When was the last time you saw a ladybird?

When was the last time you saw a ladybird?

I ask because one of the things I wanted to do this year was some photography using ladybirds as subjects. I even planned out some of the shots during the winter. Props and everything.

So it has come as quite a disappointment to me that this year, I haven't seen a single, solitary ladybird. Not one.

Now, this wouldn't normally concern me hugely. They're quite small insects and I suspect that I often just don't notice them.

But the thing is, this year I've been actively looking.  On every walk, I've been keeping my eyes peeled. No 7 spot, no 2 spot, no 12 spot. Not even any Harlequins.

I've looked on window cills in sheds. Normally a rich source of ladybirds, albeit deceased. No ladybirds, living or otherwise.

I've looked on thistles. Nothing.

I've looked on nettles. Nada. Zip.

I've looked everywhere I can think of that there are aphids. Zilch. The aphids are around in numbers- presumably because they aren't getting eaten by any ladybirds.

I asked people. Well, 3 people. All amateur entomologists or nature lovers. One here in Devon, one in the Cotswolds and one near London. They couldn't remember seeing any ladybirds this year either.

One of them suggested that it might be down to the weather. Well, yes, I could understand fewer ladybirds. But none at all?

I contacted the ladybird census people. Yes, there actually is one. To date, I've had no reply. Maybe they've disappeared along with their little charges.

So where are the ladybirds? For once, Google isn't telling. There's nothing about a scarcity of ladybirds this year. There's nothing at all about ladybirds in 2016, as far as I can tell.

Although there are an increasing amount of articles, mostly from the U.S. (where they call them 'Ladybugs') pointing to a link between the use of Neonicitinoids and the death of non-target species such as ladybirds.

Is that it? Are the ladybirds disappearing from right under our noses?

Or am I wrong- have other people seen ladybirds this year? I'd love to be proved wrong, and awake to a long list of comments saying what a twit I am and that I'm just not looking hard enough. I'd love to know that somewhere away from North Devon, all the ladybirds are gathered having a good old laugh at my expense.

I really hope that's the case.

The day of the big butterfly count

I was walking Rosie (and Rosie was walking me) a few days ago. We weren't at Volehouse. Much to Rosie's disgust, the cattle are grazing it at the moment and that means she has to go on a lead, which she hates. So we've been going to a place known as Powler's Piece. It's a nice enough place with several different habitats and a well defined, easy track. I usually take my camera when we go, just in case anything's about.

And on this particular day, what was about was a rather depressing man.

"What are you doing"? he said
"Walking the dog. And looking for butterflies to photograph". I replied.
"You won't find any. Not this year. This year's rubbish for butterflies."
"Oh'?
"Bloody rubbish".
"I don't know- there are a few around."
"No there aren't. It's bloody rubbish".

The conversation, if it could be called that, rambled on in the same vein. Him telling me how rubbish this year was and me looking over his shoulder at the butterflies that he was telling me weren't there.

The situation was, to quote a phrase, bloody rubbish.

Eventually I got rid of him, much to my relief and Rosie's, and we continued on our walk. But the man had rather spoiled the moment and I didn't do much more photography. Instead, I wondered whether he was right. Were there fewer butterflies than normal this year? The cloud that had hung over him had rather spread to me, so on the spur of the moment I decided to take action by joining in the big butterfly count.

When I got home, as luck would have it, I found that the following day was the final day to take part.

So the following morning, Rosie and I struck out to the same patch where we met Mr Bloody Rubbish, determined to prove him wrong. I must confess that I was more interested in the number of species I could photograph in 15 minutes than the number of individuals- which isn't really in the spirit of the big butterfly count, but there you go. I did actually also keep score, in the interest of submitting to the official count.

The day was sunny with some light cloud scudding across in a light breeze. And this is how it went....

Minute 1- There's a Large White (Pieris brassicae) further down the track but it won't stay still to be photographed. Not an auspicious start. 1

Things get better as a pristine second brood Speckled wood (Pararge aegeria), on patrol down the side of the fir trees, stops and poses at eye level. 2

Minute 2- All the whites are out today. A small white (Pieris rapae) is nectaring while above it, a green veined white (Pieris napi) is on the brambles. Both are occupied enough to allow a quick snap.

Further down the brambles, I spy a Gatekeeper (Pyronia tithonus). The Gatekeepers have only recently emerged, so I'm hoping he won't be damaged, and he isn't. 5.

