| There are occasions when science is extremely useful. It tells us why plants grow towards light, why water moves through soil, why seasons change and why putting a tender plant outside during a February frost generally produces disappointing results. There are also occasions when science can become something of a nuisance, particularly when you have a perfectly good story to tell, and somebody insists on pointing out that it couldn’t possibly happen. So before we begin, I should acknowledge that there are excellent biological reasons why an aphid cannot become the size of a football, a bumblebee cannot grow to the dimensions of a bicycle and a beetle cannot wander through Kent roughly resembling a double-decker bus. I accept all of this completely. For what happened one Tuesday morning, however, science is going to have to wait in the van. The day began normally enough. There had been a little rain overnight, the forecast suggested it would remain reasonably dry, and I was expecting nothing more dramatic than the usual collection of lawns, hedges and borders. John and I had work to get through, the van was loaded, and there was absolutely no indication that the natural world had decided to make itself considerably more noticeable. The first clue came when I walked towards the van and found what appeared to be a large green ball sitting on the bonnet. My immediate thought was that somebody had left it there. My second was that balls don’t normally have legs. The third arrived when it turned slightly towards me, and I realised I was looking at an aphid. There are moments in life for which experience provides no useful guidance. I’ve dealt with aphids for years. I’ve brushed them from stems, washed them away, left them for ladybirds and occasionally squashed them without giving the matter much philosophical consideration. None of that prepares you for an aphid large enough to occupy a substantial portion of your bonnet. At that scale, something normally dismissed as a tiny green speck becomes a surprisingly strange animal. Its swollen, pear-shaped body looked soft and almost translucent in the morning light, supported on six long jointed legs ending in delicate hooked feet that gripped the metal with unnerving ease. Two slender antennae moved slowly in front of it, apparently investigating the enormous world it had suddenly inherited, while the little tube-like projections at the rear of an aphid, normally invisible unless you go looking for them, were now quite obvious. It wasn’t aggressive. If anything, it appeared rather bewildered by the situation itself. I stood looking at it for perhaps thirty seconds before John arrived, looked at the bonnet, looked at me and asked the entirely reasonable question, “What’s that?” I told him it was an aphid. He looked at it again and said, “That’s a big aphid.” There seemed little point arguing. Within ten minutes it became apparent that the aphid wasn’t an isolated incident. The rose beside the house contained another five, each grotesquely enlarged and clinging to stems that were never designed to support creatures of such weight. Several branches had been dragged almost to the ground, and every time one of the insects repositioned a leg the whole rose shook beneath it. Then an ant emerged from beneath the paving. Its polished dark body was now large enough for every division, joint and plate to be clearly visible, while its antennae swept constantly from side to side. At normal size, an ant crossing a patio barely registers. When its head comes halfway up your shin, and you can clearly see its jaws opening and closing, you become considerably more interested in what else might now be living beneath the slabs. Then something enormous moved across the sky. For a moment I thought it was a bird, until a bumblebee swept over the garden low enough for us to feel the movement of air from its wings. The familiar gentle buzz had become a deep, throbbing vibration somewhere between machinery and an approaching helicopter. Leaves trembled beneath it as it passed. Its black-and-yellow coat no longer resembled fuzz but dense animal fur, individual hairs rippling in the downdraught, while thick, jointed legs hung beneath its body like landing gear. Its compound eyes were great glossy black structures catching the morning light. I’ve always liked bumblebees. They are among those garden visitors whose presence reassures you that something is going right, and watching one work methodically through flowers is one of the small pleasures of being outside. Watching a bee substantial enough to straddle a wheelbarrow approach the same flowers changes the experience considerably. It remained perfectly peaceful. The lavender was less fortunate. The bee descended heavily, its six bristling legs reaching forward before it landed with tremendous enthusiasm, flattening approximately half the plant. Great clumps of yellow pollen collected among the hairs on its legs as it pushed its head between flowers that now looked absurdly delicate beside it, feeding as though nothing unusual had occurred. Pollination, I thought, was going to be excellent this year. Structural damage might be another matter. By then our phones had started buzzing. News alerts appeared, and social media had abandoned whatever it had been arguing about the previous evening and united around the discovery that every insect in the country had