Category: Arachnids

The Wasp & the Spider

3/8/2020

by Lesley McLaren

24th July, despite the heat, I decided to check on a small colony of bee eaters nesting in the north bank of the Tech near the Moulin de Breuil vineyard. There wasn't much activity - only two nest holes still being visited by adults as far as I could see - so perhaps the others had fledged already. Apart from the surprise sighting of a honey buzzard, carrying prey, there were few other birds in evidence. It was a different story for insects, of course; high summer is truly their time. July is marked by the constant grate of cicadas in trees, by grasshoppers and crickets hopping out of your way in grassland, by flashes of colour from beetles, butterflies, dragons and damsels as well as the equally important, if arguably less welcome, flies and wasps.

After a while I left the river and headed along the flood defence wall towards the pond and wetland area of "Les Bachous". Eyes down now, looking out for dragonflies, which seem to love this hot spot, what brought me to halt and lift my camera was a different, big insect crossing my path. At first glance, its black-tipped yellow wings made me think it might be an exotic kind of fly. It didn't seem to notice me until I changed position to get a better photo, whereupon it opened its wings, to reveal a black and yellow striped abdomen. More likely a wasp, therefore. If I stood still, it closed its wings and carried on wandering - apparently aimlessly - but each time I moved, it flashed another warning. Clearly it was perfectly aware of me. Given its size (about 30mm) and how badly I react to stings from much smaller social wasps, I moved on.

Like the river, the pond appeared relatively quiet. There were the usual Floridan turtles, mallard, coot and little grebe. On my way to the north eastern end of the plateau above the water, a couple of herons took off from the trees beyond. The first was grey but, to my great and happy surprise, the second was purple. Unlike the grey, he or she circled round to fly very close - checking me out, I'm sure. Purples aren't common in the PO and currently there are no known breeding pairs, so this was a special moment.

Since it had rained a little the night before, I climbed a few feet up a bank to see if there were any fox prints around a large hole that I assumed was a den, having seen a young fox in just this spot in May. Instead of prints, however, I came upon another big wasp, like the one seen moments before. This one was running backwards at high speed, dragging a huge wolf spider in its jaws. Before I could even try to get a photo, it had disappeared backwards into the murky depths of the den! Unlikely there would be foxes here now, I thought, if these wasps had taken over occupancy. Talk about up-sizing your residence!

Seconds later, I spotted two more wasps running around frenetically a few feet away. These I managed to capture on film. The first few seconds are at full speed. Then I've slowed it by 50% (hence the "ralenti" in French) so the action is clearer.

Warning: some viewers may find this short scene disturbing.

Cryptocheilus alternatus (Pompile) (Spider-hunting wasp) from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

In retrospect I think their initial crazy manner of running was because they had lost the spider they had previously stung and perhaps left while the venom took hold. The spider in this clip is smaller than the first, which made me wonder if this one was a male and the first, female. Not their lucky day if they had been together with amorous intent at the time they were set upon. Unfortunately for the spiders, they weren't dead, just paralysed. Their destiny from then on was to have a single egg laid inside them and to be eaten alive by the emerging larva. A reminder how, at times, nature can be gruesome.

To end with more pleasant images, I'll leave you with a bee eater (who may have one of those wasps in his beak, who knows?) and the purple heron, both from that morning, although the full beauty of each is somewhat hidden against the light.

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An Eight-legged Consequence of Indolence

14/8/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

I would like to claim that weather conditions and various activities have prevented me from doing much in the garden so far this year, but laziness is really to blame. And I'm now seeing many consequences of this, not the least of which is that once the current heatwave ends, Extreme Gardening will be required - probably for several weeks - to wrestle hedges and borders into submission. On the flipside, neglect is attracting new species.

In the front garden there's a small patch of earth near the garage, where I used to have an almond tree. The tree never exactly flourished just there, and since its demise nothing else has really worked or looked good either, despite irrigation. More recently, quite a few plants have self-seeded, including eleagnus, figwort and mint, so this spring, after digging out some very tough grass, I left it to its own devices. In other words, I was too lazy to sort it out properly.