Minute 3- More whites, large and small. Still no picture of the large white. 5 

Minute 4- There's a grey butterfly a way away that I can't identify at first. As I get closer it reveals itself to be not grey, but black and white- a marbled white (Melanargia galathea). A good sighting, and my first of the year at this spot.

While I was closing in on it, I noticed a few skippers buzzing around. I return to take a closer look. They're all Small skippers (Thymelicus sylvestris).

No Esssex or Large skippers to be seen. 7.

Minute 5- Aaargh! The sun goes in and immediately the track becomes devoid of butterflies.

Minute 6- The sun is still in, but there's 2 Ringlets (Aphantopus hyperantus). They're faded and a bit tatty on one side, but one shows me his good side obligingly. 8.

Minute 7- Nothing.

Minute 8. Nothing. How big is this cloud?

Minute 9- Sun!!! And I'm back on track, making up for lost time with a Vanessid double header- Peacock (Inachis io) and Painted lady (Vanessa cardui) both second brood and both perfect. 10.

Minute 10- My jaw actually does a comedy drop as two silver-washed fritillaries (Argynnis paphia) float past the end of my nose in a pairing dance. After the other smaller butterflies they look as big as handkerchiefs. I have seen them here before, but only very sporadically. They part for a while and one starts to feed. I can't quite believe my luck.

Minute 11- Nothing new, but another very tatty silver-washed. They're like buses- you don't see one for weeks and then 3 come along at once.

Minute 12- The grass at the side of the track has a few daisies in it, and on one of those I spy a flash of blue. Common blue (Polyommaus icarus), second brood are out. 11.

Minute 13- Still no shot of a Large white. They're around, but very skittish. I spy a Meadow Brown (Maniola jurtina). It's late in the season, but it doesn't look in bad nick. I've never had much success with these. They bolt at the slightest movement. Today though, this one sits just long enough for a photo before running for it. 12.

Minute 14- I think I've seen all there is to see in this section, so I'm racing for a side track lined with knapweed and sallow, where I'm reasonably sure I'll find...

Minute 15- ...Brimstone! (Gonepteryx rhamni).

The second brood started emerging last week and right on cue, here's a nice male. And as an added bonus, on the stroke of 15 minutes, I pull the trigger on an elusive Red admiral (Vanessa atalanta). 14.

Time's up.

Now, fourteen species is about 24% of the native species found in the UK. And given that many don't fly in August, and many don't live in Devon, I'd say that for a 15 minute period, that's not too shabby.

At any rate, it makes me think that 2016 isn't as bad for butterflies- at least second brood ones- as is being made out.

So, Mr Misery, here's my answer to you;

You know what you were talking?

That's right- bloody rubbish.

The day I discovered a Dragonfly having lunch.

I'm constantly amazed by the vast extent of my lack of knowledge when it comes to natural history.

For example, I've known about dragonflies all my life. They've always been there. If I was 299,999,948 years older than I currently am, they'd still always have been there. But I didn't know about them. For instance, I'd never considered what they had for lunch.

On a flying visit to Volehouse last week Rosie was off ahead undertaking important spaniel tasks, when she paused and started sniffing interestedly at something in the middle of the track by the entrance.

This is usually a sign that she's found a particularly alluring pile of fox poo to roll in, and since that involves much shampooing and no little displeasure from my wife for permitting dog and poo to connect, I quickened my pace to intercept before the s*** hit the spaniel, as it were.

But this was something else. As I lumbered up to her, she was actually sniffing at a dragonfly sitting motionless on the path.

Golden ringed dragonfly (Cordulegaster boltonii)

It was a Golden-ringed dragonfly (Cordulegaster boltonii) but at the time, I couldn't understand why it was just sitting there allowing a Welshie to prod it with her nose. It was a sunny day, so there shouldn't have been a problem with its flight muscles. And yet there it was, as torpid as me with a  Breaking Bad box set.

I knew that when Bees became like this, they needed emergency food. Perhaps this dragonfly was starving, I reasoned.

I rather balked at the thought of trying to catch flies for it. I've seen Rosie try that many, many times; never with any success. And she's much faster than I am.

Whatever the problem, I decided that it couldn't stay there in the middle of the track. It was inevitably going to get squished by something.

So, rather at a loss, I decided to transfer it to a nearby foxglove on the basis that if it actually was short of energy maybe it would break with dragonfly tradition and try some nectar. If not, then at least it would starve to death rather than get stomped on.

