Preface   A bearded man with dreadlocks stepped out in front of me shaking his fist as I swerved my bicycle to avoid him. “White man blood and fire!” he called after me as I pedalled away.   This memory popped unbidden into my mind the other day, more than fifty years after the event, and brought with it a flood of other memories from my youth. I went to my stored butterfly collection and opened up the two boxes that house all I have left of my butterflying days in the Caribbean. Memories fade and warp with time but looking at my small collection of Jamaican butterflies,…