Mellow yellow

A nice surprise danced on to our runner beans yesterday - a second generation Brimstone butterfly, freshly hatched from its chrysalis judging by the perfection of its wings. This handsome species is normally associated with the Spring when its role as one of the first butterflies to appear after Winter - apart from a few Peacocks and Small Tortoiseshells blearily staggering out of hibernation - may have earned it the honour of giving butterflies their name.

The 'butter-coloured fly' is the theory, first put forward as early as the 18th century when butterflies were still known, as they had been in classical times, as 'flies' and their caterpillars as 'worms'. I should add that the butterfly was also more respectfully described by the ancient Greeks as psyche, the same word as 'spirit', because of the marvel of the adult insect emerging from the chrysalis just as the soul may do from the grave.

To me, the Brimstone is more of a lemony or even limey fly. Perhaps we should campaign for an etymological (and entomological) change to Lemonfly, though I fear that it would be as unsuccessful as Sir Isaac Pitman's use of his shorthand royalties to promote phonetic spelling. Kingston Buildings' old street sign in Bath, reading something like Kingstn Bildingz, was the solitary memorial to this project in my days as a young journalist on the then Evening Chronicle. The Chron is a weekly now and I'm not sure if the sign is still there.

In the same colourway as the Brimstone, behold those mighty ragwort-munchers, Cinnabar Moth caterpillars whose vivid colour combo warns predators that they are poisonous ann enables them to gorge themselves openly. I have defended ragwort before and do so again now. Any fair-minded person spending a bit of time on Google will come to the conclusion, I am sure, that calls for its elimination as a supposedly dangerous weed are ill-judged.

The Hedge Brown - usually a bit shy of opening its wings to show the bright orange, but this one was helpful

Apart from the Brimstone, I saw nine of the UK's 60-odd kinds of butterfly in the garden sunshine yesterday: there were Small, Large and Green-veined Whites in profusion, lots of Ringlets, Meadow Browns and Hedge Browns (also known as Gatekeepers, both names due to their fondness for the edges and hedges of fields), a lofty Peacock, a darting Comma, and a Red Admiral. This looks like being a very good summer after an extremely poor one last year and I don't think we need rocket science to see why. It's the sun what's done it.

A Green-veined White. On close inspection, the 'green' is more of a dusting of little black and grey specks

Through an arch, darkly

Yet another moth I've long wanted to see turned up last night, in spite of the rain and a large assembly of the small, browny-grey type of species which try my patience. The latter almost caused me to miss it, or rather to overlook it after a brief glance which initially registered it as one of a trio of Peppered Moths, a very regular caller.

Luckily I looked again. And I had to look again at my Moth Bible after initially checking out the 'kitten' range of smaller relatives of the grand Puss Moth, and the Leopard, a much more spotty creature which came to the trap last week. Turning more pages brought me to the Black Arches and that is what this is; a very fine and distinctive relative to the much more common Dark and Green Arches (although the latter is a beautifully-patterned moth too).

The Bible credits the Black Arches with pink stripes on its abdomen, so after breakfast I may go and see if I can find it again in the bush where I hid it from hungry birds. I didn't try to photograph its tummy first time round, though I did with the next moth, the Ruby Tiger.

I posted a picture of the first of these to arrive this year just a couple of days ago, and you may have wondered why it has such a grand name. The moth I showed was indoors, squeezed into our bowl of pistachio nuts and looking more russet-brown than ruby; also far from tigerish.

This morning there were three in the trap and I hope these pictures explain the name more convincingly.

Finally, a few other glimpses from the very over-crowded eggboxes - at least 250 moths of some 60 types.

When shall we three meet again? A trio of Grey or Dark Daggers - you need intimate examination beyond my powers to tell the difference

A Beautiful Golden Y, I think

And the Silver Y - this one sitting up and paying attention

Finally, a Copper Underwing or Svensson's Copper Underwing which spent the night in our bedroom. Again, only experts can tell the two apart.

Heftier than the male

I featured the Ghost Moth in a post back in June when one of the creamy-yellow and orange females flew into the trap. At least a score of others have arrived since, but none of them male - until last night when a chap finally turned up. He's completely different-looking, as you can see: pure white apart from a carroty fringe to his wings and tuft of hair on his head, identical to the female's. He's also smaller, and that may account for the bit of damage to the edge of his wings.

Discussing the strains of sex with a Bright-eye Brown-line? The male Ghost Moth

As the June post described, the courting behaviour of Ghost Moths involves females hurtling straight at males in flight with such force that both are thrown to the ground, where lovemaking continues. This strenuous business may also explain why so few males have come to the light. They're probably all still in Accident & Emergency.

The female was standing on her head when I reached her eggbox, which also contained this Herald. I have never seen a moth doing this before.

Along with the Ghosts came this beautifully patterned and coloured moth which deserves its name of Marbled Beauty. I wonder if you can guess what its caterpillars eat and where the adult insect likes to rest, for camouflage reasons. The answer is lichen; and if you coax a Marbled Beauty on to lichen and turn away for a moment or two, you will have trouble relocating it when you look back again.

