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The Colours of Paradise

27/7/2015

by Robin Noble

Around a year ago, I was writing about a beautiful campsite in the foothills of Canigou, blessed with two cold mountain streams which are the haunt of perhaps the most exquisite insect I have ever seen, the demoiselle agrion (or calopteryx virgo if you find the latin any easier). Well, I have recently been back there, and spent a significant amount of time searching out and watching them. Maybe I am just getting more used to them and now know where to look, or maybe this year there are more, but I certainly had lots of wonderful sightings, many of the closest when I was in the water, and they were flying over my head, sometimes even landing briefly on it ! I still cannot decide why sometimes they look very blue, and at others more green, but this year, for the first time , I have definitely seen the females which are much more green-to-amber in colour, and were attracting a lot of attention from the males, needless to say....

The males do certainly hold territories, perhaps only a couple of metres of wooded bank above water, maybe less, but they do often come close to the boundary and will at times stage something of a "stand-off" with their neighbour. As they fly fairly slowly compared to dragon- and damselflies, this seems a relatively unthreatening affair; once or twice, the movement became much more like a back- and forwards dancing, very beautiful and graceful, which only once I saw performed in Scotland, on the Isle of Skye, one very hot afternoon, when six or more adult males slowly danced above the dark, peaty waters.

The pictures attached here are not that good (there are some splendid ones on the Internet), but photographing them always seemed to involve leaning out and around vegetation, and trying not to fall in the water, or actually being in the water and trying not to submerge the camera (Martine's underwater camera would have been handy!).

Another wonderful creature had me teetering on awkward stones, as I tried to photograph it without frightening it away. This was what is called a purple emperor butterfly; I say "called" as nearly all the photographs I have seen show the male as definitely blue, and my little book of "papillons" firmly lists it as among those which have "ailes bleues". (Its french name is wonderful: "grand mars changeant", just wish I knew exactly what it signifies!). But, as my picture makes reasonably clear, the colour does obviously depend on the angle of the sun as it falls on the wings.

Some books make a lot of the more unsavoury habits of this lovely butterfly, suggesting that it feeds on dung and drinks muddy water, but mine at least had more refined and "appropriate" tastes; the male, for instance, was sipping the crystal-clear waters at the foot of an enchanting pool called "Paradise", and the plainer female I saw later was enjoying nectar from one of the many naturalised buddleias which grow along the banks of the streams and fill the valley with sweet honey-scent. It is a wonderful place.

And, "en passant" as it were; both Lesley and I have recently seen and heard bee-eaters, and I had the distinct impression that those I had been hearing were flying south. This seems really quite early; are they leaving after a short, but (hopefully) successful breeding-season? And have the swallows likewise moved away very quickly? - they, and all the hirundines, suddenly seem very quiet to me......

Finally, on the way back from a concert last night in Prades, some of us had a splendid view of a large sanglier; he was at the other verge, but when he saw our lights, rather than just retreating into the bushes, he elected to re-cross the road in front of us. No wonder there are some accidents; in our case, he was a little distance away, and Isobel who was driving had seen him early on, so there was little risk. In any case, he put on an impressive turn of speed, and made a magnificent sight as he crossed in front of the car.

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Hot, Sweaty Blog

16/7/2015

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by Robin Noble & photos by Martine Howard

A couple of weeks ago, we decided that perhaps one way, if not actually to avoid the heat but at least reduce its impact, would be to head westwards into the mountains. Our plan was quite simple: we would aim as directly as possible for the moderately fast road to Quillan and Foix and beyond, as far as St Girons, when we would head south into the great mountains and return home, slowly, via various deep valleys and the cols between them.

It was fairly hot the day we travelled, and we decided that some of the valley campsites would be like ovens unless well provided with shade. The first few we saw did not inspire us and we ended up in one of our favourite valleys, the Vallée de Bethmale, where we idled round a most attractive little location, the small lac set in its (relatively) cool beechwood.

Etang de Bethmale

Not far away by road but maybe a thousand or more feet higher is a pleasant col, where we had once before spent the night, and as it possessed, when we arrived, the magic ingredient of a cooling breeze, we elected to do so again, enjoying a very pleasant evening among the mountains.

During the night, however, our delightful breeze turned into a major, buffeting, gale-force tramontane - 'though the air itself remained soft and balmy. It was so strong that not only did we not get a moment's sleep, but we decided that we must lower the "tent" of our VW van, for fear that its structure would be harmed by the violent gusts. The morning dawned calm, hazy-to-overcast and peaceful - but we were far from rested.

For some reason which no doubt seemed good at the time, we decided to do a walk from this col into the mountains, to an étang which did sound truly delightful. Well, to cut a long, hot story short, bits of the path were indeed lovely, but others were horrible - and, quite soon, the light clouds rolled away, the sun blazed out, and the humidity rose to about one hundred percent.

Let us omit the details of the sweaty toil up the steep, rough track and concentrate instead on the good bits.

The first led through the cool blue-green of high beechwoods, out into a large clearing, full of countless wildflowers. It was magical; there is no point in trying to list the flowers, it would just be quicker and simpler to give you a book of mountain flowers - most of them were there. One of those which caught our eye at once was chicory, common enough in places by the roadside, but we had never seen it so spectacularly in a mountain meadow. And there was a thalictrum, one of the rue flowers, that was lovely, and further on, some of my favourite dark columbines- but dozens of others as well.

