“Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?”
– Dante Gabriel Rossetti, ‘Autumn Song’
Just at the point that I’m beginning to admit autumn might be happening, it seems other denizens of this area are ready to move on to the next thing. I always feel like I’m a couple of steps behind.
I was wandering round Cranwich Heath this afternoon; I’d gone to visit the grove of eucalypts that are planted along one of the oaths, but was dismayed to find that they don’t seem to be doing as well as they once were. There’s a fair number that appear to have died, although some groves are thriving. Weird!
About half way round the loop, I was poking around in the leaf litter to look for sweet chestnuts (that hadn’t been got by the maggots), amethyst deceivers (to photograph, not eat), and anything else interesting that might present itself.
Spotting the fallen stump of a good size tree, I wandered over to see what shapes* it had to offer. I was charmed to discover that tucked away in the cracks and crevices formed in the wood, were multiple lovelinesses of ladybirds. Seven-spot ladybirds, I think. Not that I wanted to disturb their slumber by trying to count spots! Huddled together in large groups, they were surprisingly difficult to spot at a distance.
*Is it just me who thinks that after a bit of weathering, tree stumps can look an awful lot like bones?
As I walked on, I had an entire mental debate about how on earth a ladybird chooses its spot to hibernate … mostly because these particular spots didn’t look especially cozy to me. There’s an awful lot of each beetle sticking out round the edges. Would this not be like that awful moment when you’re snuggling down in bed and somehow there’s a gap in the duvet letting in a cold breeze that you can neither locate, nor remove? Eternally cold feet? Perhaps ladybirds are hardier than me?
On the other hand, they get to sleep the winter away instead of braving the cold, so maybe they’re not as hardy as they first appear. Perhaps diapause is better than the thickest, fluffiest duvet.
“The hermit escapes the human world and likes to sleep on mountains among green widely-spaced vines where clear torrents sing harmonies. He steams with joy, swinging at ease through freedom, not stained with worldly affairs, heart clean as a white lotus.”
– Hanshan
A slightly delayed post from last week; for some reason, I just haven’t found the time to write it up before now:
Despite our fears, we manage to get parked in the tiny car park next to the incredibly busy canoe hire concession on the Gardon. On a side note, we’ve canoed from here on numerous occasions, right down to the Pont du Gard and it’s so much fun. But today, we’ve got mum with us so we’re restricting ourselves to a more terrestrial activity.
The wide sandy path leads out of Collias along the edge of the river and is busy with French families heading down to the riverside with picnics and inflatables to spend the afternoon in the glorious sunshine. We’ve been told that the weather was cold and rainy last week, so everyone is out in force today. There are lots of very beautiful flowers along rhe edges of the path and we loiter by a purple Broomrape to allow a group of very militant French pensioners armed with walking poles, jumpers and hiking boots to pass. I’m not sure exactly which species it was, possibly Orobanche purpurea as Yarrow is present in the vicinity. It did, however, allow us to escape the walking group and the fate of being pushed along by impatient Frenchmen.
About quarter of a mile along, we reach a pathway turning off up to the right. There are no signposts, but we’re reasonably certain that we’re heading in the right direction … something that’s confirmed with a huge information board once we’ve got just far enough up the path that it couldn’t be seen from the turn off. It’s a gloriously French move and one which I enjoy immensely. We are entering an area in which history and the natural environment are being preserved. Typically for this area of France, the path is shaded by Holme Oaks and the floor is covered in a thick carpet of shiny brown fallen leaves. Between these, the protruding bedrock that has been polished smooth by hundreds of passing feet, and the numerous loose stones, the footing is treacherous and we all have to pay more attention to our feet than our surroundings. Despite this, my attention is grabbed by the many butterflies that are flittering around in the dappled sunshine.
We’re climbing fairly fast now and the wandering path twists and turns through extended patches of bright sunshine, making us blink and reach for sunglasses regularly. The air smells sweetly of herbs; that warm, sun-baked, resiny smell so particular to this area. I often think that if I was transported here blindfold, I’d know where I was in the world, just from the smell. If I had enough hands free I could easily source a bouquet garni of thyme, savoury, rosemary and bay. I debate and then discard the idea; I need both hands free for my water bottle and phone and don’t want to be clutching a damp, wilted bundle of herbs all the way round.
