September is fading fast, and as we both have to return to Britain for a while, there is a distinct end-of-the-holidays feeling about what we do. We had friends from Scotland staying, and we wanted to show them a few of our favourite places so, of course, went up to the Batere Highlands. Actually, it was reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands in one way: an expanse of bracken (an invasive plant I detest) was golden-to-russet in the autumn sun and, I hate to admit it, looked lovely.
By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Howard September is fading fast, and as we both have to return to Britain for a while, there is a distinct end-of-the-holidays feeling about what we do. We had friends from Scotland staying, and we wanted to show them a few of our favourite places so, of course, went up to the Batere Highlands. Actually, it was reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands in one way: an expanse of bracken (an invasive plant I detest) was golden-to-russet in the autumn sun and, I hate to admit it, looked lovely. There were few birds and only two plants that we found in flower: one, a perfect autumn crocus, and the other, quite a fine houseleek. Otherwise, grazed and bleached grass... It was the marmots that provided the highlight of the day; altogether we had sightings of nine. One or two looked rather elderly, and had clearly been feeding up for the winter – they were taking the sun outside their burrows, or pottering about gently. A couple of youngsters were much more lively but, naturally, rather more difficult to photograph. Some of them inhabit a slightly elevated mound, which gives them a good, all-round view; in the past, Martine has spent frustrating minutes trying to approach them unseen, but on this occasion she had more luck. I was watching from a distance, through the binoculars, and it looked as though she could have reached out and touched that rather solid figure on the grass. Another place, an old quarry that has evolved into a rather enchanting little amphitheatre, gave us views of quite a few; one posed against an attractive background. Although this is quite a popular area for folk to walk in (and some that day were rather noisy!), it does look as if this population is faring reasonably well.
0 Comments
By Lesley McLaren Not long after my husband and I moved out here in 2005 we met Bruce, who told me about a lake not far from home, hidden among orchards and vineyards between the River Tech and busy main road that runs from Le Boulou to Argelès-sur-Mer. It's known as the plan d'eau de Villelongue-dels-Monts. Which has always struck me as odd because it's much closer to the village of St Génis des Fontaines. For at least three years I came here a lot with my first dog. It only takes about fifteen minutes to circuit the whole thing, but the northern shore is a few hundred yards from the river, so we would often extend walks over there. The general area had a variety of habitats: land immediately to the east and west of the lake was sand quarry. The west one was no longer worked, but the other was active. While far less scenic and tranquil – especially when diggers and trucks were reversing and beeping – several sand heaps and high quarry banks were favourite nest sites for colonies of bee-eaters. I had my best ever views of these birds in that spot, and have yet to come across another breeding ground. Bruce often reported that while hunting dragonflies down by the river, he had found spraint containing fragments of bone and shell, on stones. Were there otters here? When he later found the near-skeleton remains of one by the lake, our question was answered. Determined to see the living creatures, we once mounted a sunset otterwatch expedition. I’d heard that pine martens have a sweet tooth and can’t resist jam, so if it worked for them... After daubing the otters’ favourite rock with strawberry compote, we scrambled up the bank and concealed ourselves as best we could among the trees at the bottom of the concrete flood barrier; binoculars trained on Jam Rock. The wind direction was in our favour and dusk was falling. We neither moved nor spoke. All was quiet until a bell-jangling flock of sheep trotted along the flood barrier above us. Their shepherd, on the other side, might not have been aware of us, but several sheep gave us funny looks as they passed. No otters showed up. We weren't that surprised – it was always a long shot and, in retrospect, a fillet of trout might have been a more appropriate lure. The trip wasn’t a complete waste of time, though. Sometime after the sheep had disappeared, suddenly – as if from nowhere – a kingfisher landed on a twig right in front of us. Over time the west quarry became overgrown; sand heaps were removed from the east quarry, and it was hollowed out, leaving a bare, bleak basin, before all work stopped. The bee-eaters lost their summer homes and were forced to move elsewhere. Although neither quarry filled with water the way the central lake has (I assume that was a quarry too at some point), they stayed damp from autumn to spring. If I walked along the high, man-made ridge separating the lake from the east quarry, I would sometimes see black-winged stilts striding about in big puddles in the bottom. Unfortunately, all too soon the most frequent visitors were youngsters on quad bikes and motor scooters. Peaceful walks became impossible at weekends and throughout the summer. Increasing numbers of free campers in tents and campervans began to invade the lake surrounds too, transforming the landscape into a refuse tip and public toilet. I stopped going. My first trip back for about seven years was in May 2015, on an outing with the local bird group (GOR). They call the lake by its Catalan name: Als Bachous. We set off at about 8.30am, when there weren't too many other people about. The main aim of that trip was to look for amphibians and reptiles in the former west quarry, which by then had turned into a natural marshy habitat, repopulated with grasses, low shrubs and poplar trees. On the way, our leader pointed out a couple of night herons on the edge of the wooded island in the middle of the lake. I was used to seeing grey