“…Isn’t it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive–it’s such an interesting world. It wouldn’t be half so interesting if we knew all about everything, would it? There’d be no scope for imagination then, would there?”
– L G Montgomery, ‘Anne of Green Gables’
In fact, I think I saw three of them. All hanging around on Hogweed flowers; one on his own and the other two arguing about who saw the Hogweed flower first and therefore had the right to sit in the middle of it.
What I think I saw were Twist-Winged Parasite Flies (Ectophasia crassipennis). These flies are endoparasitoids on various species of bug, not least the shieldbugs that I’ve learned so much about in the last couple of years. The adult flies lay their eggs on the bug and when the larvae hatch, they burrow into the body of the bug, munching away and killing their host. Doing some reading, I discovered that bugs parasitised by this fly increase their size to provide sufficient nutrients for the growing larvae (which are rather bigger than you might expect in a relatively small host!), suggesting they are able to control their host’s metabolism in some way.
This is a relatively new species in the UK, with the first record dating to 2019. It has been spotted in the Brecks (the area of Norfolk I live in) since 2023. A lovely surprise when I thought I was just going to be peering at a hoverfly. I mean, I say ‘lovely’, but in a sort of gruesome kind of way.
“Ultimately, your theme will find you. You don’t have to go looking for it.”
– Richard Russo
I think I’ve mentioned before that I quite often end up with a theme running through the photographs I take on a walk. Sometimes, I choose the theme, and sometimes, it chooses me.
This was an “it chooses me” day. I set off for a quick ramble before the hockey; I always have an excess of energy to burn off before the first match of the year, and a walk is a good way to get it all out without bouncing off the ceiling all morning. Anyway, I’d chosen the circular walk at Great Hockham as being quick and easy, while still getting in a reasonable number of steps.
Slightly worrying notices have appeared in the parking space, warning motorists not to leave valuables in cars. I’d always believed that because the car was on a busy main road, albeit in a bit through a forest, it would be OK. I’ve certainly mot ever had any problems here, so maybe Lady Luck is watching out for me. Regardless, I leave the car there and strike out down the sandy path.
Very quickly, I made my first find of the morning; this Grey Dagger Moth (Acronicta psi) caterpillar was posed along the well nibbled edge of an oak leaf. When I stopped to investigate, it hunched its shoulders to exaggerate the ‘horn’ it has just behind its head and threaten me into going away. Well, either that or ut was just fed up to the back teeth of things peering at it and was just hanging its head in frustration! Apparently, those long, fine hairs contain a toxin that is a skin irritant if touched. Luckily, I prefer to observe through a lens and not get too up close and personal.
Moving on, the next tree offered up another caterpillar. Apparently, it was to be the day of the caterpillars! This one was tiny … see the spangle gall for a size reference. Google swears it was a Pale Tussock Moth caterpillar (Calliteara pudibunda), but I’m very unconvinced as it doesn’t seem to be the bright green that it should be. Maybe it’s just a very young one? Or maybe it’s something else entirely 🤷♀️. Mostly, looking at the final photograph, I think it might be a very, very small guineapig. It certainly has all the characteristics.
Completely convinced that I was going to find lots of caterpillars, I went on my merry way, peering at leaves all over the place. Instead, I found a small pile of shieldbug nymphs, who scattered in alarm at the giant face that presented itself. It tickles me that these, despite being obviously babies themselves, are Parent Bugs. It’s one of those names that really only works for a short time period. Like old people called Matty or babies called Edna, it feels a little incongruous. Maybe that’s just me.
This row of Alder trees along the stream was full of pint size inhabitants. My next encounter was with a number of grasshoppery/crickety things, all long legs and antenna, they blended into the leaves with various degrees of success. Some of them seemed to have very obvious red legs, where others seemed much more monochromatic. Like unsociable grumps, each had staked a claim to a specific leaf; there was no unnecessary socialising here. This might be a Speckled Bush Cricket (Leptophyes punctatissima). It certainly seems to have the speckles and the orangey-brown stripe down the centre of the back (assuming that it doesn’t have to be a particularly strongly coloured stripe!). I think the first photo is a male and the second a female, based on the curved ovipositor. They have such a high-pitched ultrasonic song that it is inaudible to humans, but this is the only British species of bush cricket in which both the male and the female sing a duet in order to locate each other for mating. Which is oddly sweet for invertebrates!
