Giles Watson's poetry and prose
Mount Aggie
And here, back on Mount Aggie, I am already thrall to the gods of Entomology.
As a small child, I always wondered why my father, whose childhood passion had always been butterflies and moths, had become a botanist, or a plant taxonomist, to be precise. It was only when I reached my teenage years, flirting with a self-consciously anachronistic herbal hippiedom in the 1980s, and discovering the wonders of insectivorous plants, that I began to understand his decision.
We did, on occasion, kill the moths. We used the leaves of the cherry laurel trees, planted for the purpose at the side of our house, battered and bottled inside one of my mother’s used stockings, reeking with the bitter almond smell of prussic acid. The poison left their wings relaxed, ready for setting, and afterwards, the moths were conveyed like jewels or captured souls to the insect cabinets, dovetailed by my carpenter-grandfather, which were already filled with my father’s childhood insect collection.
Living in insecticide-ridden England under the Common Agricultural Policy, where habitat destruction has become a way of life, and even “eco-housing” is just an excuse to tear up the green-belt, I would never dream of killing a moth, but then, I labelled them lovingly on strips of tracing paper, and stared at them for hours. I believe I lost this passion for collecting early on – about the time we acquired a camera with macro-capabilities – and after this, I regarded the camera as one of the most benign of human inventions. The little souls were somehow captured but not imprisoned.
The Eucalyptus-clad Brindabella landscape stretches out before us, seemingly endless. There is enough wind for me to be wearing a cabled jumper, knitted by my grandmother. The butterfly net is forgotten, clutched in the hand of a child smitten with awe, and, on this dizzying height, with the dawnings of a vertigo that has never quite left me alone.
Mount Aggie
And here, back on Mount Aggie, I am already thrall to the gods of Entomology.
As a small child, I always wondered why my father, whose childhood passion had always been butterflies and moths, had become a botanist, or a plant taxonomist, to be precise. It was only when I reached my teenage years, flirting with a self-consciously anachronistic herbal hippiedom in the 1980s, and discovering the wonders of insectivorous plants, that I began to understand his decision.
We did, on occasion, kill the moths. We used the leaves of the cherry laurel trees, planted for the purpose at the side of our house, battered and bottled inside one of my mother’s used stockings, reeking with the bitter almond smell of prussic acid. The poison left their wings relaxed, ready for setting, and afterwards, the moths were conveyed like jewels or captured souls to the insect cabinets, dovetailed by my carpenter-grandfather, which were already filled with my father’s childhood insect collection.
Living in insecticide-ridden England under the Common Agricultural Policy, where habitat destruction has become a way of life, and even “eco-housing” is just an excuse to tear up the green-belt, I would never dream of killing a moth, but then, I labelled them lovingly on strips of tracing paper, and stared at them for hours. I believe I lost this passion for collecting early on – about the time we acquired a camera with macro-capabilities – and after this, I regarded the camera as one of the most benign of human inventions. The little souls were somehow captured but not imprisoned.
The Eucalyptus-clad Brindabella landscape stretches out before us, seemingly endless. There is enough wind for me to be wearing a cabled jumper, knitted by my grandmother. The butterfly net is forgotten, clutched in the hand of a child smitten with awe, and, on this dizzying height, with the dawnings of a vertigo that has never quite left me alone.