And it was as I transferred it that I realised what was going on. Far from starving, it was actually having lunch.

Beneath it, trapped in its jaws and struggling weakly was a bee.

Beneath it, trapped in its jaws, was a bee

I had no idea that a dragonfly would take something as large as a bee. I'd never really thought about dragonfly food at all. I knew from much pond-dipping as a child that their nymphs were fearsome predators. But as far as I was aware, the adults were like many moths, doing all their feeding in the larval stage. (See what I mean about lack of knowledge?)

This one had clearly bitten off more than it could quickly chew, and was struggling to keep its prey under control.  It hadn't been bothered by Rosie because it had quite enough on its plate already.

Now, in the few days since I joined the dragonfly for lunch, I've noticed them more and more. I've become interested.

I've seen a Golden-ringed dragonfly deftly snatch a moth out of the air and eat it on the fly, spitting the wings out as it went.

I've started spotting and identifying different species.

I now understand that the group of them called Hawkers are so called because of the way that they feed.. Obvious, but it's one of those connections that I'd never made before.

In a single chance encounter that morning I learned something that's sparked an interest that will last me a lifetime.

And that's why it's so fantastic to see so many young people blogging so enthusiastically, passionately and knowledgeably on the Local Patch reporters site.

Because youngsters that have an interest in the natural world will never, ever be bored for as long as they live. They'll never need to occupy themselves by sitting listlessly in front of the TV, PC, VG or whatever.

They will always be able to find something in their surroundings to learn about. And that's a wonderful thing for someone to be able to look forward to.

Although, when they're old enough, I would recommend that they do a Breaking Bad box set binge. Because everybody should. Seriously.

The day of the hornet that was really a moth.

Disheartened by the summer stretching out in front of it, and knowing the abuse it was going to take, my mower had given one last exhausted phut and died. The mower man came and looked at it, sucked his teeth and shook his head. The mower had moved on to pastures new.

So I had to buy a new mower, which was very expensive. Although I was slightly mollified to find that the new machine had- and I am not making this up- a beverage holder. Every man's dream.

Anyway, to keep the new purchase in tip top condition, I decided to build a little house for it to live in. And while I was doing that, I noticed this, sitting on the fence post that I was about to hammer into.

Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!

It's a hornet, right?

That's what I thought as I ran away. A nasty incident some years back has left me with a healthy respect for bees and wasps, even singly.

But then curiosity got the better of me and I crept back with a camera for a closer look. And that's when I realised that this wasn't a hornet at all. On closer inspection, this was unmistakably a moth.

Never having come across anything quite like it before, I did some googling and came up with a bit of background.

This is a Lunar Hornet Moth (Sesia bembeciformis) which must surely be one of the all time great Batesian mimics- species that evolve to look like dangerous or distasteful species in order to protect themselves from predation. The Lunar Hornet moth even moves like a hornet when it flies.

Now I know it's a moth, it's all fine.

It's a reasonably common moth but seldom reported because everybody thinks it's a hornet instead of one of the Clearwing family of moths. Thus proving the effectiveness of its cunning disguise.

It emerges in July and the larvae are burrowers, feeding for 2 years internally on the wood of sallow and poplar trees, of which there is a lot in North Devon.

Once I'd realised there was no imminent danger to me, I became quite fearless and rather fascinated with this little moth.

Hopefully, I'll come across it again, perhaps in a more photogenic position than my fencepost. And maybe I'll say to myself 'Why, that's not a hornet- that's a splendid example of Batesian mimicry' and not run away.

But I wouldn't bet on it.

June 19th- The day I went abroad to find the Silver-studded blues.

I had never actually considered Cornwall to be abroad until I lived in Devon.

Devonians do seem consider Cornwall to be a foreign land, and I suspect the Cornish think the same about them. It's rooted in a rivalry that, as far as I can work out, comes down to the orientation of the crimp on a pasty (Devon is on top, Cornish in a semicircle round the side) and the order in which jam and cream are placed on a scone.

Anyhoo, delicious cultural differences aside, one of the Cornish speciality butterflies is the Silver-studded blue, a small and rather rare insect that hangs around- at its remaining strongholds- in colonies, sometimes many thousands strong. Who knows why? Probably as a form of defence. Maybe each individual thinks that it can call on the rest of the mob for support in the event that any old-school butterfly collector comes calling.