Finding this next species was a bit like meeting an old friend. This is the adult Parent Bug, a species that I have only previously found on Birch trees, again on an Alder leaf. It seemed well suited to its environment, being as it was exactly the same colour as the terminal.buds on the twigs. Like all shieldbugs, it was not keen on having its photo taken and kept sidling sideways under the next leaf to find cover. I took the hint and moved on.
This weird little pile of fluff is apparently a number of Woolly Alder Aphids (try saying thay quickly!). This is according to Google, so I remain entirely unconvinced of the accuracy of this identification. That’s an Alder leaf for scale, so you can see that each fluffy individual is about a millimetre in length.
I felt quite smug when I found the next ones because I knew they weren’t caterpillars. I knew they were sawfly larvae. With a bit of research, they might be Striped Alder Sawfly larvae. I mean, they might be something else entirely, but it seemed reasonable as an identification. They had made some very pretty patterns as they chomped away at the soft parts of the leaves, leaving the chewy bits untouched. It gave me flashbacks to my niece, who refused to eat anything with ‘stringy bits’ as a child … at 18, she still refuses to even consider celery as a valid foodstuff!
This next one is the nymph of a Pantilius tunicatus … the common name of which is the Hazel Bug. Yes, that’s an Alder catkin next to it. I think it may have been a bit lost! Looking at those titchy tiny wings it seems to be sporting, it would appear that this is a late instar nymph. As an adult, it is far more colourful,wearing a brownish-red suit with green accents.
This Green Shieldbug was positively accommodating, even allowing me to take this photo without running away. One can only imagine the eye rolling and tutting that was going on.
Another tree, another shieldbug! This one is also a Parent Bug, but a much darker specimen than the last one. I know that they’re very variable in their colouration, but I’m not sure why and can’t find anything that might explain this.
I didn’t identify the fungus below until I got home, and I’m swearing you to secrecy. If mum finds out that I found this and didn’t bring her any, my life would not be worth living. This is a Dyer’s Polypore, otherwise known as Dyer’s Mazegill, Velvet-Top Fungus, or Pine Dye Polypore. As a textile artist, mum is very keen on natural dying and is forever wandering around telling me all about the colours she could get from various species. It’s a standing joke in our family that they tend to come out slightly more …. let’s say ‘sludgy’ than she claims.
Just look at those patterns on the underside though; you can absolutely see why it’s called ‘mazegill’. The minotaur would be proud of this as a residence.
My final offering is a Common Scorpionfly, probably a female, as she doesn’t have the scorpion-like tail of the male.
At about this point, I realised that I’d been walking for slightly longer than I intended, and I needed to get a shuffle on if I wanted to get over to Nottingham in time for warm-up. I did the rest of the circuit rather more briskly and without stopping to peer into trees.
In case anyone was wondering, it was a great match, and the Panthers pulled it out of the bag in the third, winning 6:4 against the Concordia University Stingers.
“It is raining there. The boulevard and its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crack are relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened.”
– Elizabeth Bishop, ‘Little Exercise’
When I bent down and peered at the blade of grass, I really wasn’t expecting to see a shieldbug; I was actually looking at the bee on the flower next to it. But, as is always the case, one should obviously expect the unexpected.
This little guy is a Bishop’s Mitre Shieldbug, known to the more scientific as Aelia acuminata. The second part of this makes perfect sense; the adjective acuminate means, in biological terms, pointed or tapering to a point. It comes from the Latin ‘acuminare’, meaning to sharpen. He does look, broadly speaking, slightly like the pointy hat worn by a bishop. I am a little bit confused by the genus name, though. The Latin word ‘aelia’ comes from the same roots as the Greek ‘helios’, and means sun. So why is a little (not yellow) shieldbug that hides in the grass named after the sun?
Regardless of his name, he was, as I have come to expect from shieldbugs, entirely unimpressed with the great idiot shoving a camera in his face. So unimpressed (as it turned out) that he went to great lengths to make taking his photo as difficult as he possibly could. Which turned out to be pretty damn difficult … given that it had just started to rain, the grass was wet, he was quite small, and my camera wasn’t entirely playing ball.
He glared at me indignantly, turned his back, scurried down the stem of his seedhead, and tried his best to vanish into the grass.
“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.
“A name can’t begin to encompass the sum of all her parts. But that’s the magic of names, isn’t it? That the complex, contradictory individuals we are can be called up complete and whole in another mind through the simple sorcery of a name.”
– Charles de Lint, ‘Dreams Underfoot’
There are some names for things that would make you love the thing in question, even if it was awful, but when it turns out to be an amazing thing, the name makes it even better!!