The other day - yet another sizzler - I went to pick a few mint leaves to flavour a glass of iced water, but the sight of how the mint had spread, that it was in flower and attracting lots of different bees and wasps, had me scurrying back indoors for my camera. After photographing digger and ruby-tailed wasps for a few minutes, I suddenly spotted a yellow and black body lower down in the grass. What I first took to be an enormous hornet turned out to be an enormous (appropriately named) wasp spider spreadeagled in a rather tatty web.

Its French names are either araignée tigre or argiope frelon (tiger or hornet spider) and scientific name is Argiope bruennichi. This is the only time I've seen one since Bruce and I found our first ever, in 2012, while exploring an area on the Spanish side of the Albères. That time the spider was feasting on a dragonfly. I've read that their main prey are grasshoppers and crickets but, in this spot in my garden, it looked as though the menu du jour would be wasp.

I was right. Not long after training my camera on it, a small wasp flew into the web. With lightning speed, the spider grabbed it and wrapped it in sheets of silk. This is to prevent the wasp from stinging, apparently; the likes of grasshoppers and dragonflies don't need wrapping, unless for storage perhaps.

It was interesting, if rather upsetting, that the cocooned wasp continued to struggle for some time. So different from my observations of the crab spider last year, whose ambushed prey quickly succumbed to its paralysing, if not deadly, bite.

The following morning I set up tripod and camera early. In exactly the same spot, the spider - a female, I believe; they're bigger and more brightly coloured than males - was waiting patiently in the centre of a newly-spun web. These usually have a distinctive zigzag pattern near the middle. There wasn't one that day, but Bruce's photo (below right) shows it very clearly. I've been reading up on the purpose of this stabilimentum, and experts seem to be undecided. Two theories are that because it reflects UV light, it may play a role in attracting prey to the web and possibly in preventing its destruction by large animals.

I sat and watched the sunshine creep over the garage roof and across the mint, closer and closer to where She lurked. More insects were arriving every minute, including a couple of Asian hornets at one point. Clearly in search of prey themselves, they quartered the area for a while, often flying low through the grass not far from my spider. Would they be strong enough to extricate themselves from her web? I wasn't to get an answer to that question, but very soon another small wasp did get itself tangled up.

Click photos to enlarge image.

Wasp Spider from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Several days on, the heatwave seems to have passed but the spider is still there - giving me the perfect excuse to delay weeding around her. But who knows what new arrivals I could disturb elsewhere? I think I'd better wait a bit longer before doing anything.

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Crab Spider (Part 2) - A Month In Her Life

25/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

I've been frightened of spiders since childhood. When I was six, during a family picnic, one of those tiny-bodied, long-legged ones ran across my hand and onto the strawberry I was about to bite into. Such traumas can mark you for life. Yet here I am now, blogging about arachnids. Crab spiders have especially captured my interest. In June I wrote about a female that proved to be an efficient and formidable bee killer. After she gorged on three in one day, if she was representative of her species I began to worry for the local bee population. However, this was nature at work; intervention on my part, by either destroying or moving her, was out of the question. Instead, I found myself monitoring her behaviour. She intrigued me and, by happy coincidence, had settled on a salvia flower spike that was easy to observe and photograph. Over the coming weeks I would witness far more action than anticipated.

It started slowly, though. The day after her beefest of June 21st, she ate nothing. This was hardly surprising - she must have felt quite bloated. Over the next four days she only caught a small fly and one bee. Then nothing again. I put this down to bad luck and, relieved for the bees, turned my attention to the rest of the garden, where I felt sure I'd find more of her kind.

There was one on the marjoram - a much smaller individual, quite the wrong colour. It must have recently moved from a yellow flower and not yet morphed to pink. Two more turned up in the front garden - a male and female on the same flower. She was quite a bit smaller than the one in the salvia, and he was tiny in comparison with both. Only once did I see one of them (the female) with a kill: a butterfly like the one whose lucky escape I recorded in my June blog.

Click photos for larger image.

On the morning of June 27th, back with the female still lurking on the same salvia spike, I noticed she had stuck several petals together, forming them into a kind of shallow bowl, in which she was sitting. The next day she was in exactly the same place, but had spun herself a thick mattress of silk, and added dead flower and seed head padding around the sides and base. It was, of course, a nest.

