Well here we are on the last day of August and it has been raining cats and dogs. What is all that about? Stair rods, buckets - call it what you will. It has been pouring. I took the opportunity to investigate what lie behind some old bales of straw in the warmth of the stable. It was an interesting investigation and I was duly rewarded by finding some yummy bugs lurking in the dark.
"Dear oh dear, Gordon!"
I poked my head around the bale and dutifully listened to Mum's rantings.
"You know, Kizzie has been on a trip along the Wey Canal on a barge today! She got jolly wet."
Yes, I can imagine that there could have been more agreeable days to take to the water.
"And Dad tried to mend the sticky runner in the chest of drawers. He struggled for three hours - and it is now well and truly broken. The ball bearings have fallen out and disappeared. Small though they are, Gordon, they play a very important part."
Like me.
"And what about all those fetes and shows?"
Soggy I should think.
"The forecast isn't too bright for the rest of the week either!"
Well, talk about doom and gloom. But there was at least one of us that was enjoying the inclement weather - Josie!
Gordon xxx

Earlier this month it was reported in The Wattlebury Gazette that there had been flying ants spotted in great numbers. From London to Poole and Bristol to Sheffield. And it prompted people to wonder (as they do every year) if there was a 'Flying Ant Day'. A day when they instinctively know to gather. I have however done a little research into this phenomenon and can say without any shadow of a doubt that it is a load of old twaddle and their swarmings merely follow a hot sunny day, which has in its turn has followed a windy, cloudy and rainy week. The balmy warm evening air and long daylight hours make for the perfect conditions to fly and dig new nests. This may be a different day in different parts of the country - ours was last Saturday.
Mum was off to the evening wedding reception of one of Kizzie's best friends, Gemma. As she waited at the end of Wattlebury Lane for Rachel to pick her up, she espied Florence the Flying Ant. Florence was not alone, but accompanied by many worker ants. It reminded Mum of Gemma in her beautiful wedding dress surrounded by friends and family. Several smaller winged ants swooped in the warmth, causing Mum to duck and dive - which must have looked jolly funny to passing motorists.
Flying ants form various colonies then swarm around certain places in the area, usually a place of slightly higher elevation, such as a hill, tree or fence post, like Florence. This is sometimes referred to as hilltopping. Mating typically takes place within a single day. The males then die, and the females disperse to establish colonies or, in some rare cases, to return to their original colonies.

Flying ants are the sexually mature queens and males of the common black ant who have left their respective nests to swarm and find mates.
The queens fly around—some very long distances, and others going only a few yards - then mate, and drop to the ground where they lose their wings, and attempt to start a new ant colony. The mass of flying insects often attracts the attention of predators, such as ourselves and other birds - and it is common to see flocks of feeding birds gorging on the readily available food.

They are not a separate species of ants. They are simply ants at a particular stage of life — specifically, the mating stage. Not every individual ant goes through this stage. Males who go through this stage die soon after mating. Most female flying ants also die soon after mating, but a few become queen ants, lose their wings and then lay eggs for the rest of their lives to populate their colonies. And a jolly ripe old age some can live to as well.
The thousands of worker ants are sterile, wingless females. In ant species that reproduce sexually, after the colony is well-established, the queen ant will produce a small number of winged females and many more males. So now you have it. Florence and the Fence Post - nature at it's very best. Gordon xxx

It, being a most pleasant August day, seemed to beckon me to venture rather further than my normal daily patrol. We have had some recent rain which has freshened up the grass and the fields are relishing in the warmth and wet after a very dry summer.

I made my way over to the back of our field and discussed the weather with Mrs Vine. Richard, our farmer friend has recently bought a small herd of Sussex and Sussex-cross suckler cows that he is running with his other beef cows and I find them a most gentle and accommodating bunch of girls. After having bade farewell to Bo, I nipped under the fence and bobbedy-bobbed past some more interested onlookers.

"'Morning Gordon! Haven't seen you around lately. How are you?"
I assured them that I was in fine feather and thanked them for their concern. Then scurried speedily through the brambles to avoid being seen by the truly enormous jet black bull. His muscles ripple and shimmer in the sunshine like a gentle incoming tide at Littlehampton.
Back in the safety of our field I admired the abundance of sloes -

But didn't feel inclined to sample one!

I bid 'Good Day' to Mrs Red Leg, the French Partridge. A great friend of Peter Rabbit. They can often be seen playing chase together in the maize. Like a game of Tag - they take it in turns to chase each other. It is very funny. Peter is often joined by other Pedro Rapid and Mrs Red Leg has 3 other family members.

And in the meadow Mysty was resting peacefully under the oak tree. No doubt the youngsters were tucked up close-by. As I came back in the yard Naomi and her fine brood were waiting on the post and rail fence.
"Hello Gordon! Did you enjoy your walk?"
I nodded, indeed I had. But I was ready for a nice nap now - let's head to the peace of my stable in that sunny spot and have a lie down. Sounds just the ticket! Gordon xxx

"Well look at this Gordon!" Dad stared at the back windscreen of his car.
It was late afternoon and this stunning creature was a bit sleepy.
"He must have fallen out of the big Oak! Could you ask Josie to look him up in her Butterfly and Moth book please?"
I duly nipped across the yard to where Josie was having a snooze and together we tried to identify the beautiful Moth.
"Thank you Gordon! Yes, that's it!" Dad pointed to the Lymantria monacha. "What a grand name! Also known as 'Black Arches' or the 'Nun'. I wonder why 'The Nun' though? It says here that its larva feed on oak and other trees and they are something of a minor pest in European orchards. In Britain it is confined to southern England and is never very common. It lives as far away as Asia and Japan!"
We all agreed it was a fine-looking fellow and although some of us (no names mentioned) like to snap up the occasional moth, we were a bit wary of its bright markings and ornamental tufts of hair.
"It could taste nasty Gordon!"
My thoughts exactly Dad!

