AUTUMN MOTHING

In Autumn, the numbers in the garden moth trap begin to dwindle as colder nights, more frequent rain and stronger winds mean fewer moths on the wing. The chances of getting zero species, or a 'Wogan'  ('Blankety Blank' ) as it is known in mothing parlance, increases considerably. However, the mothing community is a very sympathetic one and online solace can soon be found as long as one does not spend too long looking enviously at the incredible hauls being displayed elsewhere. 

Thus far, I have been spared the empty trap but, rather like watching the 'Pointless' countdown, the egg boxes which fill the trap as cover for the moths, have lately been removed, one by one, with a growing sense of dismay and it has only been right at the bottom that a few hardy individuals have graced the process. To be fair to the moths, the garden nectar bank is beginning to run into the red by October, with only the few sturdy flowerings of cosmos, evening primrose, zinnia, salvia, verbena, some nicotiana, and the ivy wound round the bullace trees, remaining from the wealth of summer's banquet.

Moths in autumn tend, unsurprisingly, to match themselves to their seasonal surroundings, given that in day time they need a safe spot to rest after their nocturnal wanderings. Some of the gaudier, brighter species have therefore gone and more subtle colours proliferate.

1. Green-brindled crescent.

2. Orange sallow.

3. Pink-barred sallow.

4. Lilac beauty.

5. Black rustic

6. Feathered thorn

However, if I was to pick one moth to make lepidopteran beauty obvious, with apologies to several of the hawk moth species, the Emperor Moth and the Clifden Nonpareil (which remains my elusive Holy Grail), I would celebrate the Merveille du Jour. In most years, I have managed to find two or three of this delicate confection of camouflage, invariably on the wall behind the trap rather than in it, setting themselves up for the day as a small patch of lichen. This year, they seemed to be less forthcoming, probably as a result of putting the trap out on the warmer nights in competition with a full moon, but the thrill of finding one remains the same.

The black and white of the marbling on the fresh green canvas of the wings and thorax creates a fine and fragile spectacle on early October mornings. Merveille du Jour, a commonplace C18th phrase meaning the 'wonder of the day', first appears in 'The Aurelian', an early butterfly book written by Moses Harris and published in 1762. As Peter Marren says in his excellent 'Emperors, Admirals and Chimney Sweeps', this was the product of the Aurelian Society, a club of bewigged Georgian entomologists, whose  enthusiasm, no doubt fuelled by a few glasses of wine at their monthly meetings at The Swan Tavern in Exchange St in London, was responsible for conferring this most apposite of names.