TOUGHER THAN THEY LOOK?Speckled Wood butterflies’ delicate appearance belies their battle-hardiness.
Rider on the storm
Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley
Out of the storm came the last butterfly, limping from leaf to leaf on tattered rags of wings, searching for the vital slant of sunlight by means of which its life might be prolonged. Like the year, it was broken. Yet, despite its evident frailties there dwelt within the insect a spirit as indomitable as time itself.
There would be no acknowledgement of defeat, no slinking away to sulk in any darkened winter corner nor any welcome for the release that death must inevitably bring, just the fruitless chasing after those final few fragments of summer before frost will surely do what wind and rain could not and bring the creature tumbling to the ground. I would keep it and feed it, if only for the brave spark within.
My speckled wood had been Lord of the Hazel from those fragrant days that were July until now. With the air warm both day and night it had been filled with vigour, moving about that sunlit glade to find the choicest spots where his wings might be warmed for the battle.
There had been times when male speckled woods had been everywhere, sparring in tight and climbing spirals until one gave way to the other. The male speckled wood butterfly utilises a most unusual tactic in defending its territory, in that the wings on one side of his body are often larger and more powerful than those on the other. If he can dictate the flight pattern of combat, then victory is almost sure.
Some of those battles had been fierce enough, and no wonder, with so much at stake. I had watched them many times and marvelled at the ferocity of such delicate creatures, and had applauded at the multiple victories enjoyed by the resident male, although I had really no way of telling whether ‘my’ butterfly was winning once or even at all.
The victor, whoever he was, won the right to hold court in the clearing and to receive every female that came to sun herself there. Courtship dances closely resembled territorial disputes, apart from the final act. In the former, male and female dropped to the ground to conclude their affair, after which the female departed with her load of fertilised eggs and the male returned to his sunspot to await the arrival of his next visitor.
Assuming the pregnant female escaped the host of hungry jaws that wait in every darkened place she will have laid her eggs on the underside of the leaves of various coarse grasses. They hatched ten days later, and the tiny green caterpillars that emerged ate and grew and ate and grew for all they were worth. Some, perhaps most of them, are now safely tucked up in chrysalis form. Others will overwinter as they are, to finish their feeding and growing when the sun returns to warm the land once more.
So even now, as we survey the remains of the year, new life continues to develop about us. How we look forward to the day that spring will bring, when the sun climbs over the trees once more and sends that shaft of light to the root of birch and pine to stir to life the sleeping things, the winged things and the creeping things that make our world the wonder that it is.
While we wait there is much to keep us busy. In the garden blue tits and great tits are gathering in anticipation of the feasting to be had when we finally agree to feed them once more. We shall wait for the first frosts, for now they can look after themselves. And while we wait we shall plant our winter vegetables. Hardy lettuce, spring cabbage, early beans and beetroot should really be growing already while there remains a little warmth in the soil.
November will bring one more joy in the darkest of nights, when wind-driven cloud turns the world as black as pitch. Trees are keening mournfully, creaking and groaning under the weight of the gale. Overhead we hear them, all wings and whispered voices; flocks of winter thrushes come from far away, and in the morning we find them at the bent, searching for those little green larvae, the offspring of my speckled wood, and himself asleep in the dirt.
