Wasps were there throughout the decades that Mrs Weston – “Auntie Vi” to generations of climbers along the cliff-rimmed coast of south Pembrokeshire – ran Ye Olde Worlde Cafe opposite the Vicarage Field campsite. On a recent sunny afternoon I sharply remembered her memory, her immaculate coiffure. Vespula vulgaris – the common yellowjacket – was still here, causing consternation around garden tables, doing no harm.
Why do wasps arouse such fierce human antagonism? They’re quite beautiful. I watch in fascination as, antennae in constant motion, they stalk round rims of paper cups that have replaced Auntie Vi’s best china. Eager wasps tumble into sugary dregs, to be fished out with a teaspoon – or perhaps not, according to the customer’s degree of panic.