This wee beastie is the Owly Sulphur or Libelloides coccajus. Or, at least, I think it is. There are quite a few species in the genus, and distinguishing them does seem to rely on them sitting still, allowing you to poke them, and answering a barrage of questions. Something which, from personal experience, they seem little inclined to do. But isn’t that just the best name for a thing?
As well as having an awesome name, they also look very cool. For want of a better way of describing them, they look like a giant (they’re about four centimetres long with a wingspan of five to six centimetres) cross between a dragonfly, a moth, and a lacewing. Their body is super furry, like a fuzzy, dark grey pipe cleaner. Their legs are yellow with ankle length black socks. They have two pairs of wings, splotched in pale, buttery sulphur yellow and black, but somehow and inexplicably, also lacy and transparent. When flying, the front pair of wings are held out from the body at right angles like those of a dragonfly wheareas the rear wings are held at an angle, like those of a moth. When you combine all of these things, the creature starts to look like it’s wearing a wing suit. Albeit a very snazzy one. Obviously, to make life more difficult for those who might have dastardly plans to photograph its magnificence, having landed, it flares its wings once and then folds them up to hide their glory. Happily, it can’t do anything to hide the glorious deely-boppers it’s using for antennae. Or the huge black eyes perched between them. All the better for sighting and catching its prey of other flying insects.
The species is supposedly (according to Wikipedia) rare, but we have seen them often in grassy areas of the garrigue in southern France.
These particular individuals were zooming about in an area of long grass bordering an olive orchard near Le Chabian. I tried very hard to capture a picture of them in flight, but they are way too quick for my reflexes (or my camera’s). I did get scratched to pieces by the grass though … which was fun 🙄.
“I try to stay in a constant state of confusion just because of the expression it leaves on my face.”
– Johnny Depp
You know how I had that fiasco with caterpillars that weren’t really caterpillars? Well, I just had a similar moment with a leech that wasn’t really a leech, and then wasn’t a slug either. This delightful (?) little creature is a Pear Slug Sawfly (Caliroa cerasi), feeding on a Hawthorn leaf.
These larvae are pests on commercial crops such as Cherry, Pear, and Plum trees. I’m not sure why this one was making do with Hawthorn, given that there were Crab Apple (Malussylvestris)* trees in the vicinity, but there it was.
* That sentence made perfect sense in my head, but is probably slightly less explanatory if you don’t know that Apple trees are in the same genus as Cherry, Pear, and Plum trees. Hawthorns are also in this genus, but to my mind, would be slightly less similar if you really wanted to eat a Cherry tree. Clearly, I don’t think like a Sawfly!!
I was actually looking for Shieldbugs but was intrigued enough by what appeared to be a leech in a tree to take a (cautious) closer look. The leech-like feel came from the fact that one end of this larvae is bulbous … it definitely reminded me of leeches when they are doing their creepy, stretchy-squishy thing.
On closer inspection, it was covered in a slimy mucus, making me veer towards a diagnosis of slug. The legs, however, made me think again. Something tickled the back of my mind; I’d read about Sawfly larvae being slug-like, hadn’t I?
Google agreed.
Apparently, that slimy mucus is to make the larvae unpalatable to predators. I can see how that would work. The larvae graze, like tiny slithery sheep, across the surface of leaves, leaving behind a characteristic skeletal leaf surface. They moult several times before they reach their final size and then drop to the ground, bury themselves in the substrate and pupate.
When the adult sawfly emerges, it allegedly climbs the tree on foot, mates, and lays eggs on the leaves. Given that the adult form clearly has wings (given that it’s a type of wasp), this seems slightly insane, but it’s the accepted narrative, so who am I to argue?
“My hidebound boundary tree. My tree of knowledge. My thick-tapped, soft-fledged, airy listening post.”
– Seamus Heaney, ‘In The Beech’
I’ve spent many an hour this year peering into shrubs and trees, turning over branches, leaves, and flowers to find different species of shieldbug. So imagine my surprise when, walking past a large Beech tree this morning, I could immediately see a whole load of these itty bitty bugs just hanging out on its colourful leaves.
I stopped, I peered, I clicked.
Twelve tiny bugs, two species, on one tree, maybe four branches, photographed in less than five minutes.
All of that searching … and all I had to do was wait for autumn and walk past a Beech tree.