We have a very dear friend,
Who has taken us under her wing.
She reads of our little adventures
And chuckled at Bird's bid to sing.

Sharing our ups and our downs,
Our woes and oft times our fun -
Her name is Mandy, or Mand
And today she is 60 years young.

Wishing you a wonderful day Mand
As we raise a grub to our chum!
With all our love from Sylvia and Gordon
- Let the laughter forever go on xxx

Our friend, Swallow, arrived in early April this spring. He patiently waited on a favourite telegraph wire for his mate and we all watched anxiously until the second swallow appeared a few days later. We had no need to worry though as soon they were joined by many more - surely weary - fellow swallows. There was at that time an abundance of insects popping out from every nook and cranny and the weather was very good. What a relief - I remember a couple of years ago when they arrived to torrential and prolonged rain.
The swallow’s migratory journey is amazing. It arrives usually around mid-April, having flown 6,000 miles from its winter home in southern Africa.

Although it was a cloudy, overcast evening yesterday, the musical twitterings of the swallows made us look up at their favourite wires. The adults and young swallows were having flying practice! The insects were probably plentiful and they were swooping low over the wheat, feeding on the wing. 
Then one day - probably towards the end of September - we will look up and see that their wires are deserted.  Some groups will stay until October and may be shivered into sudden departure by the first frost. The return journey to southern Africa takes about six weeks. They travel down through western France and eastern Spain crossing the 
Mediterranean at the narrowest point in the vicinity of Gibraltar and on into Morocco whilst high above them the skies will be filled with gliding cranes, storks and birds of prey. Ahead lies the Sahara - a long haul of several hundred miles which can last for two days or more with little opportunity for rest, water or food. Next is the Congo rainforest – and they will finally reach South Africa and Namibia.  They migrate during daylight, flying quite low and covering about 200 miles each  day. At night they roost in huge flocks in reed-beds at traditional stopover spots. And since swallows feed entirely on flying insects, they don’t need to fatten up before leaving, but can snap up their food along the way. Similarly with drinking - they skim low over water, sipping with open mouths.  Sadly many may die of starvation, but if they survive, they can live for up to sixteen years.

Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Starting on your autumn flight,
Pause a moment at my window,
Twitter softly your good-night;
For the summer days are over,
All your duties are well done,
And the happy homes you builded
Have grown empty, one by one.
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Are you ready for your flight?
Are all the feather cloaks completed?
Are the little caps all right?
Are the young wings strong and steady
For the journey through the sky?
Come again in early spring-time;
And till then, good-by, good-by!

Louisa May Alcott

On Sunday - it being the 9th and the last day - we excitedly gathered in the heat of the afternoon to embark on the Big Butterfly Count. It was, Mum explained, to see how many of our native butterflies were in the country.
"What you have to do Gordon, is to spend 15 minutes in a sunny spot and then record how many of each species you see."
Sounded straightforward enough.
"I shall carry the chart and pen and you tell me when you see a butterfly and we will mark it off."
And with that our keen contingent of Wattlebury Spotters set off into the field. Accompanied by Harvey and Honey and Dad. Not sure if that was a good idea or not - but you can't stifle enthusiasm, as I have often said.
"Are you coming Penny?" Mum asked Mrs Peahen. Penny turned her back and nibbled at a tasty leaf. "And you Drongo?" Drongo was engrossed in a pink iced cupcake. So off we went without them.

"I can't see any," said Mum disappointedly. "Lots of these little brown moths though."
Dad said that they were on the list - we could count them! Hoorah! A Silver Y Moth apparently. Honey tried to pounce on one.
"They fly in the day and the night and they are very abundant." Little Josie was lugging Harvest's Collins Handguide to Butterflies and Moths along behind her.
"Well done Little Josie! Harvest would be so proud of you!"
Dad put his glasses on for a closer inspection. But it flew off.
"Look! There! A brown butterfly!" Mum sprung across the thistles to examine it closely. And it flew off.
I could see that this wasn't exactly going to be as easy as we had initially thought. There were plenty of bees. We could count them instead.

"There are 8 brown butterflies on our chart." said Dad, putting his glasses on again. "I think it is one of those - a Gatekeeper."
"Or a Meadow Brown?" chipped in Mum.
"I think it is a Gatekeeper too, Dad. Pyronia tithonus. Sometimes called the Hedge Brown. It is usually seen along hedges where blackberry or bramble is in flower. The name 'Gatekeeper' may refer to its frequent occurrence near field gates, or perhaps to the keeper of a toll gate, who was a man who spent his life beside the road 150 years ago. It is by the blackberry bush and it is the right size."
Thank goodness for Little Josie.
"Thank you Josie! There are lots of those." Dad put his glasses on again for further inspection and cautiously eased himself towards the little butterfly - but guess what? It flew off.
We made our way to a new bramble bush and spotted a tiny blue butterfly. The air of excitement in that remote corner of the meadow was something to behold. After some debate we identified it as a Common Blue. A male. And whether or not there were three or just one, remains a mystery to this day. 
On our return to the yard and with just three boxes ticked we happened upon the jewel in the crown. The piece de resistance - a Peacock! Even if it was just Harry! So we cheated a bit and ticked that box too!
Gordon xxx