I had to find out more. According to the internet, she would have laid eggs on a petal. After having folded and sealed the petal, she would guard the eggs for the next three weeks until they hatched. During this time she would stop eating. Then she would die.

To me this helped explain the beefest: she'd been fattening herself up. Just as female mosquitoes need to suck blood for egg production, so my spider might have had to take in extra food to help her eggs develop. She might also have been building energy reserves to sustain her through the long wait. I suddenly had more respect - as well as some sympathy - for my spider.

On closer inspection she appeared shrunken and much more wrinkled than before. Initially I assumed this was because she was dehydrated, and that she would steadily decline. I've since learned that the weight loss was mainly due to her having offloaded all those eggs. The following photos show her before and after laying.

Click photos for larger image.

Two days on she added a lot more dead plant matter to the nest, covering most of the silk. I never saw her do this, so suspect all construction work took place at night. By now those eggs were well insulated against the fierce heat. Well protected from predators too; if anything flew near, she would lash out - not to kill but to warn off. The bees could feed safely, all around her.

The trouble was, although the plant (bog sage - Salvia uliginosa, I think) was perfect for ambushing pollinating insects, it turned out to be a lousy nest site. The thin flower spike she'd chosen, on the outside edge of the plant, had been relatively short when she made her nest close to the tip; within a couple of weeks it had grown to nearly 1.5m and was totally at the mercy of the wind.

Where we live, at the foot of Mt. Neoulous, southerlies can be fiercer than the prevailing north westerly. For several consecutive days they lashed the garden, with the result that the nest came adrift from most of its moorings. What used to be the top was now the side.

I know webs are strong but these silk tethers were being severely tested. How much longer could they last? To my surprise, mother spider never carried out any repairs but clung on, in an increasingly precarious position, until the nest hung almost upside down.

I was even more surprised when, over two days, she caught a couple of bees that must have flown just too close. So she wasn't on complete hunger strike. This served as a useful reminder that the internet can't always be trusted. Could that also mean she might not die when her young hatched? It didn't seem logical to me that she would suddenly start eating again if she knew she was dying.

One kill was a big bumblebee with a huge pollen load. It had worked so hard to gather that.

As she feeds on the bumblebee, it's getting crowded at the nest.

Around this time I made my one and only small intervention: I lifted a trailing string of seed heads - bound together with silk - and stuck them back on the stem. This righted the nest a little, so the top was closer to where it should be. Short of using superglue, there wasn't much else I could do.

Then one morning I found the nest deserted. I wondered if the spider had herself been predated. Or perhaps the eggs should have hatched by now but were sterile. Had she abandoned them?

None of the above.

She'd been there all the time, superbly camouflaged under a nearby flower. In classic ambush posture - front legs outstretched - she was hungry. After an hour or so, she returned to the nest, still hungry.

On the evening of July 19th, the wind rose again; another fierce southerly whipped itself into a full-blown gale. The nest, hanging by what looked like a single rope of silk, was smacked back and forth, round and round like a swingball on a flower stem post. I found my eyes continually drawn from book or television to living room window. From my chair, I could just make out the nest. At times the whole plant was nearly flattened by a vicious gust, only to bounce back and be swept in the opposite direction.

It was around three weeks since my spider created that bowl of petals. She was so close to success. If she could just get through tonight...

By my bedtime the wind had died. It was dark now, but I had to check. I grabbed a torch and padded across the lawn.

No nest.

Was I looking at the right spike? Of course I was. The nest had gone. Vanished. Obliterated.

Or not.

Presumably Mum would have flown with it, spinning a safety line to save them all. Where could it have ended up? Oh no, I might already have trodden on it - on her - as I crossed the lawn.

I swept the torch across the grass. No flattened nest.

Come the following afternoon, despite feeling rather foolish on my knees, parting blades of grass, peering into and under plants, and lifting leaves blown off the vine, I finally found it. It was close to the ground in the middle of a lavender bush next to the salvia. There was no obvious sign of Mum, so I carefully reached down with a twig, and gently lifted the thin end. She was underneath. In my head, I punched the air. Although she might be more vulnerable to predators at that height (at least two lizards share that border), she would be much more sheltered. I just had to remember not to deluge the bush with water from above.

