I saw a female hairy-footed flower bee the other day, darting through tiny white bells of comfrey with speed and purpose. Quite the master of disguise, they are often mistaken for small, dark bumblebees. While males start off zipping about in gingery‑brown fur, females emerge a couple of weeks later in dense, jet‑black velvet.

The only thing breaking up her dark silhouette was the bright orange hairs on her hind legs, which flashed as she collected pollen from the early spring flowers. Unlike the steady, weighty bumblebee, she moved with speed and agility. She hovered in front of a flower, her long tongue already extended in anticipation, then darted forward to drink. That specialised tongue lets her reach deep into tubular flowers that frustrate other bees, making her an essential pollinator for plants like lungwort, comfrey, and primroses.

Their nesting habits often bring them close to people. Instead of burrowing into the ground, they favour vertical surfaces, colonising the soft, crumbling mortar of old brick walls or the warm clay of sunlit banks. Some even wander down chimneys in search of the perfect spot. Though solitary, with each female tending her own narrow tunnel, many will choose the same wall, creating a busy but peaceful colony.

They are gentle creatures. Without the defensive instincts of hive‑forming bees, they simply get on with their work, uninterested in stinging. From March to May, they are a frantic, fuzzy herald of spring.