Admirable Pt 2

Apologies to the world's moth-lovers because those swanky butterflies have taken over the blog again today. But I think you'll be understanding because this particular example is one of the great treats of the UK's annual nature calendar.

The lovely topside. The name comes from 'admirable' rather than some butterfly-hunting seadog. Hence my headline today and yesterday (when I forgot to make this point)

It's our first Red Admiral, perhaps the loveliest and best-loved of the 60-odd species which are all that niggardly Nature has given this country in the way of butterflies. Extremely beautiful, it is also common as muck, unlike its White counterpart featured in yesterday's post. Everyone in the UK will see one at some stage in their lives, most of us every year.

You can also find their spiky black caterpillars on nettles in June and if you are particularly sharp-eyed, even one of their chrysalises - strange containers like Egyptian mummies in which the caterpillars transform into adult insects. The curious Batman-like shape at the bottom contains the head and curled-up antennae. One of our neighbours took me yesterday to see this one, whose occupant had only recently gone after cracking open the base and pushing the Batman cap to one side. It might even have been the Red Admiral which flew over to us. Many thanks to her for the photo.

They hatch at about the time that the equally common buddleia comes into bloom, with its swags of honey-scented purple flowers which Red Admirals, Peacocks, Small Tortoiseshells and their immigrant relations, Painted Ladies, find irresistible. I knew they were about because they have a much swifter and more powerful way of flying than the Whites and Browns which have been here in great numbers for the last couple of months.

This year's debut is particularly well-timed because Friday sees the start of a BBC TV Springwatch special on garden butterflies and this grand Red Admiral, left, is being used as cover boy, or girl, in promotional material. Ours nearly had a tragically short life. It flew indoors early yesterday and we didn't discover it until the early afternoon, by which time it was starting to wilt. A bit of towel flicking and Guardian-flapping steered it back into the fresh air, and off it soared.

I will just add a mothy PS, because it's another example of the coincidences which have been a feature of my posts this summer. I ended the last one with a reference to pistachio nuts. Late last night, amid radio clamour about the Royal baby and with the trap packed away for fear of thunderstorms, this moth flew in through the kitchen window. Its resting place was...our emergency nibble stash of pistachios (the little hand belongs to a whirling Dervish on the bowl which Penny and I bought in Istanbul).

Initially I thought it was a Neglected Rustic, a name straight out of Thomas Hardy, but I'm opting instead for another coincidence: it's a Ruby Tiger, a moth whose caterpillar was featured here on 12 July and identified by expert Dave Shenton. If I'm wrong, I'm relying on Dave again to correct me.

Admirable

In our Leeds days, I benefited a lot from Yorkshire Butterfly Conservation and its enthusiastic members, and the same is now true of their counterparts at Upper Thames BC. They run a very good website and its Butterfly Sightings page led to an excellent Sunday outing for Penny and me.

Current entries on the page are dotted with encounters with that magnificent creature the Purple Emperor, so we decided to cross Otmoor to one of its strongholds and the scene of many of these sightings: the remains of the Anglo-Saxon Royal hunting forest of Bernwood.

The first entomological specimens we met in large numbers were human - fellow enthusiasts. I've never previously encountered butterfly or moth fans en masse and it was great to share in their bonhomie and generous pooling of information. As a result we saw a couple of Purple Emperors, albeit very high up above oak trees. Back on our own, we were lucky to find a sprawling honeysuckle on a grassy side path which attracted White Admirals down to human height. Photography still wasn't easy because butterflies aren't sleepy like early morning moths, but I got one passable pic which heads this post.

In the spirit of the enthusiasts, you can find this honeysuckle by turning left at the third 'crossroads' along the main track from the car park, shortly after it goes between two meadows. Turn left again after about 300 yards and the path winds along to the wooden observation tower in the third picture, which sadly is marked 'Not for Public Use'. The honeysuckle is on the right just beyond it.

Small Skipper - large appetite

One of the enthusiasts showed us a picture of a striking moth, perhaps a Vapourer, which he'd seen in some numbers in Bernwood Meadows nature reserve. We walked down there but didn't have any luck, so stand by for a second visit before too long. There's an impressive list of other Purple Emperor sites round here and the weather couldn't be better for the butterflies (and for us).

Marbled White hiding from us

There were lots of other butterflies around and I've added pictures of some of them. We were also alerted by repeated sharp tapping to the fascinating site of a 'thrush's anvil' - an almost tame bird which came very close to us with a snail in its beak, hopping from stone to stone and bashing the unfortunate mollusc on each of them until its shell cracked. Like one of those pistachio nuts which just won't open.

Large Skipper, also having lunch

Come hither?

I mentioned the Yellow-tail moth the other day, and the habit of the female of sticking her tail perkily in the air when at rest, like the flag on an American letterbox. But none of the ones which came that morning were playing ball, and when I teased them very gently with blades of grass, they woke up with a start and flew off.