become enormous. Nobody knew why. There did at least appear to be a rough pattern: the tiniest species had grown to around football proportions, medium insects were approaching the dimensions of bicycles, naturally larger species had become comparable to cars, while the biggest were being measured against buses. It wasn’t an especially scientific classification system, but considering what was happening, it was surprisingly effective. Scientists were being interviewed from studios and explaining that this was biologically impossible. At the same time, behind one of them, something resembling a dragonfly flew past the window with a wingspan broad enough to cast a shadow across the building. John and I considered the situation. We had six gardens to do, and there is something about gardening that makes cancelling an entire day feel surprisingly difficult, even when the country’s insect population has increased in number by several million per cent. The aphid on the van showed no inclination to move, so we encouraged it gently with a broom. This proved surprisingly effective until it rolled off the bonnet and landed beside the driver’s door, righted itself through an unexpectedly complicated rearrangement of six legs and eventually wandered into the border, apparently unharmed. We set off. Traffic was unusually light, although I imagine most sensible people had stayed at home. Our first garden initially looked reasonably normal, provided you ignored the enormous ladybird sitting in the middle of the lawn. Its familiar red wing cases had become two great polished domes, rising above the grass with the glossy finish of freshly painted metal. The black spots were no longer markings you might cover with a fingertip but great circular patches across an armoured back. Beneath that cheerful exterior was something altogether more mechanical: six segmented black legs worked rapidly beneath the body, supporting a creature large enough that the lawn dipped under its weight. Its small armoured head was buried in a nearby rose, where it was efficiently dealing with the swollen aphids clustered along the stems. Every so often the red cases lifted slightly, exposing intricately folded wings beneath and producing a dry clicking sound I had never associated with a ladybird before. It was doing an excellent job, though every time it changed direction it flattened another stretch of lawn. I decided that pest control was working and left it alone. The client appeared at the back door and asked whether we were still doing the hedge. I looked at the ladybird, looked at the hedge and told her that we were. There are traditions to maintain. For the first hour things went remarkably well. The insects weren’t attacking anybody; they were carrying on with their normal lives at deeply inconvenient dimensions. Ants crossed the patio carrying pieces of material that would ordinarily have required two people and a wheelbarrow. One dragged a length of timber towards a crack beside the house with such determination that neither of us felt inclined to interfere. A fly landed on the fence, its weight making the panel creak, and spent several minutes cleaning its front legs. Its metallic body, normally little more than an irritating blur, was covered in coarse hairs and bristles, while two transparent wings lay across its back like sheets of finely veined glass. Its enormous reddish eyes consisted of countless tiny facets that caught the sunlight differently as its head moved, giving the uncomfortable impression that it was watching everything at once. Somewhere beyond the houses came the heavy drone of another bee. Then we reached the hedge, and anyone who cuts hedges professionally develops a certain respect for wasps. Finding a wasp nest with a hedge cutter is one of those experiences you generally prefer to have only once. You learn to watch for activity, recognise the warning signs and retreat when necessary. That morning, however, there was no need to look for subtle signs. A wasp emerged from the hedge and hovered in front of us, enormous enough that its head was almost level with my chest. Enlarged to that scale, there was very little about it that suggested compromise. Its yellow-and-black abdomen hung beneath an impossibly narrow waist, the hard plates of its body shifting against one another as it hovered. Long legs dangled beneath it, its antennae flicked rapidly in our direction, and a pair of dark mandibles worked beneath its head. At the other end was a sting that neither John nor I felt any need to measure. Its beating wings were almost transparent, but the force they produced sent loose hedge clippings skittering across the lawn and pushed the nearest branches backwards. John switched off his hedge cutter, and I switched off mine. We stood looking at the wasp while the wasp appeared to consider us. Gardening teaches you when to persevere and when to accept that nature has won, and this was very clearly the latter. I suggested we’d come back to that particular section. By late morning, Britain had effectively stopped. Roads were being closed wherever the larger insects settled. Schools had kept children indoors, although this seemed optimistic, given that some of the creatures outside were now able to look through first-floor windows. Airports suspended flights after pilots reported enormous winged objects appearing on radar. The government issued