It's a species that I've never actually seen in the wild, despite over 40 years watching butterflies. We all have species like that, wildlife nemeses which for no particular reason simply elude us. Although I've been to places where Silver-studded blue were found, I've never seen one and I've never got around to actively seeking them out. So when I moved to Devon, it was high on my hit list.

Male Silver studded blue (Plebejus argus) 

One of the largest colonies in the country is down near Newquay at Penhale Sands, a sprawling dune complex spread over 6 square miles, some of it owned by the MOD. You often find that MOD land is good for wildlife. Our fauna and flora seems to prefer living in what is, basically, a war zone than amongst the general populace. It's a sad reflection of the human species.

The SSBs that I was seeking would seldom fly more than a half mile from their place of emergence. Indeed, they are reputed to be so reluctant to explore that you could walk past a colony of several hundred on the other side of a dune and never know a thing about it. (This is, I assume, because they live next door to a bunch of rifle-toting military types. Sticking an antenna over their sandy parapet could be the last thing they ever do).

I was at something of a loss to know how to find the colony in such a large hunting ground.

So I delved a little deeper into the web, to try and find a clue as to where the butterflies could actually be found.

And the web introduced me to the Cornwall Butterfly and Moth Society, who were planning a field trip to the very same Penhale Dunes the following day.

I phoned Lee from the society and booked onto the trip, hoping that the fact that I was coming from Devon wouldn't lead to any unseemly pasty-based friction (or my being detained as a foreign spy).

As I left home the following morning, it was raining hard and since I had a 2 hour drive to find them, I did rather question my sanity. However, as I crossed the border into Cornwall, I regained my sense of adventure and rather enjoyed the journey.

I kept expecting the rain to stop, but as I got closer and closer to my destination, it didn't.

The moors were covered in fog and lorries were putting up great peacock plumes of spray behind them. My windscreen wipers were having trouble keeping up with the water that was being deposited onto them.

When I got to the allotted lay-by,  I met Leon. He turned out to be the County moth recorder for Cornwall and clearly knew his stuff, recording all information in a small hardback notebook that he carries everywhere. A glance inside showed me that he undertakes a butterfly hunting expedition pretty much every day in the season- yesterday he had been up at Aish Tor in Devon, recording sightings of the High Brown Fritillary.

Since it was still raining, I was pretty dubious about seeing anything, but Leon was completely confident. He pointed out that when so many butterflies were concentrated into one area, there was really nowhere for them to hide.

Last week, he told me with a gleam in his eye, at a reserve down the road he'd seen a dozen on a single umbrella of Angelica. And his friend had counted over 80 in a two metre square. He spoke of a time some years ago when the population had got so numerous that they were like confetti when you walked.

'I'll believe it when I see it', I thought with a London ex-pat's cynicism.

We threaded our way through the dunes, pausing only for pyramidal orchids

We threaded our way through the dunes, pausing only for pyramidal orchids. Leon in his waterproofs nattering away happily about the aberrant form of the Grizzled Skipper that is found on the dunes, ab. Taras. Me plodding along behind him, my inappropriate deck shoes emitting a loud squelch with every footstep and my soaking jeans covered in grass seeds and sticking to my shins.

Eventually Leon paused and his eyes narrowed. 'There's one of the little so-and-so's" he said triumphantly.

And there it was indeed. A tiny butterfly, far smaller than I'd expected. Smaller than the Common blue, and with a more purple tinge to the upperside, and black bands evident on the males. I knew immediately that if I ever came across them again I would be able to identify them from the upperside alone.

The identifying clincher, though, is on the underside and it's where they get their name from. In the black spots at the edge of the hindwing are small groups of blue scales, which allegedly look like studs of blue. They're not a constant- some individuals have them very pronounced, others hardly at all and in some they are absent altogether.

The silver studs are a dead giveaway

Females, Leon informed me, though they lack the blue upper side, often have better 'studs'.

Like most blues, the females are brown. Which is just contrary, really.

Silver-studded blues are found in three distinct habitats- the dunes and calcareous grassland sites where the larval food plant is primarily Bird's-foot trefoil (Lotus corniculatus) and the adults are on the wing from June to mid July. But they are also found on heathland from July through August, where the larvae feed on Heather (Calluna vulgarise) and gorse (Ulex spp.)

As with many Blues, they have a close relationship with ants; in the case of the SSB, black ants in particular (Lasius niger and Lasius aliens).