On the bright side, check out those gorgeous colours, just glowing in the sunshine. I love the way Beech trees take on the colours of autumn. First, one leaf starts to fade and lose its blue overtones. Its green becomes more and more yellowish until it turns a clear, vibrant gold. Then, the change starts to spread along a branch until the whole thing stands out from the rest of the tree. Gradually, all the branches jump on the bandwagon and, infinitesimally slowly, the tree as a whole turns a glorious golden colour before gaining a copper-bronze patina.
We’re getting there; autumn seems to be very slow this year, but it is happening.
“We only know a tiny proportion about the complexity of the natural world. Wherever you look, there are still things we don’t know about and don’t understand. There are always new things to find out if you go looking for them.”
– David Attenborough
Just when I thought it was getting too cold and too late in the year for any new shieldbugs, I found another one.
I was watching the bees on a patch of Ivy (if you haven’t done this, I can highly recommend it – you can spend hours watching the busy buzzing) when I noticed two shieldbugs. The first was my old friend, the Common Green Shieldbug, hunkered down on a leaf, but the other was a Brassica Shieldbug (Eurydema oleracea).
It was, of course, not on a brassica. Why would it be? It was warming itself on a sundrenched, sheltered Ivy leaf, as were so many other species. This one is only a little bug, less than a centimetre long, but makes up for this by wearing a brightly coloured exoskeleton of black and yellow. Apparently, they also come with red, cream, white, or orange markings, which you would think would make them ridiculously obvious, but given how long it’s taken me to find this one, perhaps that’s not particularly true. I can only assume that the colours are to warn potential predators about the noxious liquid that they can release (the ‘stink’ to be found in stinkbugs – otherwise known as shieldbugs) if threatened. I can’t find anything about them being poisonous.
These little beauties overwinter as adults, so I’m assuming they’ll be around for a few more weeks, at least, before tucking themselves away for the winter. It’s not like it usually gets particularly cold in Norfolk (although I am, as ever, holding out hope for at least some snow). Do shieldbugs hibernate in the traditional way? Suspended animation and all that? Or do they just stay tucked away in the coldest of weather, venturing out on warmer, sunnier days? Something to investigate, I feel.
Keeping an eye out for these bugs this year has been a bit of an eye-opener. I’ve found that I’m much more open to looking at insects of all kinds now (insects only, NO arachnids!!) and have seen all sorts of oddities and fascinating creatures along the way. I really feel that the shieldbugs are old friends; meeting one feels like a reconnection, not a new encounter. I know what sort of behaviour to expect from them; I know they’re going to back away and tweedle off behind the nearest leaf as soon as they see my camera. I know they’ll never be on the ‘right’ plant. And I know they lend new meaning to the word ‘variable’ when I’m trying to identify them. But I also know they’re absolutely worth scrabbling around in the undergrowth, looking like a bit of a nutter to any passers-by (thank goodness I rarely see anyone on my wanders!).
“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
– Lao Tzu
Today, I found a tortoise clinging to the tip of a grass stem. Sadly, this wasn’t quite as gravity challenging as it may first sound, given that it was a Tortoise Bug (although he was still pretty damn acrobatic!), but the idea made me smile.
I wasn’t entirely sure what he was to start off with; something about the rounded shape made me doubt myself and consider late shieldbug instars instead. But my mind kept circling back to the pictures of Tortoise Bugs that I’d seen in the insect book while reading up on shieldbugs. So, Tortoise Bug it was.
There are two Tortoise Bug species that reside in the UK, and I’m pretty sure (thanks to the length of its second antenna segment … get me, it’s like I know things!) it’s the more common of the two, Eurygaster testudinaria. A big name for a small creature, but it doesn’t appear to have been awarded an English name. I move that we should call him Tobias (because the name Toby Bug appeals … and reminds me of Toby Jugs!).
I rather like his subtle, earth-toned, kaleidoscopic colouration, and it will certainly serve him well in the muted early autumn colours of this week.
Having decided on a relatively solid identification, because this is how these things always go, I almost immediately found another one, lounging around on the down of a late season thistle as if contemplating his resting place for the winter.
I wish him well; it’s been decidedly chilly this week, despite being considerably warmer again today.
“Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd; With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed”
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ‘Eliot’s Oak’
I love an Oak tree. I mean, in all honesty, I love trees of all species, but Oaks are somehow special. Perhaps because they are so mired in British history and folklore, or perhaps just because they are so physically imposing. Either way, they’re one of my favourites. We mostly have two species of Oak round here; Pedunculate Oak (Quercus robur) and Sessile Oak (Quercus petraea). There’s the occasional Scarlet Oak (Quercus coccinea), but they’re in the minority … they are, however, very obviously beautiful when the leaves start to change, which isn’t exactly what you’d say about the ‘normal’ Oaks. With them, you have to look a little harder to find the beauty. Anyway, we’re not there yet. It’s still summer dammit, and I’m hanging on to that fact with every fibre of my being.
