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Great Spotted Cuckoos

30/4/2017

By Lesley McLaren

They're back! Last week, after Robin tipped me off that the Great Spotted Cuckoos were once again at St. Nazaire, around the hillock overlooking Canet lagoon, I hurried over there, hoping to capture some better memories than the last time I saw and blogged about these splendid birds (May 2015).

I expected to see one pair at best. What a surprise, therefore, to discover possibly two pairs, noisily chasing one another back and forth. Whenever I had one couple in the binoculars in front, it seemed I could always hear at least one more bird making a racket* somewhere behind. I certainly spotted three in the same tree at one point.

Beyond, marsh harriers quartered the reeds. Other raptors flew overhead from time to time; too high to identify, doubtless on migration still. At my level, in addition to the cuckoos, the grassy expanse between the hillock top and reeds was also surround-sound small birds, including stonechat, fan-tailed warblers, nightingales, corn buntings and goldfinches.

All these were safe from the cuckoos. Several magpies, on the other hand, were on high alert, and rightly so. As I understand it they are the favourite adoptive parents for this species of cuckoo chick.

For the hour-and-a-half I was there, the cuckoos put on a fine display. Capturing them on film was of course far more challenging than watching through binoculars or with the naked eye. Even though I sat still in one spot for some time, they refused to oblige and come close - preferring to perch and do fly pasts "over there", usually against the light.

To me, they look comical at times, puffed out and rather smug. Their cream, grey, black and white markings make for perfect camouflage. It's easy to scan dead trees and suddenly find you've been staring right at one without seeing it.

In flight they are swift and sleek; impossible to misidentify, not least because of that super long tail.

In the video below one flies off to join his or her mate in another tree.

Great Spotted Cuckoo joins its mate from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Ironically, as is often the case when nature watching, I had blown my cover, replaced lens cap on the camera and was walking right in the open, back up to the car, when I got my closest view of one pair that sat and coolly observed me observing them as I slowly approached and passed by. C'est la vie et tant pis! I'm so glad I made the effort to go over there. Thanks, Robin.

* Their "racket" can be heard in another short video on our birdsong page

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Walking Off-Piste in the Albères

30/4/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

A couple of weeks ago I decided to explore an area of Albères woodland off the main piste, in the hopes of seeing one of the wrynecks that were calling all around but staying frustratingly out of view.

It can also be frustrating trying to find a route through the trees unless you're following a yellow waymarked path. Many tracks, made by boar or cows, lead you in circles or tempt you up this rise and round that corner only to abruptly disappear through an impenetrable mass of gorse.

On this particular day, however, I was fairly optimistic when I went through a makeshift gate in a fence and began a gentle climb up a grassy track that was clearly once designed for use by a vehicle. At a guess, the only people who usually came here were hunters, cowherds and cork harvesters. I was intrigued to see where it might lead.

The start of the track, looking up to the Roc du Midi

And looking back. Faint sounds of human activity occasionally drifted up from the Roussillon plain, to mingle with the songs of blackcaps, subalpine and Sardinian warblers, chiffchaff, goldfinches, serins and the first nightingales of the year. Not to mention the constant strident call of wrynecks.

Beyond the strimmed fire break immediately above the piste, it was immediately obvious how much the cows keep down the undergrowth, leaving only occasional patches of sweet smelling broom, French lavender and 'fried egg' rock rose plants in some of the more open, sunny areas. These were attracting insects, including one or two Orange-tips and Speckled Wood butterflies, and tiny beetles with extraordinarily long, spinning antennae.

Aptly named: Speckled Wood

After only a few yards I came upon a boar wallow that looked to be very popular. Here, while a jay tried to trick me with its imitations of heron and buzzard calls, I watched a pied flycatcher for a moment or two. Warblers - chiffchaffs I think - flitted in and out of the cork oaks, and wrynecks continued to shout near and far, but remained hidden.

Wallow, with scratching posts on the two nearest trees beyond.

Easy to see where the mud has been rubbed off on the trunk of this one!

Further into the woods, tree heathers and gorse had been significantly thinned out by the cows, creating a somewhat sterile environment in places. It did, however, make walking and visibility easier. One or two Subalpine Warblers called from and skulked in clumps of surviving heathers. The cows themselves weren't in evidence. It's usually wise to avoid them if possible and at about this time of year they are usually herded up to the cooler, higher slopes.

I was interested to discover that most dead cork oaks had at least one hole, drilled out by a woodpecker.

