For the past two months I have been watching the construction of a hornets’ nest inside a bird box in my garden. The hive has grown from a small cluster of barnacle-like cells cupped in a striated cone, to layers of comb encased in a woodpulp-and-saliva papier-mâché-like shell that now fills the cavity.
For several weeks the queen toiled alone, initially carrying nest material into the box, then later the headless, wingless corpses of moths, bees and other species of wasp to feed her brood.
As soon as the first workers hatched out, they took over nest building and foraging duties, leaving the queen to her egg laying. During daylight hours an orderly stream of pinstripe-suited commuters come and go from the hive.
As synchronised as planes flying in and out of an international airport, one worker alights on the lip of the entrance hole just as another crawls out and takes off, banking sharply over the fence.
Hornets have a fearsome appearance and a much maligned reputation, but in reality they are the gentle giants of the wasp world and rarely sting humans.
But while they generally avoid conflict, they will aggressively defend their hive if they feel threatened, so I have stopped mowing the lawn, as the vibrations can provoke an attack. I’ve also been careful to keep clear of their flight path and to observe the colony through binoculars.
Despite keeping a respectful distance from the nest site, I had an unexpectedly close encounter with one of my new neighbours one evening.
I was sitting on the patio sipping a gin and tonic when I heard a vociferous buzz, not dissimilar to the throaty purr of a Spitfire engine.
The saffron and chestnut banded hornet circled twice around my head, seemingly studying me with her large, C-shaped, compound eyes. Illuminated by the sinking sun, her wings looked like amber-coloured stained glass, soldered with copper foil. I felt the breath catch in my throat as she skimmed past my cheek, the air pulsating with each powerful wing beat.