As we crunch through the forest, the only sounds are the blackcaps, chiffchaffs, and sparrows twittering away invisibly. The habitat seems as if it would be perfect for red helleborine orchids, but no matter how hard I look, I see no trace. No matter, there’s plenty more to see. It’s hot, almost steamy under the canopy, and we stop frequently for a drink and a chance to catch our breath. My sister finds a jewel beetle on the path, glittering gold and green amongst the leaves and stones. Anthaxia sp. maybe. We watch for a while, trying to get our cameras to focus properly; something about the beetle’s lustre, the patchy sunlight, and the beetle’s impatience means it’s a struggle and this is the best I could do.
Then, as we continue onwards, we start to hear voices through the trees. It seems that we have caught up with the walking group we were so keen to avoid. We round a corner, and a series of stone buildings come into view. This is what we came to find. And, at this moment, it’s playing host to a large and noisy group of French walkers. We debate just continuing on and decide that we’ve come all this way, and we really want to see the building so we walk up the wide, shallow, stone built steps between a series of terraces. The group of hikers at the top are loudly chatting while eating their lunch and have positioned themselves so that they block the entrance into the grounds of the hermitage. It’s a bit intimidating, but as soon as they see us and realise that we’d like to go in, they chattily organise a way through for us.
This is L’Ermitage de Collias. It’s nestled into the side of a narrow, steep sided valley leading up from the busy town of Collias. And when I say ‘nestled’, I’m talking literally. The hermitage itself is a cave which has been inhabited since Neolithic times. Having said that, the stone wall, the obvious doorway and windows, and the internal structures were added in the 7th century … a far later date! The hermitage at that point was occupied by Saint Vérédème (who later went on to be named Bishop of Avignon). The chapel, which stands to one side, is positively modern, having not been built until the twelfth century. Processions to the site both to ask for rain and good harvests, and to ward off misfortune were recorded right through until after WWII. The last recorded hermit to be resident here was Louis Mailhan in 1839. We wander inside the cave structure and find some very dark, damp rooms. It can’t have been fun living here, and I should imagine its occupants spent an awful lot of time trying to stay warm and dry. Which in the south of France isn’t normally something that you worry about. There are the remains of a painting which the blurb says dates to the 8th century. The blue headdress would perhaps suggest Mary (The chapel is dedicated to her), but the faint outlines of what look like wings would perhaps point to an angel. 🤷♀️
The chapel, built in the twelfth century and dedicated to Notre Dame de Laval, was built on the site of a Roman temple dedicated at various times to Jupiter, Mars, Minerva, and Aramon (who I swear was a character from Lord of the Rings, but maybe I’m mistaken). Inside, we can see the remains of the painted ceilings which must have been gorgeous in their heyday.
Having wandered around the hermitage site for a while, we have again lost the French hikers and can continue on in peace. The next section of the path effectively goes up the side of a cliff. It’s a tough climb, and it’s getting hotter. The path is precipitous but full of things to stop and look at. Or at least, full of things for me to stop and look at; mum and Ali basically abandon me to my own devices at this point. I just don’t understand why they’re not as fascinated by random beetles as I am … it’s a mystery. The edges of the path are adorned with copious amounts of White Lace Flower (Orlaya grandiflora) and Starry Vlover (Trifoliumstellata) which are playing host to numerous insects. Most of which are irritatingly camera shy and mobile enough to enforce their lack of photo permission! I do manage to get some very blurry pics of a new shieldbug friend, though. This beautifully dapper creature is the Italian Striped Shieldbug (Graphosoma italicum), otherwise known as the Minstrel Bug. And how’s that for an evocative name? He is pleasingly striped on his upper wing casings, and then, when he stomps off round the edge of a blade of grass in a huff, reveals an adorable spotted undercarriage.
Once we get to the top of the hill, we stop to reapply sunscreen, which is much needed at this point, and point our feet back downhill. The pathway has widened back out into a track again and makes its way through open views down towards Collias. By this time, we’re all a bit hot and thirsty and looking forward to lunch … we were organised enough to bring a picnic with us and breakfast was a long time ago. After a short detour that sees our track turn into someone’s driveway (we definitely should have turned right rather than left), we find ourselves back at the Gardon, just a short wander from the car.
Getting out of the car park is somewhat hampered by some slightly French driving from one of the other patrons. She is a little over convinced that her fairly large car fitted into a very small space and is definitely willing to try a nine hundred and sixty two point turn before finally admitting defeat, turning around and leaving, not just the car park, but the whole town. We follow her out, trying not to giggle and make our way back to Bourdiguet for a late lunch.
