Discovering a wasp’s nest

“Badgers are quite partial to a supper of wasp grubs, and seem prepared to tolerate the stings inflicted by the adults in order to get their reward...”


Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

OVER the lakeside fen we find the usual signs of summer’s impending end; purple loosestrife in rich abundance, effervescent flumes of meadowsweet, pink, tousle-headed hemp agrimony. There, too, are the scattered flecks of scabious, each one a sparkling explosion of sky blue, and most tellingly, the asymmetrical perfection of that most lovely of autumn flowers, grass of Parnassus, which will endure until the first nip of frost sends it back to the ground.
August rain is doing its best. I had thought to go and explore one of the many islands, and to fish for a trout on the way back. The lake held that high, burnished ripple with just the occasional breaking wave, conditions that would have the fish feeding high in the water. I would rather have gone to the coast, but yet again the horizon was banked high with dark clouds, billowing on an unfriendly wind.
I had lain awake until late last night, listening to rain that fell as a deluge. This morning had dawned fair enough, with that peculiar quality of light that can only be found in the lee of a storm. I should have known that it wouldn’t last. The swallows had not left the lake, but had chosen to hunt over the reed beds; the mere hope of sunshine would have sent them to the sheep fields, where rich pickings are available. There wasn’t much for them here, for insects were few and far between. The rain must have delayed last night’s hatch, or perhaps the flies were hiding amid the leaves of the trees.
Skirting the small Birchwood on my way towards home I came across a foot-wide excavation in the ground, at the inner end of which lay the remains of a wasp’s nest. So a badger had been at work. Badgers are quite partial to a supper of wasp grubs, and seem prepared to tolerate the stings inflicted by the adults in order to get their reward. This nest had been repaired, its gouged-out walls covered with convoluted sheets of wood pulp.
Half a dozen wasps crawled about the entrance, a hole of about half an inch in diameter. Another wasp arrived and I was able to watch as greetings were exchanged between this individual and those on sentry duty. They rubbed antennae and audibly vibrated their wings before the new arrival was allowed to enter through the hole. A concerted and persistent thrumming emanated from the nest, as if masses of insects were agreeing to a certain course of action. One emerged, circled the entrance and went back in. It came out again, this time followed by a stream of others. It seemed prudent to leave them to do their work.
I did wonder just how big the nest might be, and how many insects it might contain, but my questions will remain unanswered, at least for the time being, for I have no wish to have those scores of wasps coming after me with their tempers up. Bees are bad enough, and they can only sting once. A single wasp can administer a series of painfully effective stings to teach an unforgettable lesson.
Up until now we have not been troubled by wasps, for they have been busily putting their weaponry to its proper use, dealing death wounds to score upon score of insect pests, most notably aphids and caterpillars. These they feed to their growing youngsters that, in appreciation, produce quantities of sweet saliva, which the adults consume.
At this time of year the queen wasp will stop producing eggs, and hence the number of saliva-producing grubs is from now on continually reduced. Now the workers must seek other sources of food and will start to find their way into our kitchens. There is little we can do to dissuade them, apart from setting simple wasp traps around doors and windows.
A jam jar with a small hole in the lid and an inch of golden syrup in the bottom is ideal. We do not want to wage an all-out war on the wasp tribe, for they do an immense amount of good work, and should be dealt with only if they become a nuisance. They will die off on their own as soon as the colder nights arrive. Only the fertilised queens will survive.