and white herons on there, but night herons were entirely new to me. They must have been present years ago as well, and I'd never noticed them – never thought to look! We were too far away for good views, even through binoculars, but to me they were like the undertakers of the bird world, standing on or in the trees, hunched and motionless, sombre and silent, waiting for night to fall again. I also learned that, years ago, there were always penduline tits around the lake. They built their hanging, flask-shaped nests of cobwebs and "cotton" (plant down) from the water-loving black poplars that grew here. I would love to have seen those. But there are no more black poplars (I think due mainly to drainage and hybridisation), so the penduline tits have gone elsewhere too. I'm not clear as to whether all black poplars have disappeared from these parts, however, so that will be something to investigate one day. While frog hunting in the marshes, we were also lucky enough to see a black kite, a pair of short-toed eagles and a solitary griffon vulture pass low overhead. All probably migrating – I've certainly never seen griffons in the Albères before or since. One evening a few weeks after the GOR trip, I took Isobel there. Bruce met us and, while I did a circuit of the lake, they both sat by the water, close to where we'd parked; Isobel, armed with camera and long lens, watching for night herons on the island; Bruce watching for dragonflies. By the time I got back to them, Isobel had taken some lovely shots of a great crested grebe, and of swallows skimming the water's surface – as well as a distant night heron. The peace was soon shattered, however, by a couple on a quad bike, haring noisily up and down the track mere yards from us, kicking up choking clouds of dust as it skidded round the car park, trying to impress. Or annoy. Interestingly, although we couldn't get away fast enough, none of the birds seemed bothered at all. It wasn't until earlier this month that I decided to venture over there again, intrigued to see what might have changed. I took a leaf out of the GOR's book and arrived early, at around 8am. At the entrance, a big sign declared that the only activity allowed at the lake is fishing. There was also a low concrete arch over the road (height restriction 1.9m.). Impossible not to duck as I drove under that. In the car park – deserted but for me – a couple of large dustbins were chained to trees. No litter or broken glass. This was encouraging. I headed west first of all, to the point where the lakeshore is nearest the island. Against the early, low sunlight, dozens of house martins were skimming the water for insects, and carp were leaping and splashing heavily in every direction. On the island several egrets, two cormorants and one grey heron were immediately obvious in trees at the water's edge. After some scanning and squinting, I was delighted to finally spot two night herons as well. They were, once again, mere silhouettes through the binoculars, but on checking photos cropped to fuzziness later, both turned out to be juveniles (brown, with streaked chests). They are stockier than their larger grey cousins, and their normal stance – legs straight and set quite wide apart – creates a slightly comical appearance head-on. At the western shore I passed several fishermen/women, plus a couple of campers. It's still possible (even if interdit) to drive round three-quarters of the lake, so I don't see how camping will ever be stopped completely, assuming that’s the objective. At this point I left the lake and climbed over the ridge, which was (and has always been) covered in the ubiquitous bamboo that blocks one's view of so much of our waterways), skirted the old quarry marshes I'd explored with the bird group, and carried on to the river. Here, I was able to walk on stretches that spend the winter underwater. I had to watch where I was putting my feet – first of all crossing mud that was hard-packed, worn smooth and slime-coated, then scrambling over ankle-twisting loose rocks. As I reached an islet, an explosive warble in a bush a few feet away stopped me in my tracks. The sound kept moving around but whatever was making it must have been wearing a cloak of invisibility. A little further on I found a bigger, flattish rock where I could sit and wait, with a short view upstream. Several warblers were teasing me with their song now, and I did finally glimpse one (small, brown - could have been anything) flying across the river. After recording their call on my phone, I've since confirmed that they were Cetti's warblers. Non-migratory. The I.D. was a surprise because I thought I'd recorded a Cetti's a few years ago by the pond in the vineyards; turns out I misidentified that one. The soundtrack of birds, running water and breeze through poplar leaves, combined with the sight of several female mallard pootling about in the shallows up ahead made for a very pleasant fifteen minutes’ rest. Flies, dragonflies and moths were constantly flitting over the river, and these drew my attention to more distant “somethings” that proved very puzzling. In a deeply shaded stretch under overhanging bushes by the far bank, they seemed to be skimming back and forth on the water (like pond skaters, only much bigger) and then dipping underneath the surface. I didn't think they were frogs or fish. Big beetles perhaps? There were lots of them. Also over there, between them and me, a big boulder sticking out of deeper water had droppings on it. Very likely otter, I thought. Then another movement caught my eye: a small bird, flying low and fast as a dart, upstream. A flash of tangerine below, turquoise above as it passed. Kingfisher! Fantastic to see they're still here, and within yards of where Jam Rock used to be. The end of the summer can be a good time to see them, apparently - when rivers are low and fish are concentrated in the shallows. In five seconds this one had gone, and didn't return - I was lucky to have seen it at all. It was impossible to walk downstream alongside the Tech for far, but after detouring back inland for a few hundred yards, I got to the river's edge again. More droppings on stones here too. At that point I was east