Capable of squirting formic acid distances up to 12 times its body length, the wood ant’s strictly ordered world and thrifty efficiency is celebrated in the Bible and tales of totalitarianism, observes a spellbound David Profumo.
UNLESS you’re a yaffle or a pangolin, the prospect of having ants in the neighbourhood is probably unwelcome, but, since the time of Plato, these advanced insects have intrigued humans with their industrious colonial activity.
Myrmecologists have estimated the global ant population to be some 10,000 trillion. However, here in Britain, we have just 36 native species, one of the foremost being that long-legged forager the southern wood ant (Formica rufa), also known as myroo, mergan or emmet (a mischievous Cornish nickname for seasonal tourists).
Widespread through suitable broadleaf and pine forests, they’re just emerging in March from hibernation and are now busily refurbishing their distinctive dome-shaped nests, which give off a urinous, ammoniac reek (thus the other ancient sobriquet of ‘pis-mire’).
Red and blackish-brown, the wood ant possesses relatively good eyesight and sharp mandibles. It can be fairly aggressive in defence of its home range, but has no sting. However, it can squirt concentrated formic acid distances 12 times its body length that’s strong enough to turn a forget-me-not pink and can cause pustulations—Shakespeare’s Hotspur is ‘nettled and stung with pismires’.
This poison is said to smell like salt-and-vinegar crisps—Scandinavian bakers occasionally use it to flavour cake icing and the laminated plastic Formica is chemically related.
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