Fordyce Maxwell: ‘I would have outpaced Usain Bolt if he’d also been wearing wellies’

UNTIL the past ten days I hadn’t seen many wasps this summer and early autumn. That’s “summer” in the theoretical sense of months passing rather than weather enjoyed, and wasps in the broad sense of anything yellow and black that isn’t a bee but looks as if it might sting.

In the great scheme of life, wasps are an ecologically good thing and I’m not particularly worried about getting stung. I’ve had my share over the years, notably one on the forehead that left me feeling, if not looking, like the Mekon – please refer to surviving Dan Dare fans – and one in the middle of my back when settling into a tractor seat.

But the pain was nothing like the experience of a friend who put her hand into a bucket of windfall apples then realised too late that there were also dozens of wasps there. Most managed to sting before she could escape and head for A&E.

Before that warning of what wasps can really do when agitated, I’d found it amusing to watch them crawling over decaying fruit, making slightly more sense than late-night drunks. I’d rather see them there than landing on food and crockery when we’re trying to eat outdoors.

Selfish, I know, but rather wasp-free than constantly alert with the swatter as members of the family who worry more than I do about getting stung become almost as agitated as a wasp in a jar.

Remember that? The good old days when there seemed to be wasps by the thousand through long, hot summer days and every kitchen windowsill had a jar, fringed with jam and full of water, to drown wasps, a method that has probably now been banned on animal welfare grounds.

There would also be the occasional finding of a wasp byke, a remarkable paper-like construction – the size giving a fair idea of how many irritable wasps might be inside.

We’ve had bykes here over the years, one in the roof of an old garden shed, one under a roof overhang. With both, the surprise was how they seemed to appear overnight. Obviously they didn’t, but I like to think the subtlety of development owed more to wasp cunning than my poor observational powers.

Last week I got good warning. First on a riverside walk when a council workman detailed to clear a fallen tree pointed out a large byke at its foot. He retreated to call for help and I made a wide detour.

The second close encounter was a shock. Slicing into the side of a mature compost heap I uncovered a byke the size of a melon. Half a spade further and I could have cut right into it. Heading for cover, I would have outpaced Usain Bolt if he’d also been wearing Wellingtons.

The colony should die off over the next few weeks, although that doesn’t solve the mystery of how they managed to build in a compost heap. I’m only grateful not to have any swollen souvenirs.