Like an anxious grandmother-in-waiting, I checked progress each morning for the next three days. Mum was still underneath the nest. Still alive, not eating. Any minute now, surely?

On the fourth day after the gale, I couldn't see so much as an eye or tip of a leg sticking out from under the nest. Carefully, I lifted one end again. Mum had gone. The nest itself looked even more fragile than before - empty, even. Were we a grandmother? I knew the babies would only emerge after their first moult, leaving skin casts behind. Those might be visible. I gently picked the nest up, only to realise it was crawling - with tiny spiderlings.

Now I saw lots of them, everywhere - like white money spiders - running over the nest, my hand, up and down lavender stems and leaves; trampling one another; leaping into the void, trailing a safety line; investigating my camera... Such an exciting new world to explore. And no training required. When stationary, they instinctively adopted ambush position: front legs wide, to fasten on ... a mite?

I must have arrived at just the right moment because they were quickly dispersing; some already running a line to the salvia.

While watching them - probably with a silly grin on my face - I caught sight of their mother a couple of feet away in the gazania. Very much not dead.

She spent the rest of the afternoon there, finally settling in the bullseye of a sunny flower. I wondered if she'd catch anything because her whiteness starkly contrasted with the petals; it would take her a few days to change. As it turned out, while I was getting my lunch, she caught a small bee. By then I couldn't begrudge another bee death - not after all she'd been through.

I've no idea how many spiderlings emerged, nor how many would have made it through their first day. Not all, I'm sure. That night they experienced their first thunderstorm.

Torrential rain wasn't a problem for Mum. The very next morning she was on another salvia spike. Again she had chosen one on the outermost edge of the plant and, as usual, had set up ambush under a flower facing outwards, towards the lawn. Was this significant? Perhaps she believed that bees might visit the outer flowers first. That would make sense, though I'm not sure it's always the case. I get the impression (probably wrongly) that they tend to head for the tallest stems first - or those with the most open flowers. She was also facing north, north-west - theoretically the shady side of the plant. But the sun is so high for most of the day, I'm not sure this made much difference. Enough of one, perhaps, for a crab spider.

If my eyes didn't deceive me she was now tinged yellow. Her body was still catching up with her day in the gazania. Over the next few hours, while this remarkable creature silently did her thing, the bin lorry screamed past our garden, followed by a hissing street sweeper; a helicopter thundered low overhead; a distant hedge trimmer droned, and kids on holiday squealed and splashed in the neighbours' swimming pool...

Worlds apart. Oblivious of each other, it seemed, except for me standing in between.

I was once again preparing my lunch when the spider grabbed hers. A ginger bumblebee this time - same as the first day I saw her, just over a month ago. Of all the bees that visit my garden, the gingers are my favourites. However, although I mourned the poor thing, strangely, I found myself still rooting for Mother Spider.

Another day on, and she has turned pale green. She's not shrivelled, she's plump and spry. Today, though, due to another high wind, there have been few bees about. No kill.

What of the spiderlings? Forty-eight hours since their appearance, I've seen one, on a dandelion. Already yellowish, it seems to be feeding on minuscule, wingless blackfly. A reminder that although these spiders prey on bees, they also help control garden pests.

The film below is a compilation of video clips and stills, following the highs and lows of recent weeks. (Best viewed full screen.)

A Month in the Life of a Crab Spider from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

If there's an epilogue to this drama it's that I suspect this female is in the family way again. Further research has turned up a paper by American naturalist and crab spider authority Douglass H. Morse. His studies show that females do sometimes make opportunistic kills while on the nest; that eggs usually hatch in just under four weeks, at which point the mothers don't necessarily die. Some live for two years, and the main threat to life - apart from predators - is cold winter weather.

My latest theory is that the subject of my study left the nest to try and catch prey because she was already pregnant again, and the imperative to feed herself up had been triggered. It's possible that she's now a few days away from producing another brood. If so, has she learned not to nest in salvia? Somehow I doubt it. Absurdly, I can't wait to find out. I also can't wait for delivery of Douglass H. Morse's 392-page book, which should answer more questions than I can possibly dream up about the species.