Almost as soon as they hatch, the larvae begin to secrete a form of honeydew that the ants respond to. They pick up the larvae and transport them to their chambers within the nest, where they are tended and protected by the ants in exchange for supplies of the secretion. When pupation occurs, it is usually near the ants nest, and the pupa continues to secrete honeydew in exchange for protection until the butterfly emerges. Anecdotal accounts have the ants actually carrying the adult butterflies out of the nest to expand their wings, where they join the others in the colony.

Like most of these things, when you've got your eye in, you start to see them properly and it soon became clear that we were right in the middle of the colony, with hundreds of butterflies visible.

When you get your eye in, you wonder how you ever missed them

'If the weather was half decent', said Leon expansively, 'you'd see thousands'. I immediately determined to come back when the sun was out.

We experimented with shining a torch on them to see if they'd open their wings for us, and amazingly, it worked. Something to bear in mind for cloudy days in the future, as is the simple need for a pair of nail scissors to undertake the occasional bit of pruning before taking photographs. I had one chap with a lovely set of studs that insisted on hiding behind a blade of grass, and I couldn't get rid of it without disturbing him.

That moment when you realise you've forgotten your nail scissors.

Eventually, the discomfort of the rain took its toll. My spectacles were covered in rain and fogged up from my breath behind the back of the camera. I was drenched from head to foot and so much grass seed had stuck to me that if I'd slept on the ground, I'd have woken up in a meadow.

But I'd finally seen the Silver studded blue. And as I drove back across the border from the pouring rain of Cornwall into the pouring rain of Devon, I couldn't help thinking what a nice place Cornwall was.

Awfully wet, though.

13th June 2016. The day I learned about managing Culm grassland.

It's raining. Great drenching sheets of the stuff, blowing in waves across the garden to the point where, when I look out of the window, I can't see the trees two fields over.

Even Rosie refuses to go out. She looks at me with that slightly questioning look that means 'You seriously expect me to go out in that?' and 'Got any food?' both at once. Although actually,  every look from a Spaniel means 'Got any food?, so there's nothing new there.

On this particular day, though, I can't blame her. So while she goes to sleep on a big cushion next to my desk, I sit down at the computer and decide to take the opportunity to find out a bit more about Culm grassland and the way it's managed at Volehouse.

The first and most surprising thing I learn is that Culm grassland is confined to the area between Dartmoor, Exmoor and the Atlantic coast. It's a unique habitat, that lies on top of the Culm measures that are only found in this tiny area of the UK. It's so special that the main culm basin has been subdivided into its own specific sections- the Holsworthy group and the Teign valley group, AKA the Lower Culm.

Location of Culm grasslands in UK (JNCC)

The Holsworthy group is further subdivided into the upper Bude formation and the Crackington formation, the Bideford formation and the Launcestone formation. I'm not exactly sure where the boundaries lie, so I can't say which camp Volehouse falls into but I'm assuming it must be Bideford . Anyway, it's all part of the Culm measure.

According to Wikipedia, Culm measure is the name given to a particular geological strata that stems from the Carboniferous period, 300 million years ago.  It's called Culm because it gives rise in certain areas (notably around Bideford, Barnstaple and Hartland) to soft, sooty deposits of coal, known in the local dialect as 'culm', which itself probably derives from the Welsh word 'cwlwm' meaning 'knot', on account of the folding pattern of the beds in which this soft coal is found.

As a lover of trivia, this stuff is meat and drink to me and it's still chucking it down, so I push on.

It seems that the Culm measures also consist of shale, sandstone, slate, limestone and chert.

'Chert'?

Yes, I thought that, too. It's a 'fine-grained, silica-rich microcrystalline sedimentary rock that may contain small fossils'. Is there no question that Wikipedia can't help with?

It's on top of all this culm and, er, chert that Culm grassland forms. It's a species-rich habitat, characterised by moor grass and rush pasture- hence it's other name 'Rhos pasture'. It's a heavy, acidic soil, poorly draining, which has been used mostly for grazing historically, as it's too difficult to use it for anything else. Thus, most culm grassland remained unimproved in the past, used only for grazing small numbers of cows.

Culm grassland

Changes and advances in agricultural practice, though, have made changing the character of the land far more viable. The culm grassland has gradually been lost to modern farming techniques and increased pressure upon the farming industry to deliver ever-increasing yields, resulting in overgrazing and the draining of the Culm fields.