“The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science.”
– Albert Einstein
The Nazca Lines are one of the most enduring mysteries in the world, baffling researchers for over eighty years. The geoglyphs cover a vast area (500 square km) of the Nazca Desert in the southern part of Peru. Some form geometric designs, while others are plants and animals, like spiders, monkeys, and hummingbirds.
The figures, some of which are several kilometres long, were carved into the desert floor over a period of a thousand years between 500BC and 500AD. How? How was that even possible? The lines are constructed on such a vast scale that their makers couldn’t have even seen them in their entirety. How did they accurately create such intricate designs? How did they even make both ends of a line join up, let alone maintain the integrity of the figures they were creating?
The lines have been studied since the 1920s, and yet, there are still no real answers. The Nazca Lines continue to amaze the people who are researching them. Scientists have found new figures as recently as 2020 (the advent of drones was a real bonus) and believe that there are still more to discover. There have been various theories about their purpose over the years, ranging from astronomical to ceremonial, but none has, as yet, been confirmed or even validated to any high degree.
The known facts are that we still don’t really know anything about them. Apart from the fact that they’re hauntingly beautiful and utterly fascinating. I read about them as a child and still have dreams of visiting them at some point (albeit dreams that fade slightly further with every passing year).
It makes me very happy that the echoes of Nazca have rippled all the way across the globe; every single time I find fallen trees, I find these same designs under their bark. The spiders*, monkeys, and hummingbirds might not seem like they belong in Norfolk, and yet here they are. The geometric lines, the spirals, are all completing their mysterious purpose, quietly, in the dark depths of the forest.
*I mean, do spiders really belong anywhere?
These complex pictographs are, of course, created by bark boring beetles going about their daily lives, feeding in (and on) the phloem of the trees.
But, at the risk of sounding disturbingly conspiracy theoristy (I promise I’m not really one of those sort of people), why do the feeding marks of beetles look so like the lines created by a civilisation halfway across the globe? Is it just a synchronicity of design? Or is this evidence that all living creatures are linked in some way? Do these designs come from a deeper subconscious? I can’t help feeling that, if we take this as a suggestion that all living organisms are linked, it might encourage people to start taking conservation seriously. If human beings have the same designs in their heads as wood-boring beetles, then destroying those beetles is an act of self-sabotage, right?
Or is it just that I believe in conservation? I believe that preserving the natural world is of the utmost importance, so I’m subject to confirmation bias. I’m entirely willing to accept that as a theory. (Probably more willing to accept that than accepting universal design principles, if I’m honest!)
🪲🪲🪲
Either which way, look at these gorgeous, intricate designs. Like cloudwatching on a summer’s day, you can see all sorts of pictures in them if you look. Butterflies. Eyes. Strands of DNA. Sea Stars.
“Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.”
– J K Rowling, ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’
At first glance, this was a large, black beetle, pootling across the track in front of me. It was only when I crouched down to look closer that I found it wasn’t black at all, but a range of metallic green and blue tones.
This is a Common Dor Beetle (Geotrupes stercorarius), I think. Wikipedia tells me (I know, I know, but sometimes it’s worth a quick look) that it’s also called a Dumbledore (hence the Harry Potter quote at the top). I was relatively certain of its identity, right up until I started looking at other, similar species, at which point, any sense of certainty flew swiftly out the window. Apparently, the only way to tell the difference between G. stercorarius and G. spiniger is to turn it upside-down and check whether or not the abdomen is hairy. I may not be an entomologist, but one thing I can tell you for certain is that there was no way in this galaxy this beetle was hanging around to be flipped upside-down; it wasn’t even particularly happy about me sticking a camera in its face!
Whichever of the two species it is, it’s a dung beetle, displaying a preference for horse dung. (I have absolutely no idea how they would go about figuring this out, but Buglife seem quite certain about it.) It seems like this might have been a new hatchling as these beetles are usually seen in April/May time. Some of this years’ brood are out and about during the autumn months, while others remain underground until the spring. I wonder why some would choose to emerge early … maybe they run out of food in their burrows? Maybe they’re bored, fed up of looking at the same earth walls? Maybe they’re just keen to see what the world has to offer them?
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.”