It's over fifty years since that family picnic, and I'm thinking this crab spider might have cured me of my phobia.

Epilogue: She did go on to successfully raise a second brood (which, according to Morse's book is unusual) after which she disappeared.

Part one of this story can be found here

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Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

22/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

In May the local bird group alerted members to an apparent dearth of woodchat shrike in the region. Although not officially designated a species at risk, its favourite habitat of vineyards, orchards and scrubby grassland in the Roussillon plain is being eaten up year on year by building projects; we were asked to look out for this handsome little butcher bird.

They are summer visitors, similar in size to a wheatear - bigger than a sparrow, smaller than a song thrush; nicknamed "butcher birds" because, like other shrikes, they have a gruesome habit of hanging dead prey on thorns. I have yet to find one of these larders, but for several years running have seen an adult (always on its own) in roughly the same area on my regular vineyard and orchard circuit. Early this spring I saw one on two occasions, but in a slightly different section of the walk. Come April, I switched to walking in the hills during the worst of the tick season (ticks can be particularly bad in the vineyards, where sheep are sometimes grazed), and only returned to to the plain around the beginning of this month.

In the last three days, to my delight, I've identified two small family groups of woodchat shrike. Except that up to now, per group, I've only ever seen one adult and no more than three young in the same place at the same time. One lot I keep finding in an area of apricot, olive, pine and a few oak trees; the other, among vines and oaks (exactly where I've seen a single bird in previous years). Only two or three hundred metres of grassland separate these micro habitats, which isn't far as the shrike flies. So I've been trying to work out if one family of five or six young has split into two, to facilitate feeding and training duties, or if, in fact, there are two families of about three young each. I've learned that the first scenario is quite possible. Equally, it's not unusual for this species to nest very close together, but in those circumstances adults usually have spats along the territorial border. So far I haven't witnessed any arguments.

Yesterday I photographed one parent in the olive and apricot habitat, and this morning finally captured the other in the vines. On checking the pictures, it's obvious straightaway that they are different birds. But which sex? If both the same, I could safely assume we have two families.

Unfortunately, sexing woodchat shrike isn't easy; they have very similar plumage. Apart from a bright chestnut cap, which extends down the back of their neck, they are black and white. A white rump and bold white flashes on their wings are especially distinctive in flight. According to my book, the main difference is that the female has a little more white around her eye. Impossible to spot that in the field, and inconclusive in my photos at maximum magnification. Today I asked the GOR for their opinion. Apparently there can be a lot of variation between individuals, but the consensus is that my rather more drab adult with blobs on the chest, is most probably a female (below left), while the other, with brighter, smarter plumage, is a male (below right). I might have have guessed.
Click on photos for larger image.

Here's the male again. Upset by my presence, he was sounding a harsh, rattling alarm and wagging his long tail - from side to side as well as up and down.

Below: two juveniles. They are quite spotty, but already have the beginnings of wing and tail patterns. You might also just be able to make out the little hook on the end of the beak, which is invaluable for dealing with their favourite food: mainly insects, but occasionally small vertebrates. Most of the time they keep watch from a bush or post, and drop onto prey. They occasionally catch insects on the wing, and I did watch one youngster attempt this today - without success. They still have quite a bit to learn before their long, first journey to sub-Saharan Africa - which may begin as early as next month.

I was amused to watch two chasing Dad at one point, and I wondered if they were harrassing him for something in his beak that I couldn't see. Denied an easy meal, were they being forced to hunt for themselves, or was it a game? In many respects they are already behaving and sounding like grown ups, but from time to time they regress to begging. To me, their begging call sounds like the French word for "quick". Vite...vite...vite...vite, they cry. Dad doesn't seem to be falling for that any more, but Mum is still a soft touch. She gave in to this one.

In the clip below, the same youngster is still reluctant to fend for itself.

Woodchat shrike - juvenile begging parent from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

In the next clip, you can hear the alarm call and see how the male flashes his tail about, to intimidate the likes of me. For a while, one of his offspring is alongside, practising tail-wagging and his spot-and-drop hunting technique.

