Imagine facing a creature so startling, so unexpectedly aggressive, that it shatters all your preconceived notions about the natural world. That's exactly what happened when a massive spider exploded from its burrow, defying every expectation we had.
It all began on a pristine July morning in Greece. The air shimmered with heat, and the majestic Mount Taygetos, a jagged silhouette against the azure sky, dominated the landscape near Kardamyli. My son Matt, my daughter Sofie, and I were on a quest. We'd explored the Peloponnese before, always on the lookout for signs of the elusive Lycosa tarantula – the true tarantula. This time, in this specific location, I felt a surge of optimism that we might actually find one.
Our path led us up a dry riverbed, snaking away from the coastal town towards the distant mountain peak. The sun was already intense, baking the landscape to a crisp. Within minutes, we entered a narrow passage, the riverbed's exit from the mountains onto the coastal plain. The ground underfoot was a carpet of sun-baked pebbles, shifting with a dry, percussive sound as we walked. The temperature was steadily climbing, a tangible force pushing us forward.
As noon approached, the thermometer soared to a scorching 40°C (104°F). We reached our destination: an open, grassy hillside near a weathered, abandoned monastery. Adjacent to it lay an area covered in phrygana, low-lying, aromatic vegetation. And there, nestled between fragrant clumps of lavender, were what we'd been searching for: burrows. Tarantula burrows!
Around the largest burrow, we found discarded exoskeletons. Their size was unsettling, a clear indicator of the formidable creature residing within. Delicate, almost invisible strands of silk radiated from the burrow's entrance – tripwires, taut and ready to detect any disturbance. I carefully touched one of these silken threads with a stick. But here's where it gets controversial... We were expecting something, but utterly unprepared for the sheer speed and unbridled aggression of what followed.
With shocking speed, the largest wild spider I had ever seen erupted from the hole. And this is the part most people miss: Instead of retreating, as most spiders instinctively do, it immediately attacked the stick! It lunged forward with astonishing ferocity. Reacting instantly, Sofie swiftly trapped it under a jar.
The spider's appearance was striking. Its sleek coat of fawn and chocolate, combined with its distinctive 'Land Rover' eyes (two prominent eyes flanked by smaller ones), immediately revealed its kinship to a much smaller, more familiar relative – the wolf spider commonly found in Britain. Lycosa tarantula is, after all, a type of wolf spider, not a 'true' tarantula from the Americas (like the rose hair tarantula, for example). Confusingly, they share a common name!
Later that day, of course, we released our captive back into its burrow. But not before showing it to the burly owner of our campsite. His reaction was priceless. "Impossible!" he exclaimed in his thick Greek accent. "We don't get them that big in Greece!" It was a testament to the spider's impressive size, a creature that defied local expectations.
Ben Aldiss is an ecologist and a fellow of the Royal Society of Biology and the Royal Entomological Society.
Now, I'm curious: Have you ever encountered a creature that completely defied your expectations? Do you think the campsite owner's disbelief was justified, or could larger-than-average tarantulas be more common in Greece than people realize? And what are your thoughts on keeping wild animals, even briefly, for observation? Share your experiences and opinions in the comments below – I'd love to hear them!
