Some years ago I thought that birds were where “natural history” started and birds were where “natural history” finished. Yes, there were Tigers and Snow Leopards, I wanted to Save the Whale, those glossy-red mushrooms that could kill you from across the room were pretty cool in a morbid kind of way, hairy spiders and snakes were fun, but birds were my passion, my love-affair, my life. Birds were it, no ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’ and virtually no in-betweens. I’d relegated much of the natural world to the status of also-rans. Who needed to know plants, insects beyond a few butterflies, and why bother with snails or slugs? Not me. I was bird-obsessed and proud of the fact…

Then one day I got chatting with another passionate birder, but one who had also developed a die-hard and deep interest for another branch of natural history. He was Martin Cade, Warden of Portland Bird Observatory (PBO) - and he was (and still is, of course) an expert on moths. Yes, moths. Those dull-brown poor-excuses for butterflies. Those suicidal creatures who circled light-bulbs before incinerating themselves. Those feeble insects who lived their dreary lives in darkness with not a single interesting facet to their dull existence whatsoever. How stupid could you be…?

That last question- if you hadn’t guessed - is rhetorical, because as Martin patiently explained to me (as he has done to probably hundreds of people over the years), moths are remarkable, complex insects with fascinating life-cycles and are every bit as colourful as most butterflies, and in most cases are far more interestingly patterned, shaped, and marked than their gaudier relatives. On top of that, there are far more of them - both numerically and taxonomically. Whereas a ‘good day’ looking for butterflies in the UK might result in a list of ten or twelve species of perhaps forty individuals, a good night ‘mothing’ can often bring closer to a hundred species and hundreds of individuals. Moths, as you’ll no doubt notice if you leave your windows open with the lights on or drive late on a summer night, are everywhere. They occupy virtually every habitat you can think of (no, there are no Arctic moths - be reasonable), there are species emerging virtually all year-round, and - with the aid of a light and a cheap moth-trap (basically a box for temporary capture) - they’re far easier to see than many birds (and are, on the whole, way more accessible than Tigers and Snow Leopards). In fact, it turns out, most caterpillars you’ll see are probably on their way to becoming moths rather than butterflies (especially as some moth caterpillars live in colonies in full view, while some butterfly caterpillars live with ants underground).

There is one drawback to this super-abundance though: to a beginner, confronted with his or her first full moth-trap, many moths look the same. And I don’t mean the same in a ‘vague, passing resemblance’ kind of a way: I mean the same in an ‘identical in every feature’ kind of a way. I well remember the first morning I had a look at the PBO moth traps with Martin being enthralled at just how many moths the six traps had attracted, but at the same time feeling utterly non-plussed at how he was able to casually put different names to each and every species he came across. It was like wizardry - and the enthusiasm I’d felt the night before while I waited for the traps to fill drained out of me as I looked into box after box of small, brown insects that were just like little clones of each other…

As readers will no doubt point out novice birders confronted with their first warblers or wrens, babblers or buntings, shorebirds or sparrows etc feel the same way: most things look the same until we learn what to look for, until we gain experience through hours of getting out in the field and watching, listening, understanding (oh, I could go on and on, but you understand the point I’m making…). Birders though have had resource after resource to turn to for many years while sharpening their skills: wonderful field-guides, DVDs and sound-recordings, more magazines than there’s time to read…but ‘mothers’ (that’s people into moths, not women with babies which the first time I read about “mothers in Dorset discovered a rare pyralid this month…” confused the heck out of me) for many years only had the now out-dated Skinner’s “Colour Identification Guide to Moths of the British Isles” to turn to: a scholarly and excellent book when it first came out in 1980, by the mid-nineties its plate after plate of dead, pinned specimens, their stiff wings held unnaturally open, both looked unsatisfying and lacked the supporting detailed information on field characters and habitat that birders, for example, took for granted. Skinner, as it’s affectionately known, was monumentally important when it first came out, but with the advances in publishing, knowledge, and presentation surely someone could improve on it?

In 2003 mothers everywhere had the answer when the superb and thoroughly-modern Field Guide to the Moths of Great Britain and Ireland was published. Formatted like a field-guide a birder would recognise and following the order of the British checklist, it had detailed text with ‘Field Characters’, ‘Flight Season’, ‘Life Cycle’, and ‘Status and Distribution’ sections, and covered every resident and migratory macro-moth ever recorded in the region (that’s more than 880 species). Above all else (and sincere apologies to the authors who worked so hard to write this fantastic book) it had the most detailed and life-like illustrations of moths most of us had ever seen: life-size and unfailingly accurate, Richard Lewington’s paintings were leaps and bounds ahead of the roughly-drawn and unnatural sketches I’d come across before and immediately made moths more identifiable than they’d probably ever been previously.

Mothers everywhere were bowled over, and justifiably so. I remember thinking that - at last - I could be like Martin Cade and identify any moth I ever saw. I was wrong of course, Martin works very, very hard to be as good as he is and I, well, I don’t - and some groups of moths are just very difficult to separate from each other no matter how good the guide you’re using (the various Rustics for example). Having said that many of the smaller and less distinctive noctuids suddenly became specific rather than general, pugs began to take on identities I’d only suspected before, and I finally felt able to tackle those tough little Ears (breakthrough moments that compare with birds like the Acrocephalus warblers starting to make sense, or being able to put a name to that peep for the first time).

And it’s in those breakthroughs that life-long interests are born. Once a person can put a name to something (bird, plant, or insect), they’re often hooked for life. Whilst that might not seem immediately important in the context of moths (they’re just moths aren’t they?), it’s worth noting that moths - like virtually every other life-form on our planet - are declining: threatened with habitat destruction, climate change, pesticide over-use etc many species are disappearing - and unlike declining birds like Red Kites or Ospreys that even non-birders (and television production companies) are interested in, moths are slipping away totally unnoticed by the vast majority of the human population. Moths don’t make for good TV of course, and they don’t attract the funding that ‘flagship’ mammal or avian species do - to be frank most people probably wouldn’t even notice they’d gone. But moths are as essential to the planet’s eco-systems as any other group of animals: many small mammals (bats especially) depend on them, many birds virtually rear their young on moth caterpillars, some are pollinators, and many are important indicators of the health of the environment we all live in.

And it’s in that last sentence where I personally think the importance of this beautiful book really lies. If you’ve never looked at moths (that’s most people I suspect - not all of us have the benefit of meeting Martin Cade after all), then have a look at the plates, read the text, and step into a whole new world that exists all around you but you’ve probably never given very much thought to before. If after leafing through this superb guide you’re not at least persuaded to have a look at the wonderful insects that come fluttering to your windows of a night I’ll be absolutely amazed. And once you’ve really studied them, seen for yourself how complex and intricate their patterns are, how they come in a myriad of shapes, how delicate or robust, large or small, wide or narrow they are you’ll have your own breakthrough moment and these gorgeous and subtle creatures will have won another fan for life…and that can only be a good thing for all concerned.

Summary:
“Field Guide to the Moths of Great Britain and Ireland”. Softback (2003), 431 pages, over 1600 colour illustrations. THE book you need to identify - and appreciate - the region’s moths. Formatted like a field-guide any birder would recognise, packed with information, and illustrated by the best paintings of moths currently available, this book is essential and highly recommended. If you’ve even just a passing interest in moths this is the book for you, buy it now!