Woodchat shrike (male with juvenile) from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

My conclusion, at least for the time being, is that there is one family of five or six young, split into two groups.

This behaviour strikes me as practical, and a clever way of increasing the survival chances of the whole brood. It also intrigues me. If I understand correctly, adult pairs aren't hardwired to do this every year as a matter of course. So how do they make the decision, and how do they communicate it to each other and their young? My first guess is that it depends on numbers. It's normal for five or six eggs to be laid. But if all chicks fledge, this number of mouths to feed could be the trigger (which then begs another question: can woodchat shrike count?). My second guess is that the female feeds only some of the young once they've fledged (which would indicate that adults can tell their offspring apart). Those individuals imprint on her and follow her wherever she flies. Meanwhile, the male feeds only the others, and they imprint on him. These suppositions have no scientific foundation whatsoever but are, in lieu of further research, my best stab at thinking like a shrike.

Metres away from all this activity, golden orioles are having flying lessons. Yesterday an adult male - tropical bright - was accompanied by three others that were much greener. One might have been his mate, or all were juveniles. (Females and young can be easily mistaken for green woodpeckers, which are only a little bigger than orioles.) They seemed to be having great fun zooming acrobatically back and forth through a stand of pines until, for a moment, three of them took a breather in the same tree.

These birds are notoriously difficult to capture on camera and this is the closest I've been to any that have made themselves visible. They are extremely shy - more often heard than seen - which is frustrating, and a great pity because they are so beautiful. The male contrived to hide his head each time I clicked the shutter. After he had flown off, I did manage a couple of slightly better shots of a juvenile eating a small pine cone. Even then, as you can see, I never managed to get the whole bird in the same picture!
Click on photos for larger image.

I usually stay on the dirt tracks but yesterday, while stalking shrikes and orioles, I crossed a couple of patches of grassland, which had been cut for hay earlier in the season. It was nearly lunchtime and, as the heat rose to sizzling, so the cicadas and grasshoppers turned up the volume. In one rather more overgrown corner, they were everywhere, leaping out of my way as I brushed through stubble and young, green shoots. I was now back in Mother Shrike's territory. No wonder she and her kids liked this spot.

Temporarily distracted from birdwatching, I took a closer look. There seems to be a huge variety of grasshopper species, and all are so well camouflaged.
Click for larger image.

Shortly after snapping those two, something much bigger scurried from under my feet.

At the other end of the size scale to my crab spider of last month's blog, yes, it is as massive and hairy as it looks, and is another master - or possibly mistress in this case - of disguise. It's a type of wolf spider (Hogna radiata). It takes refuge in tunnels, and actively hunts for prey instead of spinning a web or waiting in ambush. I blogged about wolf spiders in November 2015 when I came across a female of the same or similar species, with young on her back. I didn't manage to photograph that extraordinary sight and haven't seen another one until today. If I return to this grassy spot with my camera in the autumn, perhaps I'll be lucky and capture one who's carrying her spiderlings - or even, you never know, teaching them to hunt and run.

Inevitably, new discoveries lead to new questions. Now I'm wondering if woodchat shrike prey on wolf spiders...

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Crab Spider - An Efficient Predator

21/6/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

Recently, I noticed two bees dangling motionless from flowers in our garden, and thought they might have got stuck. This occasionally happens to hummingbird hawkmoths, whose long tongues somehow seem to get trapped; unable to free themselves, the moths eventually die from exhaustion if not rescued. On peering more closely at the dead bees, however, I discovered they were being held in place by a small white spider.

It's a type of crab spider (Thomisus onustus).

What immediately fascinated me was that the bees didn't appear to have been caught in a web. Two days ago, as the spider seemed to have set up ambush in a salvia (bog sage), I decided to set up tripod and camera to catch it on film over a period of time.

Its colouring was such great camouflage against the blue and white flower as it lay in wait, often just underneath the bigger, bottom petal, to grab from below any bee that landed there. The petal doubled up as a handy sunshade. Whenever bees buzzed nearby, the spider would sense them (by sight and/or sound?), and stretch out each pair of extra long front legs in readiness for a welcoming embrace.