Now, as anyone who’s been reading this blog for a while will know, I’ve been on a bit of a voyage of discovery this year with regards to insects. Not my usual point of fascination, but this summer, I’ve turned into a bit of a leaf botherer. No longer do I waltz past trees noticing only their shape and colour, but concentrating on the flowers around them. No, now, I find myself stopping and peering, turning leaves over, pulling branches towards me, and gazing up through the leaf canopy to spot any lurking critters. It’s truly fascinating, but it does make my walks somewhat long-winded at times.
Anyway, at the end of last week, I popped over to Weeting for a wander. Hilariously, this is the local walk that I class as ‘uphill’. If you know Norfolk at all, you know why that’s hilarious; ‘uphill’ is definitely a relative term. Slightly inclined would be closer to the truth, but it does at least stretch out the back of my legs slightly. At the top of the (Norfolk style) hill, there’s a length of pathway that passes between the reserve on the right and a line of Oak trees on the left. I would expect it to take me a minute or so (at most) to walk along it. That day, it must have taken me forty-five minutes.
Somewhere, lurking in the back of my head, there is a piece of knowledge that Oak trees support more species than any other tree. I’m not sure where I got this fact from, but it’s there nevertheless. I can’t swear to its veracity, but from what I’ve found this summer while rustling around in the leaves, it wouldn’t surprise me.
The things that first made me stop and look at these particular trees were the Dragonflies buzzing around. As usual, I’m not entirely sure of their species, but I think they were the Common Darters that seem to be the most numerous species round here. This one obligingly perched on the very tip of a branch and allowed me close enough to take pictures without much more than the occasional twitch to betray its nerves. It seems to lack the coloured eyes that I’ve seen on previous examples. Is it a juvenile? Maybe that why it was less afraid of me than I expected. I mean, human teenagers are known to have risk-taking tendencies; maybe Dragonfly teenagers follow suit?
This very nattily dressed individual is one I’ve met previously. It is an actual caterpillar (not one of the many things that have pretended to be caterpillars just to make me feel like a fool!!) of the Vapourer moth (Orgyia antiqua). It is the proud owner of a very cool name, perhaps more indicative of a Marvel superhero than a slightly unimpressive orange brown moth. Or at least, the male is an orange brown moth; the female is a grey, fuzzy blob with only vestigial wings whose sole purpose in life seems to be mating and laying eggs which overwinter before hatching into this brightly coloured caterpillar. The caterpillar is very hairy, and these hairs are an irritant if you are foolish enough to touch them. (No, I’m not speaking from experience … luckily, I’d looked them up before getting too handsy!)
This is another species that I have never seen before. There were lots of them wandering the branches of the Oak trees. It had the most gorgeous metallic green-blue stripes all along its abdomen, but it also moved pretty quickly, so the fact that the first photo is even faintly in focus is a miracle. The second photo is not in focus at all, but captures the colour better. I think this is an Ormyrid wasp species … although I am going to make absolutely no attempt to identify which one, given that even the experts seem a little baffled by them! This tiny wasps are parasitoid, not on the Oak tree itself, but on the galls that were formed by an entirely different species of parasitoid wasp. Isn’t Nature awesome?? These wasps lay their eggs in the galls, and their larvae feed on the existing larva inside the gall. Karma in action.
Is this another of our friends the Shieldbugs, you ask? Yes. Yes it is. Do I know which species it is, you ask? No. Not even faintly!
I think it’s possibly a Gorse Shieldbug with those yellow skirts, but if it is, it was distinctly confused about what it was feeding on. I mean, I know people don’t always know much about the world outside their windows, but even the biggest numpty can tell the difference between a Gorse Bush and an Oak tree, right?
Whatever he was, he gave me the patented Shieldbug glare and whisked himself off round the edge of the leaf as quick as his little legs could carry him.