Van Gogh's paintbrush during the painting of sunflowers must have looked like this

This morning a nettle leaf close to the trap had a glint of gold, and here is the cause of it. The reason for the stance is uncertain but the clump of yellow hairs is only found on the female, so sex may play an unsurprising part. Update: sorry, I've been reading further and males often have a hint of yellow but nothing like as showy.

This one's a male, distinguished by feathered antennae. Compensation, maybe, for a smaller and less vivid yellow tail than the female

The tail is also thought to have a role in protecting newly-laid eggs and the Yellow-tail is an insect with other tricks up its sleeve. Its caterpillars are among those most familiar to dermatologists for causing nasty rashes on sensitive skin with their irritating hairs.

Taking a picture of the second Yellow-tail from below its obliging perch on the trap's transparent shield led me on to photograph another arrival nearby. This, above and below, is a dainty Small Emerald, one of the less common of the UK's beautiful tribe of green moths.

Want to make anything of it, then?

See headline...  Plus one thought: I don't think moths have eyelids like us because this one was sound asleep

Moths never strike me as aggressive, nor are they, but there's definitely an air of challenge about this one. Actually it's nothing more exciting than a Broad-bordered Yellow Underwing, the most appealing of a tribe with which I have historic issues, because they used to infest my trap in Leeds at around this time of the year.

Up to 100 assorted yellow underwings wasn't uncommon and I was almost unsympathetic when a bold blackbird nipped into our greenhouse and gobbled one. The birds here are showing signs of getting wise to my curious morning practices and I am trying to disperse the slumbering moths as carefully as I can.

The shocking Leeds incident of 9 August 2008

The Broad-bordered Yellow Underwing has an odd habit which it illustrated this morning by creeping as far as possible into an eggbox cone. It emerges in late July but then hides away for a while, like a novice monk or squire before knighthood, before emerging to play a full nocturnal life in August.

Another new arrival this morning was one I've been awaiting: the Herald, a beautiful and distinctively-shaped moth which has the distinction of appearing on the spine of my Moth Bible, so you can go an admire one in your nearest good bookshop.

Immortalised in print. In the background is my Micro-moth Bible. Both books are indispensable and Richard Lewington is a natural history artist of genius

I'm a bit late this morning, so I'll just add a few more of my overnighters. Numbers continue to be impressive and I hope to find time for a bit of good housekeeping over the weekend, to post a list of species so far this year.

Barred Yellow - pupates in flimsy cocoon amid garden debris

July Highflyer, arriving punctually

Scalloped Oak in its pastel cloak (poem)

Clouded Silver - a moth which has spread very successfully in the UK in recent years

On the micro front, Penny the Indoors Mothspotter called me over to our bathroom basin last night to get a pic of this pretty little Agapeta Hamana, top photo of the pair below.  He is the Johnny Townmouse of this duo. The Timmy Willie - second picture - was in an eggbox this morning.

Finally, a welcome though slightly blurry - sorry - return for one of the very first types of moth to arrive in the trap here after our move from Leeds. A Nut-tree Tussock. Which reminds me to go and check how our walnut tree is coming along.

Martin's Bank - home of the mighty grasshopper

Scrubbing its face?

The moths are rather British this morning, ie small, browny-grey and thoroughly muddling to me, so instead we'll have the story of Penny's birthday grasshopper. Here it is, above, on one of a selection of carefully chosen presents from her husband.

Make sure you do behind the ears

This is a nail brush with the bristles on one side sloping sideways, something she dropped hints about, saying that they were surprisingly hard to get. This is true. If the chemists and cosmetic shopowners of Oxfordshire have get-togethers and the subject arises of a man questing vigorously after such a brush, it was me. Even Bicester Village let me down, for Heaven's sake.

All done?

Then off you go to play outside

Hats off to Bicester Lloyd's then, which came to the rescue at the eleventh hour. And maybe this little grasshopper - I think a youthful Common Green but maybe a passing orthopterologist will judge - was a ghostly tribute from another great commercial concern with which I had memorable dealings as a boy. This was Martin's Bank, sadly subsumed into Barclay's in 1969, but surviving gloriously in an outstanding website run by former employees and fans.

I am one of the latter, having been given a Martin's Bank moneybox - which excitingly only the bank could open in my presence at the Headingley branch - when I was only about six. Like many others, I love the way that the grasshopper, a symbol of fecklessness ever since Aesop libelled it in contrast to that Nazi of the natural world, the ant, was the symbol of a mighty financial business. Martin's, with its grasshopper and Liver bird (following a merger with the Bank of Liverpool in 1914), was specially strong and even loved in the North of England. Modern bankers would do well to think on.

I've interspersed these financial observations with some pics which from the website's archive. The little girl leading the elephant even got in touch with them as a much older woman to explain how it was done. The series also included her with a camel.

Grasshoppers for ever!