There is a wasp nest in Max’s garden. A quarter way up the slope they have buried bravely into the scorched and stoned soil. I have watched as it has evolved over the weeks, the main entrance expanding, shingle strewn, workers ever vigilant,.
As of yet they have caused no mind to beast or person. I’m no waspologist but as far as I can ascertain they are good guys in the garden. The great misunderstood. They get a lot of bad press and windmilling arms. I don’t blame you, it is instilled into your very bones that they are the enemy, that they will sting out of malice alone. I am happy to report that this is not true. One less bad guy in the world. Result.
Early in the season the wasps harvest aphids and other sap sucking creatures to feed their demanding carnivorous babies. These larvae in turn feed the adults sweet intoxicating nectar to keep them focused on the job. The fretful young, once they have shrugged off their youthful ways and spun their way to pupa, leave the poor sugar addicted mummas to get their fix wherever they might find it – be it picnic, barbecue or your kitchen. Understandable under the circumstances.
This afternoon several wasps were flitting around the tap whilst I was filling watering cans. I noticed a couple of casualties in a shallow saucer nearby. They were thirsty and their colleagues had drowned trying to satiate this thirst. I filled a shallow bowl, with room enough to perch, and soon enough they came to drink. A small gesture.