inspired by the humble nettle

My Dad was always waging war on stinging nettles in our large garden. We learned very early in our lives to cope with the sharp pain inflicted by their hairy leaves by rubbing our flesh with a dock leaf. My big sister Jean, always the tease, told me that 'Nettles don't sting this month' and, pinching a leaf firmly between her fingers, she seemed to prove the point. Naturally, I was fooled, and stung myself. It took her a while to explain the verbal pun. Of course, nettles can't sting a noun.

We were a family of four girls and we used to spend hours mucking about in the garden. I remember, one day, picking nettles (with gloves on, I presume) to make nettle soup. It must have taken us ages because we would have had to collect wood, light a fire and boil water before the soup was made. The end results haven't left much impression on me. I don't think we ever repeated the experiment!

Stinging nettles have thrived in this year's wet summer. Plenty of food, then, for caterpillars to eat. Buddleas, loved by butterflies, are thriving too. So, where are all the caterpillars and butterflies? Will they return, when the weather improves, or have two hard winters decimated their numbers?