent weekends, interspersed by more deluges. The Chalkhill Blue exploded on some downs, most notably at Friston Gallops at the back of the Seven Sisters in East Sussex. Here, in early August, Neil Hulme estimated an on-the-day population of 150,000–200,000 individuals, based on an average of 5.2 per square metre over some 300,000 square metres. Another estimate, over a larger area, came up with a day figure of 827,897 butterflies (data per Butterfly Conservation Sussex Branch website). One visitor described the cloud of blue that rose up in front of him as being so in-the-face it was difficult to see ahead. This was put down to an unusual exuberance of the larval foodplant, Horseshoe Vetch. In the Cotswolds the Chalkhill Blue also put on some impressive displays, though of an order of magnitude less; again, seemingly because the larvae had benefited from unusually prolific growth of Horseshoe Vetch. But elsewhere the damage done by a wet and miserable summer was all too apparent. Marsh Fritillary larvae proved impossible to find in two independent surveys at Hod Hill, Dorset, one of its most renowned strongholds. Strawberry Banks fared no better, for a survey there also drew blank. The prospects for many species in 2013 were therefore ominous.
In late September the rains returned with renewed vigour, generating floods in northern England. The National Trust had arranged a meeting of its nature conservation staff in Upper Wharfedale, in the Yorkshire Dales. At the time Yorkshire and the North-east were being flooded by the remains of Tropical Storm Nadine.
Diary, September 25th 2012: After various detours we managed to get from Burnsall to Buckden in convoy, during persistent steady rain, with flooding in each dip, white lady waterfalls cascading down every hillside, and water gushing through limestone walls at the foot of every slope. The Wharfe had erupted and filled much of its valley bottom, where it sat, in tones of brown and grey depending on light angles. Sheep had huddled on hillocks, resigned to drowning. Interestingly, the locals had all stayed at home. We became trapped, in Yorkshire – in floating cars, for hours on roads that had become rivers.
So the year sogged itself to a soggy conclusion. It rained, and it rained, and it rained.
30 Fifty years on
It had to be a cracker, my fiftieth summer of butterflying, yet the starting point was somewhere deep in the minuses, as butterfly populations entered the year at an unusually low ebb. Its predecessor had been so foul a summer that my 2013 diary began: The previous year is proscribed and will never be named within these diaries. Where extreme necessity insists, it may be referred to as That Year. 2013 was going to have to conquer a slope of Sisyphean proportions. Yet it began with a glimmer of hope, for the diary reads:
As the New Year came in, scudding shower clouds dissipated to reveal a dark night sky lit by a near-full moon and a host of dancing stars … I could see the doom and gloom of That Year being physically pushed away by advancing brightness. Then the celebratory fireworks took over.
There was promise in the New Year hour, and butterflies relish a challenge.
Down in Savernake Forest, on New Year's Day, things went backwards and then forwards. One of the Purple Emperor larvae I was following had been predated over Christmas – a shame, as it was particularly well concealed, and inappropriate Christmas fare – but I found, completely by accident, a replacement, elsewhere in the forest. Also, the hibernating female Brimstone I had been monitoring, perched low in a sparse bramble patch, had fallen off her leaf, and was lying comatose on oak litter below. I roused her gently, whispering sweet nothings to a spirit of the spring, and attached her to the underside of another bramble leaf. I felt happier as she returned to her slumbers.
Two weeks later Savernake excelled itself. On a visit to show the Reverend Prebendary John Woolmer hibernating Emperor larvae, the remains of one of the previous year's Emperor pupal cases was spotted, high up in a sallow tree. The basal half of the case was attached to the underside of a withered sallow leaf, which was still affixed to its twig by caterpillar silk. Never underestimate caterpillar silk, or chitin, the pupal case material. Incredibly, the silked-on leaf remained on its twig well into the autumn of 2013, some sixteen months after it had been attached, though by then only the stub of the old pupal case remained. In mid-February I found another of That Year's pupal cases, by spotting a leaf spinning on loose strands of silk in the breeze, at Toy's Hill in west Kent. Of course! That's how to crack the mystery of where Purple Emperors pupate: look for the old pupal cases in late November or early December, after other leaves have fallen.
