Even before we start a Wildwatch recording morning, Carys May of the West Wales Biodiversity Information Centre has made two identifications: an intimidating dark giant horsefly (Tabanus sudeticus) with huge eyes close together and a notch-horned cleg or horsefly (Haematopota pluvialis), which bit me.
As we walk through Pencoedtop, a former conifer plantation now being restored to moorland (rhos in Welsh), Carys moves slowly and looks hard. She spots a mining bee, one that can only be identified under a microscope. This one doesn’t collect pollen neatly in its leg baskets, but exits flowers covered in powder, which the female seals into her nest with her eggs. In a bank of brambles, Carys points out several marmalade hoverflies (Episyrphus balteatus), which look like slim wasps. These pollinators migrate at great heights from the continent. She says that, if in doubt, the county hoverfly recorder, like a kind of naturalist archangel, is quick to respond to queries.
Ceredigion, like most areas, has experts on everything from moths to dragonflies who identify species, coordinate sightings and keep records. These recorders are unsung heroes of conservation. Their meticulous work, down on hands and knees, is essential for gathering data, spotting trends and informing the public about local wildlife, all done voluntarily.
On another recording day, walking around 19 acres of rough mesotrophic grassland near Cwm Tydu, I attached myself to Steve Chambers, Ceredigion’s botanical recorder. This was a deceptive landscape, he said, not species‑rich but rare because of its lack of improvement. He identified a Rosa micrantha, small-flowered sweet briar. Its crushed leaves smelled of apples. Steve said he might send the identification to the rose referee – yet another order of specialist.
The highlight of the day, though, was a tortoise beetle larva, spotted on knapweed. We took turns to admire it through a hand lens. This tiny emerald green spiked creature has a prehensile anus and collects its own waste to form a faecal shield, a poo parasol that it brandishes to protect itself from predators. Without these volunteers’ expertise, I would never have seen this outrageously inventive survival strategy. Recorders show us that there’s no such thing as an ordinary field.
