A Miniature Army

May

Like something from a low-budget horror film, the ermine moth caterpillars appear. They crawl and hang and spin, maggoty things casting their webs over hapless branches and trunks, and even creeping across the grass in the little tree-lined lane opposite my study window. They have been regular visitors to local hedgerows in the past, but this is the first time they have haunted such a central spot in the village. There are thousands of these tiny creatures feasting on bark and leaves under the protection of their own webs.

The squirming bodies provoke unsettling feelings. There is something about the scale and number of the things – miniature beasts get under our skin, and when they mass and multiply, seemingly out of control, we can feel vulnerable. The collective noun for caterpillars is an army, and their temporary decimation of the trees brings to mind battlegrounds and post-apocalyptic scenes. Perhaps we all harbour fears of being overcome by something other, overwhelmed and picked apart.

To diffuse the creepiness of the scene, I remember that they are just tiny beings eating to survive and at the same time trying avoid being eaten by predators themselves. The caterpillars will become moths and the trees will recover. The moths will go on to pollinate flowers and provide food for birds and hedgehogs. Their proliferation year by year might be telling us something important about changes in the climate and environment.

I stand mesmerised by their awful beauty. Then, rather than cast them as parasites or a violent legion of enemies, I decide to imagine them instead as crowds of tourists in a seaside town, pulling silken cagoules over their heads to stop seagulls attacking while they enjoy bags of salty chips.