Then January, and indeed the entire year, decided to drag. Snow fell. Savernake's Brimstone was knocked off her bramble leaf and buried beneath several inches of snow. She was found lying horizontally on a beech leaf as the snow was melting. This time, I tilted her upright, stabilised the leaf she was resting on, and left her to it. Though asleep, she seemed to know what she was doing – butterflies are cannier than we think. She flew off during mild weather in mid-February, but was seen again on April 20th, dancing in a sunlit glade a kilometre away; I would have known her even if I had not marked her wing tips with indelible black felt-tip.
February allowed the land to dry out, as it so often does, but it was cold and spring was now running late. It got later, much later, then stalled altogether. We were due a poor March, and duly endured the second coldest March on record (after March 1962, and joint with 1947). In some districts it was the coldest March since 1892, the era of the late-Victorian mini ice age. The month produced one pleasant sunny day, the 5th, when Brimstones took to the air. I saw my first active butterfly of the year that day, a Small Tortoiseshell, in Coleridge's garden in Nether Stowey, which is a fair place to visit for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. To Coleridge it would have been a metaphor of things to come, but like Coleridge it was a will-o’-the-wisp spirit and immediately wandered away.
Easter arrived at the end of a bitter March. A hundred years earlier, during the Easter week of 1913, Edward Thomas had cycled from his parents’ home in south London to the Quantocks in west Somerset, where he wished to encounter Coleridge. The weather was variable, typical of an early Easter. His account of the journey was published a year later under the beguiling title In Pursuit of Spring. The book is the jumping-off point for Thomas's greatly admired poetry, for much of the book's prose is on the very brink of poetry, though the developing poetic trance is frequently broken by moments of laconic humour and sojourns into human trivia. He was not pursuing spring, or anything; rather he was taking winter, and all the stuff and nonsense it represented to him, as far away as he could, and burying it. A hundred years on I broadcast a tribute to Thomas and In Pursuit of Spring on Radio 4. More importantly, one hundred years on to the day, on Easter Day, a small group of like-mindedness assembled on Cottlestone Hill in the Quantocks, where Thomas ended his journey and found winter's grave. There, in his memory, we raised the banner of Poetic Nature. We had little idea what that actually meant, but did it anyway; meaning can kick in later, if it wants. With butterflying experiences too, meaning often kicks in much later.
Back in 2013, winter lingered into April, but a slow, late spring is no bad thing, for good summers often come in on the back of late, poor springs. St George's Day dawned fair, as it should, for it is the traditional opening day of the butterfly season, when Orange-tips wander the wayside and woodland ways and put the world to rights. It was time for the first expedition of the year, and it had to be a biggie. A small number of Large Tortoiseshells had been seen in Walter's Copse near Newtown on the I
sle of Wight the previous spring, and this supposedly extinct species had reappeared there this year. On April 20th Neil Hulme crossed over to the island and, as is his wont, cleaned up – photographing two worn males and nearly stepping on a third, larger specimen, presumably a female. I arrived by 10 am on the 23rd, to find several other butterfly folk already present, ensconced. Half an hour later one of them nearly trod on a Large Tortoiseshell, basking on the ground – it shot off in a huff. No more were seen until 1.15, when a male attempted to set up a territory where Neil had seen his. It had been disturbed by over-keen photographers, for this can be a decidedly wary beast. I arrived in time to witness its hurried departure, a tawny speck flying up into the tree canopy, with several people pointing towards it. Nonetheless, it constituted a sighting, and a tick, just.
At 1 pm I joined the ranks of those who have nearly trodden on a Large Tortoiseshell, by almost stepping on a giant of a butterfly, presumably female, basking below a hedge line in nearby Newtown Meadows. It flew off in a fury, high and into the sun. Such butterflies do not return. I had visited the meadows in hope of seeing the butterfly there, as elms and sallows, two likely larval food sources, were numerous in the hedges. Then, towards the end of the allotted time a battered male appeared in a coppice bay along one of the Walter's Copse rides, setting up territory there. He was last seen attacking a territorial Comma and the resident Peacock, with a degree of belligerence that a male Purple Emperor would have been proud of. Perhaps the males move from glade to glade, as male Commas do, setting up territory for a while before moving on, ceaselessly.
