It started in the spring this year: we’d had a long and rather turbulent winter, with the stressful move from Canberra to Braidwood where Corner Cottage was sitting empty and neglected. The garden was wild: a protracted drought and very little care had left it forlorn and weed-infested – but it fascinated me. Venturing down into the wildest part to watch and document the wildlife relaxed the mind after the pressures of the previous year.
When spring came, so did the butterflies. I’d been watching the birds, but butterflies posed an interesting new challenge: getting close enough, learning their behaviour, capturing their image in a sympathetic and pleasing way . . . plenty to keep the budding naturalist absorbed.
Among the flocks of cabbage whites, there was sometimes a brown candidate – far more interesting, but initially frustratingly elusive. Over a period of weeks, more came, and I identified three different species, the most common of which was (surprisingly) the Common Brown. Initially sought-after, now so ubiquitous as to breed contempt. They were everywhere, sometimes swirling around in flocks of a dozen or so, and even more often posing obligingly for the camera.
To one side of Corner Cottage’s garden stands a series of old standard rose bushes that form a secluded little nook apart from the broader reaches of the lawn. In the words of the song, it’s been a good year for the roses, and the tall bushes have delivered spray after spray of frothy blossoms.
Wading in amongst them, I realised this was an ecosystem, populated by bugs and beetles, drawn by nectar and shelter, all going about their interlinked lives oblivious of the hulking human breathing heavily all over them. And this is where I spotted my butterfly teacher.
At first I thought he was a new species – his markings were paler than most, almost yellow, and the instead of the rich coffee-brown of his cousins’ markings his were more of a cinnamon shade. He was a bit small and his wings were starting to get ragged, but he was all over that stand of rosebushes: darting into the air and circling overhead as I went by; perching watchfully on a drooping blossom; appearing under the leaves of the nearby hedge.
Further research revealed that all these Browns I was snapping were males, and their swirling flights were no romantic dance of amor, but the butterfly equivalent of a pissing match: they were staking out and defending their territories – as was my pale stranger. He had chosen the rosebushes as his turf, and was pugnaciously driving off the interlopers while waiting for a likely mate.
The female Browns are larger than the males, with yellow flashes on their wings, and they fly with more purpose, often higher. They don’t settle on a plant and hang around to be photographed – or mated with. Once in flight, they gain altitude and keep going. This makes evolutionary sense, I suppose: only the strongest, fastest males can catch up and procreate.
Soon I was making my way down into the rose garden daily, looking out to see what my Brown was up to. I was getting deeper, finding the best ways of approaching the roses so I could get up close. Usually at a certain distance he’d spring off his bloom and circle away, settling again a minute later to be stalked again.
Then one day when I sneaked into the roses he was there, standing his ground even more tenaciously than usual on a big white bloom; closer I came, thrusting the lens further until the hood nearly touched him – and then he’d flip, fly and circle close by, settling on a leaf or flower. Again, closer and closer – I marvelled at how he stayed, wings flattened in an aggressive posture, refusing to give ground. Then up he flew, circling again – and I felt a soft flick against the side of my head. He was attacking! Undeterred by the size discrepancy, he went in with his best shot. It was like being flicked upside the head with a dandelion.
Quite late in the relationship, I did some reading about common browns. They mate in November and December, and the males die not long afterwards. The females wait until March to lay their eggs. So it could be that my lone, feisty male had done his mating and was waiting to expire; or perhaps he’d failed to fly fast or high enough and was futilely hanging on for one last chance to plant his seed.
Then we had a few weeks’ mixed weather – big thunderstorms, strong wind, isolated very hot days. After the last lashing of rain, I navigated the usual route through the roses: there was no sign of my Brown. He couldn’t have survived the extremes of weather; he’d been clinging on for so long, those gusty downpours must have finally finished him off.
Today dawned overcast and a bit humid; by midday the sun had emerged and the garden was coming to life. I took a lap around the usual route . . . and there he was! Even more ragged, significantly faded, but the old belligerent stance was unmistakable: watchful, truculent. I don’t know how this tenacity is possible, but if ever there was an unlikely indomitable hero, he must be it. Long after his chances of finding a mate have passed, he’s doing what he knows how to do – hanging on and sticking to his purpose.
(With apologies to Craig Foster and his wonderful documentary, My Octopus Teacher. An unlikely recommendation, but all the more heartfelt for that. Watch it!)