The Entomologist: Part One.

When I was little I was going to be an artist and world-renowned bat expert, who wrote novels whilst living on a farm with a collection of insects to rival that of the great London Museums.  Whilst at 24 I still have some way to go before I achieve all of these dreams, I have never quite managed to leave behind  the obsessive need to pick up every bug I find and the sun really seems to have brought out some treasures this week.

As yet I have never actually gone as far as pinning butterflies (I was vegetarian and a little oversensitive as a child;  treading on a snail could induce floods of guilt based tears and I nearly caused a family-rift the day my grandfather tried to pour boiling water in an ants nest), but having read Kaelah's adventures in insect pinning I have to admit the idea is beginning to take hold.  I don't think I could ever actually catch and kill a perfectly happy, flitting butterfly but perhaps a morbid hunt for their pretty cadavers is a possibility?

 

For the time being however I am simply going to continue bullying James into taking me on long walks with my bug book and my camera (and the borrowed dog).

introducing my new morning routine.

So we are unpacked and settled in and I’m currently getting used to the new daily routine.

The routine goes much as follows: make tea whilst watching the sparrows squabble in the garden (the curse of having the side of the bed closest to the door means I am now on morning tea duty). Return to bed with tea.  Tea is interrupted by the sound of a chicken.  Pull on jumper and boots in a hurry and run outside to find Ginger making bid for freedom #1 of the day.  Catch Ginger, put her back.  Chickens make such a racket they require feeding.  Collect eggs, only one again today.  Have got chicken poo on my pyjamas.  Urgh.

Try to return to bed, the dogs start feeling bereft that I have clearly ignored them in favour of the chickens and start whining.  I lie in bed with James for about 2 minutes listening to them whine.  Give up any hope of relaxing and get up to walk the dogs.   

Return home, find Ginger undertaking bid for freedom #2; operation eat mum’s lettuces.  Catch and return Ginger. 

Finally get inside, still not 9am.  Tea has gone cold.

I am loving the pace of life here (in no way sarcastic), I mean what the heck did I used to do with my mornings?!

Collections: she sees snail shells on the sea shore.

Another collection to add to my personal museum of curiosities.  Where James and I had our picnic, there were hundreds and hundreds of these empty shells, half buried in the sand.  Most of them were paper thin and crumbled in my fingers the minute I picked them up but the ones that made it as far as my palm were beautiful.

The spherical ones are 'Flat Top' Shells and the conical ones are Colus Gracilis.  Disappointingly there is absolutely nothing interesting to be read about the critters that used to inhabit these shells.  My coastal wildlife book (the font of all seaside wisdom) simply tells me on which coasts you are most likely to spot them (less useful when I have already spotted them) and even the Wikipedia entry on Colus Gracilis is blank.  

However, in general snaily terms, did you know that as they grow they just keep adding to the entrance of their shell (known as the 'outer lip') which is how they never outgrow their shells.  And, my favourite fact of the day, 90% of snails coil to the right and only 10% to the left!  I mean that is basically like people - the right-handed-folks outnumbering the left-handed-folks.  So if you do find a snail that coils to the left, the individuals from the shell-collectors-club (oh yes, it really does exist) would love to hear from you!

Eating very locally or 'The Moonlight Shrimpers'.

This has to be one of the best adventures yet this year.  Out of desperation to make the most of the last camping-friendly days, James and I migrated, once again, towards to the sea where we were joined by my family.  After making our tent based nests, we ate supper by the light of a hurricane lamp and finally went for a moonlit stroll along the beach, with a shrimping net in hand.  As my mother's partner had donned his waders and headed into the tar like water, we laughed and shook our heads.  But as moments later he had herded shrimp by the hundreds, we suffered true fishing envy, so shimmied out of boots and jeans (jumpers were still required) and jumped into the midnight sea.

We hauled up shrimps aplenty as well as a host of other critters; teeny crabs that pinched as we released them, shy hermit crabs and the cutest little fishies (who were also released).

 

The scavenging carried on into the next morning, digging for clams to add to our haul.  Having never done anything like this before, I am still amazed at the amount of (tasty) critters living just beneath our feet.  Carrying them all back to the campsite in a bucket was such a proud moment, true hunter-gatherers us!

 

So finally, windswept and cold, we returned home for the most incredible, entirely local, fully sustainable and most required pasta dish ever.  Totally worth the hundreds of hours it seemed to take to peel the bleedin' shrimps.