advice recommending that people remain calm, stay indoors where possible and avoid approaching unusually large insects. The final part seemed unnecessary. Anyone who requires official guidance not to approach a wasp capable of looking them directly in the eye probably has other problems. Butterflies were causing surprisingly serious difficulties because nobody expects trouble from a butterfly, which perhaps explains why we were completely unprepared for them. A vast cabbage white descended into a vegetable plot with wings broad enough to cover several rows of brassicas. It flattened most of them before it had even begun considering where to lay its eggs. At this scale, wings that normally appear simply white revealed themselves as surfaces covered with millions of overlapping scales, giving them a powdery, almost tiled appearance. Later, a peacock butterfly crossed the road in front of us, and for several seconds the carriageway disappeared behind rust-red wings. The great eye markings that normally fit comfortably into a human palm were now enormous circles of blue, black and cream, startling enough to resemble the eyes of something much larger still. It was astonishingly beautiful. It was also the first occasion in my life when I had to brake sharply to avoid colliding with a butterfly. Lunch was eaten inside the van with the windows firmly closed, a precaution that proved sensible when a fly landed on the passenger window and covered most of the glass. From a few inches away, neither of us had ever appreciated quite how complicated a fly’s face was. Its two enormous compound eyes were mosaics of countless reddish-brown facets. Short antennae twitched between them while its mouthparts moved repeatedly against the window, exploring the glass with a fleshy, mechanical persistence that made John move his sandwich slightly further away. Each foot ended in claws, and padded structures pressed flat against the glass, allowing this swollen, hairy creature to stand vertically beside us as though gravity were merely a suggestion. Its abdomen pulsed faintly as it breathed. Some things in nature benefit enormously from being small. Ants were beginning to create problems too. Normally, an ant carrying something many times its own weight is an impressive demonstration of natural engineering. Still, when an ant is substantial enough to drag a patio chair, the calculations become rather different. Their armour-like bodies gleamed in the sunlight as they marched in organised lines, antennae touching briefly whenever two met before continuing with whatever enormous task the colony had decided required attention. Across Kent, bins were moving. Garden furniture disappeared. One news report showed a group of ants carrying a child’s paddling pool across a playing field while a police officer watched helplessly from behind his car. Another had apparently taken a garden gnome. Nobody knew where. Then we encountered the beetle. Even after everything we’d seen that day, this was different. Traffic had stopped approaching a roundabout outside town, and cars were turning around and coming back towards us. A police officer was directing vehicles away while another stood beside a barrier speaking urgently into a radio. Beyond them, occupying most of the roundabout, sat an immense black beetle. Its wing cases rose above the road like two sections of polished armour, high enough to reflect houses, sky and flashing blue lights across their curved surface. Beneath them, overlapping plates formed a body that looked less like an insect now than some extraordinary piece of biological machinery. Six immense legs radiated from beneath it, thick and heavily jointed, reaching across the carriageway and ending in hooked feet resting on the tarmac. Each claw was substantial enough to make a car look rather vulnerable. Whenever the creature shifted its weight, those hooked feet scraped slowly across the road with a grinding sound that carried beyond the police cordon. Its antennae were perhaps the most extraordinary part. They swept slowly ahead of the beetle, reaching across barriers, touching road signs and brushing through nearby trees as though the entire junction had become something to investigate. Its head rose above the roundabout itself, and the dark mandibles beneath it opened and closed with a slow, deliberate movement that discouraged speculation about what it normally ate. Yet it wasn’t rampaging through town. It wasn’t attacking anybody. It was simply sitting there, apparently enjoying the warmth of the road surface while the police tried to establish exactly what one did about an insect large enough to block a major junction. Somebody from the council had arrived with a clipboard. I found this strangely reassuring. Whatever happened to civilisation, there would still be somebody from the council standing behind a barrier holding paperwork. We turned around, and by four o’clock we’d abandoned any serious hope of completing the day’s round. At one client’s garden, an immense dragonfly had taken possession of the pond. Its four transparent wings extended sideways like vast panes of intricately veined glass, catching flashes of sunlight whenever they moved. The long segmented abdomen stretched behind it while enormous compound eyes wrapped around much of its head, giving it a field of vision that made approaching unnoticed rather unlikely. Every so