The main road back to the Yarmouth ferry terminal was closed at Shalfleet, necessitating a detour along narrow lanes. The inevitable happened – a major snarl-up, involving a stray bus, a tractor bearing a big bale on a spike, the obligatory horse box and several hopelessly lost cars. Gently weaving her way through this stasis was a female Large Tortoiseshell, as aloof from it all as the Purple Empress herself. Disdainfully, she hopped over a hedge of elm suckers, to fly on in my mind. Great individual butterflies do that: they fly on within us, as living memories.
I returned to the island in mid-June with Patrick Barkham, to search for the salient nests of Large Tortoiseshell larvae up in the elms, sallows, thorns and Aspens in the hedges and woods around Newtown. The stakes were high, as the butterfly has not been known to have bred anywhere in the UK since the early 1950s. (This is not strictly true, as in 1983 my former colleague Dr Keith Alexander, a leading entomologist, swept a full-grown larva from elm sucker growth at Cubert on the north Cornwall coast. It turned out to be parasitised.) Butterflies do not recognise limitations, which means that their followers and students must behave similarly. Patrick and I duly gave it our best shot, but without success. The fact that a gale was blowing at the time didn't help, but the truth is that there was simply too much seemingly suitable habitat for two people to search, extending far beyond National Trust boundaries. Without Hulme, our lucky talisman who had dipped out at the last minute – pleading daughter-issues – we were doomed to struggle. I believe, though, that this supposedly extinct butterfly is seeking to breed once more along our southern shores. It is trying to come home.
It was mid-June, and the season to date had been distinctly unmemorable, largely because spring had been dominated by cloud cover. There were, though, some rays of hope. Small and Large Whites had been out and about in relative plenty for a couple of weeks or so – ‘relative’ is the operative word here, for our cabbage whites never become numerous before late July. But it was clear that this year they were plotting something, and that a stupendous brood would start to emerge later, if and only if the weather permitted.
Despite the late spring, a cool, cloud-spoilt May and a stop–start June which at best only managed to stop the rot, I still had faith in the year: it was my fiftieth summer in heaven, and it would come true. The Emperor would turn things round. But July started ominously: a Purple Emperor pupa located in Savernake Forest on June 23rd had mysteriously vanished. The leaf it had been attached to was still there, but it and all its silk wadding had gone. I had followed that animal for ten months, only for it to vanish as an immobile pupa. A Grey Squirrel had been stripping bark off the trunk nearby – perhaps it was responsible? Curse and crush it!
But after four days of stagnant cloud, July and the summer of 2013 erupted: a massive anticyclone came over from the Azores, and sat overhead for three stupendous weeks, producing a sequence of fifteen hot and cloudless days which rendered the weather forecast redundant. Redemption was in the air, time itself was being redeemed. We and our butterfly spirits had been set free.
Rarely in Britain does one book annual leave, in this case to coincide with the Purple Emperor season, and actually find the weather clement. The only gremlin was that the butterfly season was running late and the Emperor was a few days off. White Admiral and Silver-washed Fritillary had scarcely started, and needed to be out in numbers before the Emperor would appear. The solution was simple – visit the Lake District and the Morecambe Bay limestone hills.
The season was running late on the Morecambe Bay hills too. Their chief denizen, the High Brown Fritillary, was not out, though imminent. Instead, pristine Dark Green Fritillaries were dashing about everywhere, feasting on thistle heads on the lonely hill above Witherslack, and breakfasting together one early morning on yellow composites, thistles and early bramble flowers on the lower slopes of Arnside Knott. The first pulse of females was emerging. They were being vigorously courted and purposefully mated.