– John Donne, ‘No Man is an Island’
Gordon Community Woodland is just down the road from mum’s, and I’ve walked there what feels like a thousand times. We’ve been in summer when the purple haze of heather spreads over the land. We’ve taken my sister’s idiotic dog and dodged the spray of water when she leapt into, and out of, the pond. I’ve hurriedly grabbed hold of my niece’s arm as she staggered sideways next to the stream (for someone who’s such a good dancer, she’s remarkably clumsy!) I’ve waded through ankle deep mud in wellies, and I’ve waded through knee-deep snow in search of a Christmas tree.*
* Every year, the managers of the woodland plant Christmas trees and host a tree sale to help support the reserve. You turn up in the carpark, they hand you a bow saw, and send you off to pick your own. Literally. The year we did this in the snow was magical. Apart from my mum’s complete inability to judge scale. “That one!” she said, pointing at something that must have been twelve feet tall. “Or that one,” indicating a three foot sapling. Suffice it to say, the tree that year went up to the ceiling, turned an abrupt right angle, and continued across the room for some considerable distance.
This time, we turned up in the car park in the evening hours of a sunny day. (Something that’s particularly notable in this part of the world!) The light was golden, and the shadows were just beginning to lengthen. As I got out of the car and started putting my boots on, I was immediately sidetracked by green, sparkly blobs on the Alder tree next to me.
Hopping around with one boot on, I peered closer at the leaves and discovered not one, not two, but thousands of these little green (or occasionally gold) beetles. Each of them posed proudly next to an obvious hole in the leaf.
“Look what I did,” they seemed to say.
The leaves of the poor Alder tree had been reduced almost to lacework in places. And it wasn’t a one-time thing; almost every Alder tree in the reserve seemed to have a thriving population. They swarmed the leaves, sharing space with their larvae, who also eat the leaves.
This beetle is Chrysomela aenea (or Plagiosterna aenea, or even Melasoma aenea – Science failing to make its mind up again!) It has no English name and is not to be confused with the Alder Leaf Beetle (Agelastica alni), which seems to be almost identical, apart from the fact that it’s metallic blue.
As a side note, I also found what may or may not be a late instar of a Bronze Shieldbug in the same place. It’s definitely a shieldbug, I’m just really uncertain of the species. Whatever it may be, check out the colours of that armour!
“Vimes had believed all his life that the Watch were called coppers because they carried copper badges, but no, said Carrot, it comes from the old word cappere, to capture.”
– Terry Pratchett, ‘Men at Arms’
I’ve found another shieldbug! Turns out, there are quite a lot (translation: chuffin’ millions) of them out there …. which does slightly beg the question of how I’ve never noticed them before. Never mind, I may be late to the party, but I’m partying hard nevertheless.
I’d really like to tell you that I knew all about this species, had gone out specifically to look for it , and found it right where I thought I would. But I would absolutely be lying. What I was actually doing was taking pictures of the Hedge Woundwort because it’s awfully pretty and quite frequently overlooked in favour of more flashy blooms. This particular bug is a Woundwort Shieldbug (Eysarcoris venustissimus), which feeds (as its name would suggest) on Woundwort and White Deadnettle. Not only are there quite a lot of shieldbugs out there, but it seems they’re quite specialised as well.
It makes me happy that such specialism exists in nature; there’s a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that everything has its place, even if that place seems quite niche. Unfortunately, the same rigid specialism can lead to extinction as a cascade effect from even the smallest environmental changes. Perhaps the ability of Hedge Woundwort to go unnoticed is a positive here … if no one notices it, they won’t bother to get rid, and if no one gets rid, these little bugs can carry on with their lives, undisturbed by everyone (except random passers by armed with cameras!).
This shieldbug is smaller than the other species I’ve seen, only about 7 or 8mm long, broader and shorter. This somehow makes it seem more rotund, which gives it a charming air as it trundles placidly across its chosen leaves. It has those natty black and white chequered skirts (more officially known as the connexivum) and black and white striped antennae (four segments, I counted) to boot. But its most striking feature is that gorgeous, burnished copper scutellum (the shield after which the family is named) that sits atop a grey and white granite background.
These particular individuals had been busy; on almost every flower spike over a hundred yard stretch, I found patches of pearly cream eggs nestled amongst the hairs. I really must remember to go back once the nymphs have had time to emerge and see how many there are. Especially as those nymphs are (so the internet tells me) delightfully spotted, having almost smily faces emblazoned across their behinds.