These guys were definitely weevils; just look at those noses (rostrums)! They were definitely boring into acorns (the one on the right is doing it right now!). So, they are likely to be Acorn Weevils. However, that only narrows them down to being either Curculio glandium OR Curcilio nucum. Apparently, the only way to tell the two species apart is by counting the number of segements on the end of their antennae; C. glandium has three segments, while C. nucum has four. Given that the entire length of the weevil is approximately 5mm, counting their antennae segments is less easy than it might sound. I think I’m going to have to be satisfied with getting this far. This weevil bores into an acorn and deposits an egg which, after hatching, feeds on the acorn over winter and bores its way out in spring.
Quick question: Does anyone else remember a character called Edwin the Weevil in a children’s book? I can’t for the life of me remember what the book was called but I know it existed; I had a friend called Edwin at the time, and he really hated being called Edwin the Weevil!!
I think these are Buff Tip (Phalerabucephala) caterpillars. The Buff Tip is a large greyish-brown night flying moth with, you guessed it, buff tips on its wings. It is a master of disguise; its colouration and those buff tips make it resemble a broken Birch twig when it’s at rest. The yellow colour (and apparently foul smell) of the caterpillars warn potential predators of their toxicity.
This is probably an Oak Bush-Cricket (Meconemathalassulinum), a member of the Bush-Cricket or Katydid family. It is the UK’s only arboreal species. Based on the curved ovipositor that you can clearly see at the hind end of this critter, I’m going to go out on a limb and state that this is a female.
Unlike all the other members of this family, Oak Bush-Crickets do not rub their wings together to make a sound. Instead, the male calls to the females by stomping his feet against the leaves.
These are one of my favourite gall species. Yes, I have a favourite gall, doesn’t everybody? They are Silk Button Spangle Galls. And if it doesn’t restore your faith in the world that such an awesome thing exists, you are doing life wrong. I mean, who doesn’t love a good bit of glitter? And these really are the glitter of the natural world. The galls are formed of golden, silky threads that look just like they’ve been embroidered by hand. They remind me of Indian Shisha mirrorwork.
They are, of course, galls that are formed by the parasitoid Silk Button Gall Wasp (Neuroterus numismalis). This wasp is even more amazing when you find out that they have two generations per year. The first, the sexual generation, develop in blister galls on Oak leaves from which both male and female individuals emerge in mid-summer. The second, agamic, generation, those found in the ubiquitous (at least round here) silk button galls, is female only. They over winter inside the galls, which cling to the fallen leaves of Oak trees, and emerge to lay parthenogenetic (unfertilised) eggs in developing leaf buds in early spring.
How cool is that?
These are Common Spangle Galls, formed by yet another parasitoid wasp (there are an awful lot of them), Neuroterus quercusbaccarum. This wasp also has two generations per year, the first forming currant galls on Oak leaves and catkins and the second forming these little buttons on the underside of the leaves. They start off pink and gradually mature to a yellowish-brown.
Guess what! We have another one. This is the Smooth Spangle Gall, and it’s formed by ….
…. a parasitoid wasp species, Neuroterus albipes. The galls sometimes have a pink margin (first picture) but can also be a uniform pale green (second picture).
We’re staying with the galls for a little bit longer. This is the Knopper Oak Gall, formed by a tiny wasp known only as Andricus quercuscalicis. This is the gall of the agamic generation and will gradually turn brown as the seasons progress. In spring, a female only generation will emerge and lay eggs in the catkins of the Turkey Oak (Quercus cerris).
This is the gall of the Artichoke Gall Wasp, Andricus foecundatrix. This is (as all the other pictures are) the gall of the agamic generation containing an egg laid in the bud of the Oak tree. In late summer, an inner gall (looking a bit like a hazelnut) is ejected, leaving the scales you can see here opened out, dried up, and brown.
I’m almost done, I promise. This one is not, as I have always believed, an Oak Apple, but is instead the gall of the Oak Marble Gall Wasp (Andricuskollari), known (unsurprisingly) as an Oak Marble.
The wasps were intentionally introduced to the UK from the Middle East in the 1840s. The marbles have incredibly high levels of tannin in them and were historically used to create inks by crushing them and adding iron sulphate and gum arabic. Some of the documents that were written using this type of ink include the Magna Carta, the American Declaration of Independence, and Leonardo Da Vinci’s notebooks.
What I find utterly fascinating about all these galls is that the galls aren’t actually formed by the wasp themselves. The wasp lays its egg into the leaf/catkin/acorn of the Oak tree, and it’s actually chemicals secreted by the larvae of the wasp that cause the tree itself to create these weird structures. The structures differ in shape and size, depending on the specific recipe of chemicals secreted, and each leads to the creation of the perfect home for the wasp larvae inside.
absolutelynotnormal 