On Sunday July 7th the vast expanse of raised bog at Meathop Moss, near Witherslack, was in oven-like mood. I had the place to myself, for the human populace was watching Andy Murray win at Wimbledon, and the myriad biting flies were hiding, torpid, in the narrow fringe of trees around the restored bog. Large Heath was at peak season, and for once was not being blown about in the wind, for it was dead calm. The only problem was that the weather was too hot for this northern insect: the females were largely inactive, shading tail-on to the sun in the lee of grass tussocks. One slumbered in the same spot for over an hour. I had hoped to watch them laying eggs, but it was far too hot for that. Every now and then one would be flushed out by a wandering male: she would rise up and then descend, finally rejecting male advances after much wing dithering in the grasses. Eventually a mating pair was located, but they were merely conked out together amongst the cottongrass. The males were wandering freely over the bog, nectaring occasionally on Cross-leaved Heath flowers. When two met in flight they would squabble. I re-taught myself how to sex Large Heath on the wing: the females have brighter, pinkish uppersides, the males duller grey hues. The problem with the Large Heath is that it is hard to see it doing anything other than bumbling about rather aimlessly, usually being blown downwind. Also, it settles only with closed wings, and is distinctly wary of humans – we've drained too many of its bogs, perhaps. The truth is that this is one butterfly you actually need to net, to appreciate the wonderful iridescent sheen on the wing uppersides, and also to check for aberrations in the underside hindwing spotting. But the days when one could wander freely on Meathop Moss with a butterfly net are long gone, and will not come again.
The following day, the Lakeland mountains stood aloof, in total calm, fringed with thin mountain-top cloud which permitted the palest of shadows. This is perfect weather for the Mountain Ringlet, another butterfly heavily prone to being blown about in the wind, or reduced to shading in grass tussocks during heatwaves. Today they were free and fully active, with the males indulging in unusually lengthy flights, before landing, as usual, rather randomly in the grasses. They were searching for females, and were attracted to any brown object, especially sheep dung. Imagine, mistaking a female of your own kind for sheep dung!
Insulted, though earnestly sought, the females were less active, basking for lengthy periods amongst the Mat-grass tussocks. Several were gunned down in flight by amorous males, and would drop to a tussock, to hide there, wings closed, until th
e all-clear was given. They were already mated. Two were watched laying eggs, placing them carefully on dead needle-like horizontal blades on the edge of Mat-grass tussocks. Then a text message came in from the far south: the first Purple Emperor of the year had been sighted. The reply was succinct: ‘To iris, Emperor of the Woods, Monarch of all the Butterflies, from Epiphron, Lord of the Mountains, greetings Brother.’ The true meaning was simple: I hear and obey.
Meanwhile, people marched by, keeping to the stony paths and not experiencing the soft cushion of fell-top grass all around them. I would like to say they were diligently studying Wordsworth, or better still Coleridge, but their conversations – which fog-horned across the fell sides in ever-stilling air – were dominated by IT issues, things they had recently bought, mortgage deals, and, more realistically, blisters. A company of teenage girls marched past, singing ‘The Lonely Goat Herd’, mercifully in ignorance of the actual words. In desperation, I visited Innominate Tarn, to pay tribute to Alfred Wainwright, who understood the profound nature of the high fells. This was his favourite place in all Lakeland, his spiritual home. He was there, and so was the Mountain Ringlet.
As Kevin Pietersen was being caught by Michael Clarke off the bowling of Peter Siddle for 14, in the first Test of the Ashes series, the high spirit of the midsummer trees, the Purple Emperor, appeared. Two males tussled together over the favoured Sweet Chestnut tree at the head end of Goose Green Inclosure in Alice Holt Forest. It was Emperor Time once more, and on July 10th too, the traditional starting date for the Emperor season. For a day or two they stuttered, emerging in paltry ones and twos in increasing heat, then they stormed the world. There is only one place to be during the Big Bang emergence period of the Emperor season, Fermyn Woods.
Oates's entrance to Fermyn Woods, late in the day on Sunday July 14th, was spectacular. He did well, managing to drive through the first block of woods without being accosted, en route to staying once more in the artists’ community at Sudborough Green Lodge cottages. He was going to write a poem entitled ‘Green Lady’, exploring the physical, sensual side of our love of forests – sweat, limb ache, desire, and all. The butterfly photographers had long gone home, but a mighty ambush lay in wait at Lady Wood Head: a posse of Emperor males forced him to stop, to feast wantonly upon a disgustingly filthy car. They were desperate for any moisture, and a recently squirted car windscreen provided it. Four males instantly descended. Never clean your car in the weeks leading up to the Emperor season; in fact, spray it with shrimp-paste solution on arriving at an Emperor wood, and stand back and wait.
In Pursuit of Butterflies Page 43