I also found one patch of darker beige eggs that were situated on the top of a leaf rather than on the underside. I’ve seen a comment from someone I follow on Instagram that suggested shieldbugs have the ability to choose the colour of their eggs when they lay them; the extra colour acts as a UV filter, protecting the developing embryos. I can’t find anything to support this, but it’s a lovely idea. Built in sunscreen sounds like a great plan. Alternatively, maybe they’re from a different species (I did see the occasional Sloe Bug hanging out in the same patch of plants) or at a different stage of development?
“You can’t spell ‘Diet’ without ‘Die’ I’ve been eatin’ carbs since ’95 And I heard thick thighs save lives And I heard thick thighs save lives So love thyself”
– Priscilla Black, ‘Thick Thighs’
I’m still obsessed with the sparklies; this emerald green beauty is the Swollen Thighed Beetle, Thick-Legged Flower Beetle, or Oedemera nobilis … and if he isn’t looking coquettishly back over his shoulder in that top picture, I know nothing! I say ‘he’ because only the males have the chunky thighs; the females look very similar but have normal sized legs (I don’t think I’m reinforcing any harmful stereotypes when I say that!). Clearly, he isn’t suffering from any negative body image.
The Wildlife Trust website tells me that these used to only be found in a few places, but that they have now become much more widespread. Given how many of them I’ve found in the space of a couple of days, I would have to agree! They are a pollen eating species, feeding on open faced flowers such as Ox-Eye Daisy and Hogweed. Having said that, as my own photos show, they obviously also feed on Buttercups, Ragged Robin, and Hedge Woundwort.
Walking today, I came up with a question, though … why are so many beetles sparkly? Surely, it makes them more obvious to predators? How could it possibly be beneficial to the insect itself? Is it to attract a mate? The questions running through my brain reminded me of a lecturer at uni who said that the mark of a good ecologist is asking questions. It seems that the more time I spend finding things out, the more questions I have.
A quick internet search when I got home suggested that iridescence can actually help beetles be more camouflaged, blurring their outline to confuse predators. It seems counterintuitive, but I assume it’s one of those moments when animals seeing different wavelengths of light changes the way they interact with the world. There are also scientists currently trying to work out the purpose of being glossy; turns out that a glossy shell has no appreciable effect on the likelihood of being eaten by a bird, but could make them harder to see by human beings.
All I can say is that, if these guys were trying to hide from me, they weren’t doing that good a job.
“Sleeping on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart, he had become a dragon himself.”
– C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The sun shone down, warm and golden. Having popped into my local garden centre for a couple of tomato plants, I stopped in at High Ash for a quick wander before heading home. Golden afternoon light flooded through the woodland, illuminating Beech and Birch in dappled patches. The tall, sturdy shadows of Scots Pine stood, dark sentinels in ordered, Forestry Commission, rows, creating pockets of deep shade and giving some relief from the sun.
The woodland understorey has grown exponentially in the last week or so. Grass waves in lush, calf height stands, studded here and there with the bright pinks of Common Vetch and Dove’s-foot Crane’s-bill and the starry white of Lesser Stitchwort.
Amongst the grass are the soft, blue spikes of Germander Speedwell, their flowers ranging from the deepest cobalt, through various shades of summer sky, and edging into the soft lilac of a warm twilight. Each tiny flower has neat pinstripes lining its petals and is centred with a pure white eye and three stamens tipped with pollen. Whilst they cannot compete with the splashy confidence of the earlier carpets of Bluebells, they stain the forest floor blue in a more delicate, ethereal way.
The sound of a Garden Warbler bubbles cheerfully under the strident, self-proclaiming call of a Chiff Chaff. Flies buzz amongst the nettles in the sunnier patches and a Cuckoo calls in the distance, its call echoed by another, even more distant bird. The rapid drumming of a woodpecker sounds briefly, and then disappears.
As the sun sinks lower in the sky, I turn my steps towards the car. The path wends its way between the young pines, bordered with grassy swathes and sunshine yellow hawkbits. In the centre of their strap-like petals, nestled into the flowerheads are numerous tiny, glittery gems. Glowing goldengreen and bronze, their wing casings are textured, catching and reflecting tiny points of light as they move.
These little beetles are (I think) Cryptocephalus aureolus or maybe Cryptocephalus hypochaeridis. I can’t entirely work out what the difference is, apart from possibly a slight variation in colour. Despite both species being common in the UK, they don’t seem to possess a common name, relying only on their Latin nomenclature. Their genus name means ‘hidden head’, referring to the fact that their heads are tucked under the front edge of the pronotum.
absolutelynotnormal 