About 92% of our Culm grassland has vanished forever in the last 100 years, with 48% vanishing between 1984 and 1991 alone. There are now only about 4000 acres left. Fortunately, before all was lost, attempts were made to preserve it, notably by Devon Wildlife Trust, Butterfly Conservation and Natural England, all of whom have spearheaded conservation projects and continue to fight hard to preserve it.

I look outside, and it's still tipping down. Rosie is flat out, draped upside down across her cushion and snoring like a small furry engine.

I come to the conclusion that, armed with my newfound knowledge of culm and chert, it's time to stop suckling on the trivia teat that is Wiki and try to gain some knowledge from an actual, live person. I decide to try and speak to the manager of the culm grassland at Volehouse Moor.

At the Devon Wildlife Trust office, a very nice lady answers the phone and gives me the number of Steve, who looks after Volehouse.

As I listen to Steve's phone ringing. I realise that I haven't really thought this through, and that I should have prepared all kinds of interesting and insightful questions for him. All I can think of at the moment is 'why don't the cow's hooves squash all the Marsh fritillary larvae'?

As it happens, I needn't have worried. Steve is a softly spoken chap who is very easy to talk to. I forget that I forgot to prepare any questions, and we just chat away.

My opening gambit is to ask him how long he's looked after Volehouse. He tells me that he's been involved in the management of Volehouse and other nearby reserves since the early nineties. I tell him about my Marsh Fritillary count and he says that he did his own count a couple of days later. We compare totals- he had fortysomething in 45 minutes and I had 87 in 70 minutes so it's reasonably consistent.

Back in 1998/9, he says,when he and his colleague reserve manager Gary Pilkington did a count, they found just 2 butterflies. I find this extraordinary, and a testament to the success of their conservation plan. Steve is obviously quietly proud of the figures, but is at pains to point out that as a result of Volehouse being a nature reserve, he has the luxury of being able to manage the land as he wishes, without having to deliver a profit on it.

Coming from a farming family himself, he understands the pressures on farmers and is of the opinion that the shift towards larger 'superfarms' can be a positive thing for conservation because they are more likely to be able to spare pockets of land to put aside for more wildlife-friendly use.
With less land, the need to use every square metre increases. Viewed through this lens, Culm doesn't really pull its weight, so it's just as well that there are organisations willing to fight its corner.

I ask how a typical year managing Volehouse would work and Steve maps out his annual routine for me. He says that there are really two pillars to managing culm- grazing and swaling (burning)

The grazing is essential to prevent the build up of dead leaf litter, which smothers new plant growth. The Marsh fritillary, in particular, depends on high concentrations of devils-bit scabious for its larvae. This is one of the plants that can be smothered if grazing doesn't happen.

Without good management, many plants would be lost

Overgrazing, however, is as bad as undergrazing, says Steve, since the cows will eat their way through too much of the plant life. He makes the point that each area needs to be managed on its own merits, and it is this approach which he believes has led to the spectacular resurgence of the Marsh fritillary at Volehouse. He says that he puts his cattle on in mid June "whichever week has the 18th in it" although they're a bit early this year due to the mild winter and early spring.

The main thing, he says, is to only put a small number on, and not to introduce them until after the wildflowers have set seed. As a farmer, he'd want more cattle on the land and to put them on earlier, but cows tend to selectively graze out the orchids. Once again, he appreciates having the luxury of being able to manage the land for the wildlife, not in spite of it. He'll take the cattle off again in autumn.

Grazing at Volehouse is delayed until after the wildflowers have set seed

Swaling (controlled burning) is also vital to the survival of species on the culm grassland. It's another method of removing dead leaf litter and 'thatch' (the dead grass that sits on top of the tussocks) and the resultant bare earth is a perfect germination ground for seedlings. It's also the best way to stop the encroachment of scrub. Willow in particular can quickly take over a site if left unchecked. Ideally, culm grassland works best for wildlife with about 10% scrub cover.

Obviously, you can't just go around setting light to entire reserves willy-nilly and the swaling process is carefully managed by Steve, using a  3 year cyclical system of compartments, some fields being burned annually and half of the other fields being swaled every other year. The fields are cut in the winter and burned in February or March, which Steve says works better as the cut grass is more desiccated by then. Cutting cyclically ensures that there are always a variety of climates to suit the broadest range of wildlife. The meadows aren't swaled at all, relying purely on grazing to keep the thatch and scrub at bay.

