What Is This Bug And What to Do When You See One
So last night—bear with me—I’m half-asleep, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, and I hear this loud whap against the bathroom light. Thought something had exploded. I turn around, and there it is: this big shiny reddish-brown… thing, clinging to a cardboard toilet paper roll like it just landed after a long-haul flight and decided, “Yeah, this is home now.”
At first, I thought it was a June bug, but nope. It’s something called a cockchafer. I know. It sounds like a bad nickname some Victorian schoolboy would get stuck with. Anyway, people also call it a May bug, which—let’s be honest—makes it sound a lot more charming than it deserves when it’s dive-bombing your ceiling fan at midnight.
What even is a cockchafer?
Right. So the cockchafer beetle—Melolontha melolontha, if you want to sound fancy about it—is this chunky scarab-looking beetle that shows up around late spring in Europe. May, usually, sometimes into June. Which explains the name. They’re around 2 to 3 cm long (which doesn’t sound like much until it’s buzzing near your face), and the males have these weird fan-like antennae that look like they’re trying to pick up satellite TV. That’s how they smell out the ladies. Very elegant.
Their flight style? Imagine a wind-up toy trying to navigate a hurricane. They don’t fly so much as lurch from surface to surface with alarming confidence and absolutely no coordination.
Okay but—how do you know it’s one?
If you’ve got something vaguely beetle-shaped knocking over your houseplants in May, odds are it’s one of these guys. The telltale signs?
- Color: reddish-brown, almost rust-colored wing covers, with a black belly.
- Antennae: feathery and dramatic on the males—like they’re trying too hard at a masquerade ball.
- Size: bigger than your average beetle. Not quite “horror movie” big, but big enough to ruin your evening.
- Markings: they’ve got little white tufts or spots on their sides that look almost like lint stuck to their shell.
- Behavior: Loud. Obnoxious. Hyperactive at dusk. And yeah, absolutely obsessed with lights.
Also, if you’re in Europe and it’s spring… it’s not a June bug. That name’s mostly a North American thing for a different beetle. Same general vibe, different species.
Where do they come from?
Honestly? The ground. I wish I was kidding.
They start off as larvae—white grubs, the kind you really don’t want in your garden—and they stay underground for like… three to four years. Just vibing. Eating roots. Grass, trees, flowers, you name it. That’s where the actual damage comes from. Not the adults bumbling through your bathroom, but their dirt-dwelling teenagers gnawing your plants to bits.
Then one spring they decide they’ve had enough of that life. They crawl out, grow wings, spend a few chaotic weeks flying, mating, laying eggs—rinse, repeat. They don’t live long after that. Just a month or so above ground and then… curtains. The whole thing feels like a very aggressive spring break.
Are they dangerous?
To humans? Nah. They’re just big and loud and sort of unnerving when they fly straight at your forehead. They won’t bite. They don’t sting. No diseases. Just a lot of drama.
But if there are a lot of them? Yeah, they can be a pain. Especially around lights—porches, windows, anything bright. You leave a window open in May and suddenly it’s like hosting a bug rave.
The larvae are the real problem. They’ll wreck your lawn, your garden beds, anything with tender little roots. And the worst part is, you won’t know they’re there until your plants just… stop looking alive.
What do you do if one gets inside?
First, try not to freak out. I know, easier said than done when it’s zooming around like a drunk drone.
Here’s the move:
- Trap it gently. Glass, cup, whatever you’ve got. Slide paper under, take it outside.
- Kill the lights. If your home looks like a lighthouse at night, you’re basically sending out invites. Use blackout curtains, dim the lighting, do what you can.
- Seal things up. Check the usual suspects—windows, vents, doors. Anywhere they could sneak in.
What if they’re outside but there’s just… too many?
Now we’re into infestation territory. If you’re noticing beetles and weird patches of dying grass or sad-looking plants, the grubs are probably throwing a root-munching party underground.
You’ve got a few options:
- Nematodes. Yeah, I know. Sounds made up. But they’re real—tiny beneficial worms that live in the soil and snack on beetle larvae like it’s tapas night. You can buy them online or at garden centers.
- Milky spore. Another natural treatment. It doesn’t kill the grubs instantly—it’s more of a long game. You spread it on your lawn and over time it infects the larvae, reducing future outbreaks.
- Regular lawn care. I mean, yeah, kind of boring, but it works. Aerate your soil, don’t overwater, mow your grass at a sensible height. Basically, don’t give the beetles a five-star nursery for their spawn.
Bring in the birds (and friends)
Here’s the part I like: if you’re lazy like me, you can let nature help. Birds, hedgehogs, foxes—even badgers, if you’ve got those around—love cockchafer larvae. I’ve seen robins go absolutely feral for them.
So set up a birdbath, throw out some seeds, leave a brush pile in the corner of the yard. Make your space a little wildlife-friendly, and they’ll take care of some of the problem for you. Not all of it. But enough.
Should you call pest control?
Usually? No. Unless it’s, like, an actual invasion and your yard looks like it’s about to be declared a beetle sanctuary. Then yeah, maybe. Especially if the grub damage is wrecking your garden or the beetles are turning your living room into their crash pad.
If you do call someone, look for pest control that uses eco-friendly methods. The last thing you want is to nuke your soil with chemicals and end up killing every earthworm within a five-mile radius. Especially if you’ve got pets or grow food out there.
So yeah. That giant beetle you smacked off your lampshade last night? It’s not here to murder you in your sleep. It’s just a cockchafer—one of nature’s louder, clumsier spring visitors. Ugly, but kind of fascinating once you stop panicking.
Just… maybe keep a cup handy next time you brush your teeth.