The impact was visceral. For days last spring I watched an army of confederates, with their uniforms of fiery gold bands and anthracite hoops, advancing up the road. They were cinnabar moth caterpillars, gathered on their host plant, common ragwort. And thanks to Liverpool city council’s observance of No Mow May, there were plenty of both in the roadside verge near my home.
But days before the month ended, the mowing team arrived, like pilgrims breaking their Lenten fast early. The ragworts and their parties of travellers were churned up and spat out. I was desolate.
