On holiday in Cornwall, hanging clothes out to dry, I disturbed the flight path of several bumblebees jostling to land on the passionflowers in bloom in the courtyard. They occasionally whirred close to my face and ears, and I found myself apologising out loud for getting in their way.

I realised we were simply existing alongside one another, each getting on with our own task. Not quite in harmony, but peacefully. I wasn’t scared or worried about being stung.

A few evenings earlier, I had stood in that same courtyard watching them with fascination amongst the passionflowers. I had talked about their decline, their tendency to sting only as a last resort, and learned how to help one if found grounded and exhausted.

With closer observation I found myself noticing unique flight patterns. The bumblebees cruised with quiet purpose, in contrast to the more erratic, intimidating zigzagging of their aggressive cousins, the wasps. There were also a few masonry bees, much smaller and quieter by comparison, and equally content to mind their own business, moving from flower to flower.

My husband, less confident at telling the different species apart, decided it wasn’t worth the risk and went inside. But trusting my observations, and knowing that bumblebees posed little threat to me, I stayed. I even enjoyed their company, half wondering whether the drought might mean I’d soon need to perform a little bee first aid.

In that moment, I thought about how familiarity can sometimes erode fear. Or even its secondary judgments, such as contempt.

Knowing the vulnerabilities, strengths and likely intentions of someone, or something, seems to make them more multidimensional. That fuller picture somehow begins to build empathy or even a fledgling sort of trust.

Without it, our minds can reduce a person, animal or idea to a caricature, defined only by its most salient features. (In this case black and yellow stripes and buzzing). Perhaps this is one way passive prejudice can begin to germinate, sometimes growing into more active discrimination.

Mind you, I’ve just caught myself doing exactly this with the way I’ve described wasps. Now, after a little research, I’ve discovered that most wasp species don’t sting, and those that do usually sting in a particular context. Common worker wasps spend the summer protecting their queen’s larvae while surviving on a sugary drink produced in-house. Once their duties are over and the larvae have matured, the worker wasps leave their hive, having become rather sugar-fixated and then unsurprisingly, desperate for a taste of our summer drinks and ice creams.

Knowing that all doesn’t completely erase my fear. My caution is valid knowing wasps can sting repeatedly (a friend also told me wasps can eat bees, which I’ve verified is true in context of feeding them to wasp larvae). The risk of harm does not disappear simply due to me knowing more about them.

But it does place wasps hyperactive behaviour in perspective. I can even respect and empathise with aspects of their lives, such as their hard work and the circumstances for their sugar-dependency. I’ll still keep my distance, just with a little more compassion.

© 2026 Lorraine Welch. All rights reserved