Most holes appeared to be experimental, and had been abandoned. The back and base are clearly visible in this one, and it doesn't look like a work in progress. A lot of effort has gone into it, nevertheless, before giving up!

Portal to a parallel world? The inside of this cork trunk is rotten, and the spongy bark has bent round and flopped

After about half a kilometre the track narrowed, to pass between stands of dead sweet chestnuts and through patches of newly uncurling, fresh smelling fronds of bracken. Normally unwelcome because it's so invasive, here bracken seems to be kept at bay by the cows.

Gales are gradually bringing down these dead chestnuts.

Goes without saying, perhaps, that the further in you are, the more you're likely to hear and see

Now the track becomes more of an obstacle course.

After negotiating tree trunks and brambles, I reached a glade - again created by cows I imagine. Woodpeckers were drumming close by and, after a few minutes, a pair of Great Spotted flew overhead. About 100m in front of me, two long-tailed tits looked to be collecting nesting material, and then a nuthatch appeared in the same tree. Through binoculars I watched it work its way down a trunk towards a hole whose entrance looked worn smooth. Wondering if this was its nest, I hung back and waited.

The nuthatch is close to the top of the picture, facing down the trunk.

Closer and closer it got, until it finally popped inside. After several minutes, when it still hadn't reappeared, I left it to its privacy.

Now the track led away and steeply up. I would have needed a stick to follow, but couldn't have juggled one of those along with binos, camera and dog-on-a-lead. So, leaving further exploration for another day when less lumbered down, I turned back.

Not far from the boar wallow again, I stopped and stood quietly. If I couldn't get to a wryneck, perhaps one would come to me? After about fifteen minutes my patience was rewarded when one flew into a big old cork oak not far away and stood still, in full view, for all of five seconds. A record, I reckon, for these woodpeckers.

This might not have been much of a walk in terms of distance, but it wasn't without highlights, and proved that it's worth striking off the beaten track from time to time.

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Spring-time Sounds

20/4/2017

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By Robin Noble

This year I have been away for rather longer than usual, and it was nice to return home from a distinctly wintry Scotland to find that Spring really had reached here; the train and bus journey from the airport showed me all the brilliant greens of this wonderful season, and the cherries were still in exuberant blossom all around Ceret, including the two in our garden.

That garden was, however, a real mess, the result of a considerable amount of rain followed by real, early warmth (see Lesley’s blogs). As I worked to clear some of the astonishing growth of weeds, I was also very conscious of the noises of the season. Describing sounds is very difficult, I find, and it is hard to avoid the cliches: so the goldfinches were tinkling as they flew overhead, and the greenfinches wheezing, while, of course, the black redstarts, posed on almost every roof-ridge around, warbled and rattled constantly. More melodious were the calls of the blackcaps, ( but I think they have mostly moved on now ), while the blackbirds were both musical and loud; actually they still are-if I happen to be using the phone outside while on the terrace, anyone I am talking to always asks whether I can hear them for the racket!

And, from the wooded hills behind us and across the valley, I was hearing wrynecks - dozens of them. As Lesley has mentioned, I frequently told her this, and she always replied that she, living under the Albères and closer to the coast, had heard none, or very few. One day, I decided that I wanted to see them, as well as hear them, and went for a good walk in the hills, alert, binoculars at the ready. Of course, I only heard one, and saw nothing. Since then, I have only been hearing them occasionally, maybe once or twice a day. They now appear to have (mostly) moved down towards the coast, and an appreciative Lesley. This pattern has been repeated before, and it is an interesting - and to us, unexpected - movement of these rather elusive birds.

Initially, on my return, the weather was rather changeable, and it has, as usual, continued to be quite windy. One such day, when washing the dishes, and focussing on what I was doing, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something bright and yellow, bobbing up and down just below the arc of soft pink that was the tamarisk blossom outside our kitchen window. Refocussing, I realised it was a little bird, and grabbing the binoculars, saw that it was a male serin, so brilliant in colour that he made a yellowhammer look drab. He was clearly determined to sing, but had chosen a moderately sheltered perch from which to do so; he continued for some minutes.

Since then, the local hoopoe has been visiting, and adding his voice to the spring melody. I awoke to his soft calls this morning, and the sun pouring into the bedroom, through the vivid greens of the cherries’ new leaves. It is a really special time of year!

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Great Spotted Cuckoos

Walking Off-Piste in the Albères

Spring-time Sounds

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