Winged harbingers of destruction

Before moving to sunny Hornblotton, we lived in Galloway, south-west Scotland.  In the years we spent up north, I optimistically tried to grow exotic vegetables (well, herbs mostly). I was never terribly successful, because as anyone knows, the only thing that grows in abundance north of the border is heather, midges, and ginger hair. With the sought-after change in our lifestyles came a change in the weather. Suddenly, the possibility of growing-our-own became a viable option.
However, since I planted-out my cabbages this year, there has been a war raging. Being new to this whole vegetable patch thing, I was a little slow on realising that the pretty, white, winged visitor to my garden was, in fact, one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse – Pestilence; you might know her as the Cabbage White butterfly.

"Because as anyone knows, the only thing that grows in abundance north of the border is ... ginger hair"

She has ridden rough-shod over my raised beds, spreading destruction in her wake. The leaves of my brassicas were soon covered with her tiny eggs, and I have spent my days on my hands and knees indulging in a little inter-species ethnic cleansing.
It is rather ironic that in the week when this war reached its climax, my daughter received a couple of caterpillars through the post as part of a grow-your-own butterfly kit. As she carefully examined the underside of each leaf in search of potential caterpillar friends, I was preceding her, and scraping them off the leaves with my finger nail and smearing them onto my trousers. I don’t know whether Cabbage White’s have folklore, and sit around the fireside telling stories to their children of the fearful shapes that haunt the darkness, but if they do, I imagine I will figure large in those tales. I am not sure what will happen to the butterfly farm when the caterpillars reach maturity, but the odds are long on them surviving beyond the chrysalis stage. All this, and I don’t even like cabbage.

"I don’t know whether Cabbage White’s have folklore, and sit around the fireside telling stories to their children of the fearful shapes that haunt the darkness, but if they do, I imagine I will figure large in those tales"

Luckily, I had the foresight to plant some vegetables I actually do like. It was a last minute decision before our trip to Spain earlier this year; I stuck some old potatoes in the ground, and then ignored them. I haven’t watered them; I haven’t banked up the earth around them; I certainly haven’t crawled around them on my hands and knees minutely examining their leaves for infestations. The other day, as I turned dejectedly from my decimated cabbages, I caught sight of their verdant foliage and I wondered if there was a hidden crop, just waiting to be lifted.
Putting down my flamethrower, I took up my fork, and within moments I had a handful of perfect tubers. I felt like I used to as a small child when I opened my first present on Christmas morning; I couldn’t wait to tear the wrapping off all my other presents. I scrabbled around in the dirt searching for more of the hidden treasures.

Within a few minutes, I had a fine harvest of large, perfect potatoes. I carried them indoors, and placed them on the kitchen table for the family to admire. I stood there, basking in the reflected glory of the simple spud, secure in the knowledge that my crop was safe from airborne assault.