“We know that moths are attracted to light, but what
attracted you to moths?”
I have been puzzling over this question ever since it was
posed to me a few weeks ago by a biochemist.
I think my childhood curiosity for insects was initially spurred by
noticing bees, bugs, and other insects, but especially butterflies, which
descended in great numbers every summer onto the buddleia bushes that grew in
the former “bomb sites” and wastelands of London. Butterflies often serve as an “entomological
portal” to the vast and mysterious world of moths: whilst the UK has only
around 60 species of butterflies there are over 2,500 species of moths
(including only a tiny number that can truly be considered pests or devourers
of woollen clothes). In practice, however,
the distinction between moths and butterflies has always been more cultural
than taxonomic in origin since they are grouped together under the same order called
“Lepidoptera” (on account of the distinctive scales on their wings that give
rise to the enormous range of colours and patterns). Even the observation that most moths fly by
night is only part of the full story of their diversity and fascinating life
histories: there are actually more species of day-flying moths than there are
species of butterflies.
As a teenager I bought a moth trap consisting of a bright
mercury vapour bulb that attracted nocturnal species that would spiral towards the
light during the night, falling down into a plastic drum where the moths would
settle under egg boxes so that they could be observed the next day, after which
they were released unharmed back into their environment. Even in the heart of London there were dozens
of species I had never encountered before such as the Dog’s Tooth, the
Setaceous Hebrew Character, and the Shuttle-shaped Dart. The names were a source of fascination in
themselves. And then I tried using the
moth trap one warm and humid July night in the Teifi Valley, West Wales, and
experienced what I would describe as the “entomological sublime”: moths swirled
about me from every direction, just as the German writer W.G. Sebald has described
in his novel Austerlitz, whilst
dozens of bats swooped between the trees.
I will never forget the passage of a Barn Owl overhead, eerily lit up by
the light of the moth trap against the deep darkness of the sky. The next morning there were over a thousand
jewels awaiting me of every conceivable shape and colour. There were dozens of hawk-moths that I had
previously only seen depicted in the striking plates of identification guides
such as Richard South’s Moths of the
British Isles. I was hooked.
But moths are far more than just a focus of intrigue and
delight. They constitute a vital
component of global bio-diversity, reaching their peak diversity in the
Andes. Many individual species serve as
sensitive indicators, demonstrating the effects of environmental degradation,
ranging from the creeping menace of climate change to the irreversible
destruction of complex ecosystems. Moths also play a significant role in
pollination including species that have co-evolved with specific plants such as
the remarkable relationship between a long-tongued hawk-moth and a long-spurred
orchid in Madagascar that was first realized by Charles Darwin. There is even a moth that has shaped human
history: the silk trade could not have
emerged without the domesticated silk moth and its diligent “worm”
(caterpillar) that produces the finest, strongest, and most versatile thread
that has ever been known. Whether visiting
our dreams or circling around street lights the moth is undoubtedly one of the
wonders of nature.
