Our summer is a celebration of insects

WALKING a bohreen above the sea last week, on a day that was dull, but warm — intermittent patches of bright sunlight, a pearl grey blanket overhead, and heavy heat beneath — I suddenly found a half dozen butterflies zipping madcap around me at a rate approaching the speed of bats.

When one alighted on a fuchsia, I had the chance to get a better look and, seeing that it was a Red Admiral in glorious, fresh colours, I guessed (at the risk of anthropomorphism) that I their exuberance was the result of having just arrived from southern Europe after a long flight over land and sea. Their excitement might have been even greater had they been able to read the newspapers and learned that Ireland had been ranked the ‘goodest’ country on Earth.

As I watched, I marvelled at the freshness of their colours, the deep velvety black, garish scarlet and pristine white of their wings. How could they have flown so far and remained so impeccable? It was unlikely they were the hatchlings of the one or two admirals I saw in mid-April; yes, admirals lay eggs in Ireland, and a brood takes to the wing in Irish air but — unlike the Small Tortoiseshells and Peacocks — they die off, like the parents, and never migrate home. Reverse migration has been posited by some observers but never proved. Unlike birds, butterflies cannot be ringed or fitted with radio transmitters.