Scorpion fly (Panorpa communis) One of the many insects thriving in the microhabitats of Volehouse

I point out to Steve that the increase in the number of Marsh fritillary at Volehouse is in direct contradiction to the European-wide trend as one of the butterflies in most serious decline. Does he manage the reserve purely for the fritillaries, as the star species at Volehouse?

Marsh fritillaries on well managed Culm (and unsquashed by cattle)

He pauses, considering. 'I wouldn't say I manage it for them', he says, 'but I do manage it with them in mind'. I ask if he believes that the phasing out of traditional methods of farm management like swaling have led to this decline in numbers. He puts a different, more positive spin on his answer, saying that he believes the numbers of aurinia on his reserves have increased so dramatically because he is free to manage the land in a fashion  that optimises conditions for them.

Our conversation is coming to a natural close, and we arrange for me to accompany him to Volehouse in the autumn to help him count the larval webs of the fritillaries after the cattle are taken off.

And it's then that I seize the chance to ask my big question.

'So, Steve' I say 'How come the larval webs don't get trodden on by the cows'?

He considers.

"I expect they do'. he replies. 'But not all of them. Otherwise there wouldn't be any fritillaries, would there'?

I can't really think of a response to logic like that, so I thank him and end our chat.

I've learned a lot about culm this morning.

It's still bloody raining, though.

Sources:
Devon Wildlife Trust, North Devon Nature improvement area website
Butterfly Conservation 'Reconnecting the culm' leaflet
JNCC defra SAC site
Devon county council- 'Rhos pasture'

Many thanks to Steve Threlkeld at DWT

June 11th 2016- The day with the orchids.

Since the butterfly count, I haven't been down to the left side field. On that day it was buzzing with Marsh fritillaries displaying all aspects of behaviours but I didn't want to stop my count to spend time there.

Today, however, this is where I'm heading. Because on the 31st it was here that I noticed that the first orchids had begun to flower.

Southern marsh orchid (Dactylorhiza praetermissa)

They're southern marsh orchids- not uncommon but very attractive, and they mark a distinct transition in the reserve. The early flowers in the meadows tend towards yellow- dandelions, buttercups, hawkweeds and the like, whereas from June onwards the pinks and purples appear- the orchids, thistles and ragged robin. There are many exceptions, and I'm not aware of there being any reason for it- it's just something that I've noticed. I like the purples. They give a summery, exotic feel to things just at the time when the yellow of the buttercups can become a bit overwhelming. 

Southern marsh orchid (detail)

And as I approach the spot where I saw the orchids blooming, I see that I'm not the only one to welcome their arrival. A pair of Marsh fritillaries are nectaring on one of the paler orchids. The sexes of the Marsh fritillary are not difficult to tell apart- as long as you have a pair in front of you! The females (40-50mm) are usually about a centimetre bigger across the wingspan than the males (30-42mm), which as I say, is easy to tell when you have both to compare, but trickier when the butterfly you wish to sex is careering at full tilt across the tussocks on his (or her) own. The difference in colour of the wings that you can see in the photo is just due to age or individual variation and is not indicative of sex.

Marsh Fritillaries on orchid

I watch the happy couple for a while as they refuel, and then notice another specimen, a male this time, on a spike nearby. I wait and then attempt to click the shutter as he flies. For once I am rewarded with a flight shot that is in sharp focus. This is the great advantage of modern cameras- only a few years ago, a shot like this would have been challenging, if not impossible, in the field without a flash and tripod. In the digital age, though, we have almost infinite control over ISO and shutter speed and the ability to clean up noise on pictures so completely that with luck and good reflexes, anyone can get decent flight shots.

Marsh fritillary taking flight and unusually in focus!

The sharp focus bit doesn't often happen, though, so I am feeling rather pleased with myself as I start to head for home. And then I see a 'chain' start to happen a few yards away. This is a territorial behaviour I've been wanting to capture on camera for a while and flushed with success at the previous shot, I go for it, focusing on infinity, twisting the telephoto on my camera to 200mm at the same time as trying to centre my viewfinder on 4 butterflies flying at full speed in a completely unpredictable pattern. Any photographer will know that the chances of getting off a useable shot were pretty much zero. And yet, improbably, when I look at the pictures later on, there it is. A bit of sharpening and cropping and it's just about good enough to post here.

A 'chain' of Marsh fritillaries

So all in all, it's been a good day, and a great reminder that in nature study there's always something exciting to be gained if you persevere.

I drive home smiling.