Close encounter with a dragonfly
LIKE nature writer Horatio Clare, I’ve had a close encounter with the Natural Born Thriller — a dragonfly (Mail). The light was fading when I fed the goldfish in my garden pond on an evening when thunderstorms were predicted. The pond is covered in netting as a deterrent to herons. At either end, where water irises flower, the netting is left open to enable insects to enter and leave the pond. I noticed a movement on the surface of the water and realised it was the head and two wings of a large dragonfly. I unclipped the netting and slipped my hand into the water to lift it out of the water. It had been close to drowning. I know next to nothing about dragonflies other than a variety of them visit my pond, from vivid blue ones about 1.5 in long to 2 in red and brown ones and very occasionally large colourful creatures with wing spans of 3 in or more. From reading Horatio’s article, I was able to recognise this dragonfly was an Emperor. To my surprise, it tightly gripped my finger as I lifted it out. Its rear set of wings were quivering and soaking wet. Unsure whether the shaking was due to trauma or an attempt to dry out, I lifted it to my face and began to blow gently. The dragonfly clearly enjoyed what I was doing as it attempted to climb up my finger to get closer. Face to face, I must say I was a little uneasy as its head looks similar to a hornet and I had once been stung by one. Moving my hands in turn, the insect climbed from finger to finger for
several minutes until I placed it on a moss-covered stone. It was becoming dark when I returned only to find it was where I had left it and still quivering. What to do with it? It could not be left out in the open with bad weather on the way. The brick arch to the side gate is sheltered by the overhanging eaves. No rain ever gets to this spot and it is a good 6 ft 6 in above the ground. I picked up the dragonfly and carried it to this safe haven. I had to coax it to release its grip on my finger and attach itself to the arch. I wished it well: ‘Live long and fly another day.’ When I checked the following morning, it had gone. I like to think it had recovered and will grace my garden again. Horatio, eat your heart out!