Chicory

Thalictrum

After the climb, we had a pleasant walk to the small étang itself, whose cold, clear waters refreshed me. It was in fact an enchanting spot, surrounded by picturesque rocks, dense low bushes, and tiny alps, all under the high peaks. On the way back, the humidity significantly increased, and looking up, tired and streaming with sweat, at the high crags wreathed in hot mist, we could have been in Java or Brazil or any dramatic, tropical location.

Tuc d'Eychelle

During the next couple of hot days, we ambled gently homewards via a number of superbly beautiful locations, with amazing mountain views. From one col we saw a single vulture and a golden eagle, but the last major col on the way home gave us much more than that. We had been for a pleasant walk along a ridge where we had camped a few times in previous years. As we returned to the van, parked in a spot with a glorious prospect of the surrounding high summits and a deep cirque beneath us, it became clear that in one direction, there was a group of vultures, maybe ten or so together in the air, endlessly circling.

But it also became clear that there was another group; there were some below us in the cirque, and we looked down on the great span of their huge wings. Our view was good and there was no doubt they were griffons. Martine tried to photograph them, but they were, effortlessly, moving quite fast on the thermals and remarkably soon overhead- where they were joined by yet another group from behind us. We concluded that we were watching at least thirty of these huge birds, and then, as we did so, several of them began to land on a dramatic rock pinnacle some distance away, but clearly seen with the binoculars.

So there, on a craggy rock, with the glory of Pyrenean peaks behind them, catching the sun as they wheeled round to join the others, we watched this astonishing wildlife spectacle - as dramatic in itself as something out of Africa. This is, indeed, glorious mountain country.

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Cool, Wet Blog

15/7/2015

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by Robin Noble & Photos by Martine Howard

After a late and turbulent spring, we seem to have progressed very quickly to a heatwave – or at least to what we, with less than three years' experience, certainly regard as a heatwave! It does not do the garden much good; seeds and plants, which were lovingly tended through the vagaries of the spring weather, now wilt, crisp and fry – and the gardener does much the same!

The obvious solution, as I have mentioned before, is to take to the Mediterranean, and spend days both on it, and, refreshingly, in it. We have launched both at Argelès and Banyuls, and from those two centres covered quite a stretch of coast. This activity has reinforced our feeling of last year, which was that the stretch of coastline known as the Côte Vermeille, is truly one of the great glories of the Pyrénées Orientales, but really only appreciable from the water. We have ventured further south into Spanish waters this year, discovering perhaps the finest bay yet – the Platja de Garbet, south of the worryingly-named town of Colera, (where I see there is a Platja dels Morts).

On the way down there we stopped, as last year, under one of the high, black cliffs on either side of Port Bou, and marvelled again at the flight of the rock- and cave-nesting swifts as they fly out into the sun and over the water. It is a wonderful experience to be swimming in the silken waters, with screaming swifts hurtling above you. While relaxing later in the bobbing boat, staring up at the vertical cliffs, which must be at least two hundred feet high, I tried to watch individual birds carefully and estimate their wingspan, an almost impossible task as they hurtle overhead. The point was that I was convinced that I had seen white on some of the birds, which must mean that they were alpine swifts, with a wingspan of some 21 inches according to my book. Common swifts there certainly were in numbers, too, making a very fine spectacle.

Elsewhere, with a lower, more vegetated and less rocky shore, I was able to watch and contrast the more fluttery flight of sand martins as they patrolled the crest of the escarpment in search of insects. Several times this year I have confirmed my feeling that all these hirundines choose to nest in busy places, where there is lots of life around, including lots of traffic, which they do not appear to mind. This has been confirmed in Perpignan, Sorède, St. Nazaire and the main street of our own village of Le Pont (Reynes), where the calls and flight of swifts, swallows and house martins entertain you as you wait for a bus. By contrast, in our normally quiet suburb, (where it seems to me, the houses still offer adequate ledges for nesting) few birds are actually resident although plenty may be seen high overhead on a calm evening. Perhaps they do feel some real affinity with old centres of population and human activity?

We have been in the water a great deal, with Martine, of course, properly under it, me pottering along gently on the surface. The great sighting this year has been our first octopus; Martine in fact saw two, on different days, but I actually managed to view the second which was a great thrill. He (Martine promptly christened it "Oscar" so it has to be "he " – sad, I know!), was very well camouflaged, and aware of our presence but in no way suggested real alarm, just moving gently away. They have a strange, amorphous, flowing motion, visibly changing shape as they glide over and around the rocks, a characteristic which may be intended to confuse a predator.

Oscar

Other sightings have been of fish, and we continue to be impressed by the richness of these clear waters. Martine has again been engaged in attempting underwater photography – something of a hit or miss, as it is impossible, while swimming, to see through the viewfinder. Some have, despite this, come out rather well, and a few new ones have been placed in her gallery of photos, while others accompany this text (thanks, as ever, Lesley!). We have seen, as last year, lots of saddled seabream, white and annular bream, as well as the pretty salema, (all of which are pictured here). The two peacock wrasses, the five-spotted and rainbow wrasses, painted comber, and the blue damselfish, also seen and listed by Martine, have so far eluded the camera. Lots of anchovies, too!

Saddled Sea Bream

White Bream

Salema and Bream

As for seabirds, as last year, we have only seen gulls and cormorants, apart from one hot, hazy, lazy afternoon as we made our way back to Argelès, when a young gannet, dark above and white below, followed the good ship Puffin, occasionally halting to make its vertical dive. As we know, there is plenty down there to feed it, and I remain very surprised at how few birds we have seen out on these enchanting waters.

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The Colours of Paradise

Hot, Sweaty Blog

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