I witnessed several near misses and lucky escapes.

Over the last three days it has been successful early each morning, and today I managed to record a kill.

Crab Spider Ambush from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

I think it must first paralyze its prey, as the bee in this video stops moving quite quickly (although in bee terms a few minutes might count as a long time, I suppose). Once it has manoeuvred the bee so it can bite into the back of its neck, the spider stays in that position for several hours. Presumably it extracts nutritious juices this way? After this it turns the bee around and seems to do something similar to the back end. Finally it releases its catch. A small collection of bodies is building at the foot of this plant now. Contrary to what I expected, the ants don't seem interested in the remains and haven't carried them away. Could this be because the bees were poisoned and remain toxic?

Talking of ants, It's interesting that the spider doesn't attack them when they run over the flower - and it! Perhaps they are too small to bother with, or their exoskeleton is too hard to break through?

I examined the bumblebee once dropped, but with the naked eye couldn't see where the torso had been pierced. There did appear to be a hole in the neck, and possibly an empty cavity in the head, however. Perhaps these spiders can't manage whole bees and just feed on their brains?

They can't need much to sustain them. Male crab spiders are only about 2-4mm long, females 7-10mm. (I think the one in my garden must therefore be a female.) But their prey is often bigger than they are, and apparently they catch all sorts of pollinators - including butterflies. It's a pity they don't seem to go for less attractive insects, like mosquitoes.

The bee in the video was caught at around 7am; by midday it had already been released. I hoped the spider was sated and wouldn't catch another of my favourite garden visitors before tomorrow at least, but only an hour later, a honey bee was in her jaws. At 6.30pm she snared another bumblebee - a big one that had had a narrow escape only moments earlier. This time she attacked from above. Examination of this one after the spider had finished with it, revealed no head at all, and a small cavity in its rear end.

Five kills in three days and three in one day - that's what I call efficient.

For part 2 of this story, go here.

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A Weird Kind of Wolf

7/11/2015

by Lesley McLaren

Halloween, daytime, on just another walk in the vineyards, if I hadn't been looking down for once, I'd have missed a remarkable creature creeping through the grass beside the track. I managed to get quite close, but it kept moving and quickly disappeared into the undergrowth. Mouse? Shrew?

Spider.

I'm not keen on spiders. And this was one of those big headed, meaty ones, with thick legs. Not especially hairy, as far as I could see, but what really drew my attention was its body: peculiarly domed and a much darker brown than its head and legs. The 'dome' looked ridged and pitted too, like the surface of a truffle (savoury variety, not the chocolate ones!). Unfortunately there was no chance of photographing it with my phone and, after a few seconds, it had gone.

Back home, after consulting my Albera flora and fauna book, the only spider that came close to this chap was the Lycose radiée (Lycosa radiata): the wolf spider - also known as the false tarantula. Which seemed kind of appropriate for Halloween. But while legs and head looked similar, the body was nothing like the one I'd seen. So had my eyes or imagination been playing up? Was it a trick of the light, or was the poor thing I'd seen deformed?

I'd almost forgotten about it when, a few days later, on similar terrain but several kilometres away, I saw another one, with exactly the same dark brown, domed and pitted body. It too scurried away quickly, so there was no opportunity to photograph it, or even bend down to peer closely. Not that I was keen to get close.

The internet finally answered the question when I delved more deeply into wolf spiders. The females carry their young on their backs until they're able to fend for themselves. (This, after carrying the egg sack attached to the underside of their abdomen.) On one site I read that the mothers are very caring. How true this is I don't know but apparently, if one of the hatchlings falls off her back, she'll stop and wait for it to climb back on!

I never thought I'd be fascinated by a spider but have to admit this has somewhat changed my attitude. It's good to know that what I saw on Halloween wasn't a trick of the light or a deformed monster, but one of nature's treats. And if I ever manage to photograph one, I'll add it here.

The Wasp & the Spider

An Eight-legged Consequence of Indolence

Crab Spider (Part 2) - A Month In Her Life

Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

Crab Spider - An Efficient Predator

A Weird Kind of Wolf

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