I sit in my front garden, which is surely a contender for world’s smallest meadow – a tiny square, rich with native grasses, primroses, lungwort, crocuses and the last of the snowdrops. Leaves poke through the soil, telling me that scabious and knapweed will soon bloom, along with betony, meadowsweet and viper’s bugloss. The one red campion, which has been in flower since December, will be joined by others, and the whole space, in all its tiny glory, might buzz with the hum of a thousand insects.
Except it’s already buzzing. After a few days of fine weather, the male hairy-footed flower bees emerged. Some will have come from the nesting habitats I made for their mothers – miniature cob walls of loam, sand and straw in terracotta pots, with pencilled-in holes for egg-laying. Two years ago, I placed these close to their favourite flowers: lungwort. It didn’t take the females long to find them.
