I could tell that the male wolf spider sensed the presence of a potential mate before she crept out from the shade of the aubretia flowers. So did his rival. They both rose on to tiptoe and converged on the same spot. There was a brief, furious tussle before the victor – I could not tell which one – stood before her and began his tremulous courtship. She had turned her back on him, but no matter: eight eyes gave her panoramic vision.

He began with a tentative wave of his right palp, the black furry appendage beside his jaws. Then he lowered it and waved the left, dropped both in a submissive gesture, then raised and vibrated his front pair of legs. With each repetition of this semaphore dance he edged a little closer, and by the third he had captured her attention: she turned and lunged at him with a ferocity that sent him into retreat. And so it continued as the afternoon wore on. I never witnessed the finale, when he would have used those expressive palps to present his sperm, having pacified his mate's aggression.

But he was successful. That was a week ago. Today there's a spherical cocoon under the tip of her abdomen and she's sitting on the same warm stone, using the sun to incubate her eggs. When my shadow falls over her she dashes into her lair, then creeps out, millimetre by millimetre, until once again she casts her own shadow. The final act will be played out soon, when she'll appear with her abdomen covered with spiderlings that will cling to her until they can fend for themselves.

It's an annual summer ritual, one that needs to be observed on hands and knees, with a magnifying glass, to appreciate its beauty and drama. In its own way it's as symbolic of the turning of the seasons as the blooming of the first wild rose, played out in every garden, in town and country.

• This article was amended on 6 June 2014. The earlier version referred to a "black fury appendage".