often it launched itself from beside the pond with frightening acceleration, the sudden movement of air disturbing the water below, snatched another enlarged insect in flight and returned to its perch. Dragonflies are magnificent predators. At several metres across, they are perhaps best admired through a kitchen window. Another garden contained several hulking bees moving heavily through the borders and something beneath the shed that neither John nor I particularly wanted identified. We informed the client that we’d return another day. She asked whether Thursday would be possible and, after a moment’s consideration, whether we could still do the lawn when we came. I said we probably could, assuming the insects were smaller by then. She accepted this as though it were now a perfectly normal condition of gardening. The strange thing was that, for all the chaos, the insects themselves hadn’t really changed. That became increasingly obvious as the day went on. They weren’t angry, they hadn’t become intelligent, and they weren’t coordinating an uprising against humanity. The aphids wanted plants. The bees wanted flowers. The ladybirds wanted aphids. Ants continued moving things around for reasons known only to ants. Butterflies drifted between flowers, flies remained irritating, and wasps continued possessing that particular confidence that suggests they have never once questioned their place in the world. Only their size had changed, which was more than enough. At about six o’clock, something else happened. The great bumblebee outside our house seemed smaller. At first I assumed I’d become accustomed to seeing enormous insects, which was a worrying thought in itself, but over the next few minutes the change became unmistakable. The creature that had earlier been able to flatten a lavender plant merely by landing on it steadily diminished. Its deep mechanical thrum softened. The great furry body contracted, its legs became delicate again, and the tremendous downdraught from its wings faded into the familiar disturbance of a bee moving between flowers. Within minutes it was simply a bumblebee again, disappearing among the lavender as though the day had never happened. Across the country the same thing was occurring. The colossal beetle on the roundabout gradually ceased being an infrastructure problem. Its armoured back sank below the road signs. Legs that had occupied entire lanes withdrew towards a rapidly diminishing body. The claws scraping against the tarmac became smaller and smaller until eventually the police were left staring at an ordinary beetle sitting in the road. Butterflies contracted until gardens could once again contain them. Dragonflies returned to the ponds rather than dominating them. Ants abandoned whatever enormous objects they’d been transporting and disappeared beneath paving stones that, several hours earlier, they might have been capable of moving. The entire insect world descended gently through the various categories of British transport until, by sunset, everything was back where it belonged. Nobody knew why it had happened, nor why it had stopped. The scientists who had spent the morning explaining that it couldn’t happen spent the evening explaining that it couldn’t have happened, despite several million people having spent the day watching it happen. Britain was left with damaged greenhouses, flattened borders, abandoned cars, displaced garden furniture and an insurance industry facing claims that no policy document had thought to exclude. Somewhere in Kent, presumably, there was also a garden gnome whose whereabouts remained unknown. The following morning I went outside shortly before work. The van still had a slight dent where the aphid had been sitting, and the lavender looked as though somebody had dropped something extremely heavy on it, but otherwise everything was normal. A bee moved quietly among the flowers, its wings once again producing nothing more threatening than a familiar hum, and a butterfly crossed the garden without requiring anyone to brake sharply. On the rose beside the house, almost exactly where the whole ridiculous business had started, sat an aphid. Tiny. Green. Precisely the size an aphid had every right to be. I looked at it for a moment while it continued feeding. After seeing those long legs, moving antennae and strange translucent body enlarged sufficiently for every detail to become visible, it was difficult to regard it as quite the insignificant green speck I had before. Normally I might have brushed it away, but after everything we’d been through together, that somehow seemed petty, so I left it alone. A little later, John arrived. We loaded the van and went back to finish the hedge. |
| About our writing & imagery Most articles reflect our real gardening experience and reflection. Some use AI in drafting or research, but never for voice or authority. Featured images may show our photos, original AI-generated visuals, or, where stated, images credited to others. All content is shaped and edited by Earthly Comforts, expressing our own views. |
The Gardener's Curious Journal 
Is this true or science fiction?
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Morning Sadje, goodness gracious me, not true, no, sci – fi 🙂
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Phew. I even checked with google. 🌻🌛
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