Blogetty Blog 4: Caterpillars

Blogetty Blog 4: Caterpillars

The caterpillar cages were an outstanding feature of our schoolroom. They have emerged clearly as I have dredged my brain for childhood memories, Made of plain unpainted white wood with glass doors hinged to open at the front, they were large enough to hold water vases for small tree ‘branchlets’:  perhaps 18 – 24 inches square by 10 inches deep. There were at least two double units. The leaves had to be changed frequently to keep them fresh for the inhabitants – most successfully the Pussmoths and Poplar Hawks which were quite common on the various poplars of the Warnham gardens. I have no idea whether the cages were supplied commercially by a naturalist supply shop or made by Frank Edwards the estate carpenter who was accustomed to my father’s eccentric specifications and could turn his skilled hand to any project. 

The many Warnham gardeners – I have in mind fifteen as their number but feel that must be exaggeration – were instructed to watch likely trees for eaten leaves and caterpillars. My favorite gardener was George Steyning. He would stop his Large Atco motor mower to chat with my brother and me, and treat us as if we were adult friends. In this simple conduct he was not only unusual among the over-respectful staff but a hero on account of the red and blue tattooed dragons descending each of his forearms. He had served in the Navy during the war and had acquired his decorations in far-east Asia: Hong Kong, I suppose. Tattoo was very rare among ordinary folk then – virtually confined to circus sideshows – so my brother Rupert and I were immensely impressed when George rolled up his sleeves to show us the full glory of his traditional Chinese symbols. I have never felt inclined to follow his example.

My father had extraordinary eyesight – accounting for his skill at tennis and in the cricket slips, at billiards and shooting – and seemed able to spot caterpillar activity at a distance. Lepidoptera were of great interest to both my parents who were keen to inspire my younger brother Rupert and me with an appreciation of the world of nature. I have my mother’s copy of Richard South’s “The Moths of the British Isles” published by Warne in “The Wayside and Woodland Series”. It is inscribed “Aileen, with Auntie Ethel’s love July 25^th 1911”. I cannot explain what seems an unlikely choice for a nine year-old girl, but it was well-worn so was clearly much appreciated. In its own right South’s book containing hundreds of colored photographs and detailed life histories is an extraordinary work – in a truly remarkable series which included British birds and fishes – and occupied many hours of my own childhood reading.

The whole family watched their progress with fascination until signs of activity within the cocoons preceded metamorphosis into adult moths. Rupert and I were put reluctantly to bed each evening, leaving our parents – my father with his nightly whisky(s) and soda in hand – in our school room waiting for the moths’ emergence, which much to our disappointment took place at night.

The metamorphosis of Lepidoptera, dragon and damselflies is probably not a subject of readers’ frequent concern but it is so extraordinary that I have no hesitation in elaborating upon it here. In an entirely incomprehensible and bizarre procedure a soft crawling worm-like creature totally dissolves itself in a temporary shelter of its own construction and reemerges transformed with hairy body, legs, and antennae, and four large delicate wings decorated with countless highly colored scales arranged in complex patterns exactly repeated by the members of its species. It is mysterious beyond imagination and defies human logic and understanding.

In later moults Pussmoth caterpillars assume the bizarre appearance illustrated in the photo. The real head is the small brown central section. The mock eye pattern and sting-like tails are defensive camouflage – one more extraordinary adaptation defying belief: does not their message say “I’m not your average grub. Don’t dare eat me, I’m a very fierce, bad rabbit and may be poisonous?”

And yet – however extraordinary – it happens. “In spite of the tennis”, says Beckett’s Lucky at the climax of his enraptured speech in Godot, “the facts are there!’ Orthodox biologists claim that the minute changes of evolution over millions of years can account even for this impossible life event, while creationists attribute purposive intervention. Both seem to miss the point. The complexities are so great that they exceed the limits of everything but magic. You can as easily get a blood transfusion from a stone as liquefy yourself in a cocoon and emerge with wings. Try it! And next time you see a butterfly you may reflect perhaps on life experience which has brought it to flutter by. “There are more things, Horatio …” It spooks me. The entire procedure upsets my credulous belief that my faith in reason is soundly based.

Sadly, the British swallowtail was already extinct when I was a boy – and I fear other species have followed it – so it has been a joy to see three swallowtail varieties in my Washington State garden, and a striking reversal – yellow stripes on black – of our usual black stripes on yellow background, of a large insect in Mexico. I vividly recall the thrill of seeing a great congregation of Vanessids – Tortoise-shells, Red Admirals and Commas – feeding on a herbaceous border when we spent a Sussex seaside holiday at my cousin Gordon’s home, Lyons Farm at Broadwater. They were migrants which had crossed the Channel on a favorable breeze from France. Next day they had all gone – off on their travels across the southern counties.

Much later when I moved to the Isle of Wight to revive an historic oyster fishery in Newton Estuary, I was excited to meet two butterflies I had never seen before. Green Hairstreaks lived in the Newtown withy copse and Marbled Whites fluttered over blackberry bushes, which grew in great abundance along the edges of the wood where it met the saltings of Newtown Estuary.

Those nursery cages created a lifelong interest in natural history and evolution for which I remain immensely grateful to my parents and without doubt helped inspire me with the ambition to venture into aquaculture later in my life. In my opinion the manual for attempting to understand evolution is “The Blind Watchmaker” by Richard Dawkins.

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