of the lake. From there, through breaks in the bamboo, I could see another side of the island. Perched in a tree on its edge – though still too far away for a good photo – stood an adult night heron, looking this way and that. His or her pale creamy chest, dark head and back were quite unlike the youngsters. By then it was nearly 10 o'clock. Rather late for a night heron to be out? This morning I went back, and had the whole place to myself. I wanted to see if I could explore the former east quarry, and found a way in on the side closest to the river. It involved slithering down a pebbly slope (dog in tow), onto a disused vehicle track. This seemed to be the only way through and, the further we walked, the more overgrown it became. Very few people must venture down here. The most prolific plant life, after poplar, seemed to be those tough, spiky grasses you associate with marshland (I have no idea what species), some kind of myrtle, wild carrot, pampas grass and bamboo. But there were a couple of areas of bulrushes too. The sign in the photo below (erected by the GOR, I noticed), asks people to keep out of the water just there, because it’s a breeding area for amphibians and dragonflies. So it looks as though the bird group may be managing the land to some extent. The presence of bulrushes made me wonder if bearded tits might be attracted to this spot (if not now, in the future – as the area matures). They are not far over the border, at the Aiguamolls de l’Empordà wetlands reserve. Although not especially boggy, the ground was still fairly damp – it’s unusual for my walking boots to get wet at this time of year. And there were dragonflies. All the same species, I think: hawkers of some kind, with blue and black abdomens. (I must check with Bruce.) They rarely settled, but one or two hovered for several seconds, right in front of me. Once or twice I noticed one curl its abdomen under and round to its head for a few seconds, while it was flying. I have no idea what that was all about – it was all on its own, so no hanky-panky was going on. Common blue butterflies and grasshoppers were the only other insects of note. I can imagine this will be alive with birds in spring, but today I only heard Cetti’s warblers again, plus one or two goldfinches. Any amphibians were keeping a low profile, but I didn’t go rooting about disturbing them. It will certainly be worth visiting again in different seasons. The other reason for today’s return was to recce the second area of the river where I saw more possible signs of otters last time. With a view to a pre-dawn visit (without jam), I wanted to find a spot with a decent view of the river. To get there from the quarry was a short but strenuous scramble (for me if not for Digby the dog) over a series of steep, stony ridge and furrows – created deliberately, I imagine, to discourage kids on bikes and quads. Once at the river, so many stones on a wide islet were decorated with grey, crumbly (old) droppings. From what I could tell, they were mainly composed of crustacean shell fragments. I believe we do have mink here (escapees) that compete to some extent with otters. However, their droppings apparently resemble those of beech and pine marten (more liquid, comprising berry seeds, possibly frog bones). I’m pretty sure the ones I found were left by otters. While I was examining one lot, Digby found a fresher specimen, I think, which he licked before trying to rub it behind his ears. A few minutes later his nose went up, sniffing and pointing towards a thicket just across a narrow stretch of shallows on the other side of the islet. No way were we going to investigate that. I was more interested in a huge tree root left by a flood. Bruce has written about flood debris before, and I’m always staggered by the volume, height and weight of it to be found along the Tech. Whatever deposited this would have been an awesome and terrifying sight. I had weighted down the end of Digby’s leash with a stone, and was crouched, composing what would turn out to be a rubbish shot of Flood-Debris-and-River-Through-Bamboo, when surreptitious sploshing made me look round. The lead was free, trailing in the water behind the dog, who was nearly across. I lurched, slipped, landed on my left buttock, reached out, and just managed to hook one finger of my left hand round the very end of the lead. By now I was nearly horizontal but his progress was halted and, providing he didn’t jerk me facedown into the water, all would end well.
It did. Neither camera nor binoculars got baptised. Time to quit while I was ahead, nevertheless. And, back on the main bank, I found what might be a good spot from which to watch for otters sometime soon. What strikes me most about both visits this month is how the habitats around the lake have changed in only the twelve years I've lived here. The east quarry, now a lush, dense expanse of green – mostly young poplars, same as the west side – is near impenetrable to all but animals and birds, and has such different residents these days. The bee-eaters' arrival in and departure from this little spot seems to have been wholly dependent upon human activity. On the one hand it's sad that those birds have been forced out, but on the other, it's pleasing to see how quickly nature has reclaimed the land – with very little human help – and is currently providing a wonderful damp, safe haven for many different species. It also means that Als Bachous may be back on my regular walking itinerary. By Robin Noble
As Martine and I have been in this house (and garden) for five years now, I thought it might be interesting to write up the list of all the birds seen (and heard) in, and from, our medium-sized suburban garden on the outskirts of Ceret. The following is in the “official" order, as used in most birdbooks. Goldcrest Great tit Blue tit Coal tit Crested tit Long-tailed tit Robin House sparrow Greenfinch Goldfinch Serin Chaffinch Backcap Sardinian warbler Redstart Black redstart Short-toed treecreeper Wryneck Nuthatch Cirl bunting White wagtail Swallow House martin Swift Blackbird Starling Bee-eater Collared dove Great spotted woodpecker Hoopoe Magpie Jay Raven Cuckoo Kestrel Sparrowhawk Buzzard Golden eagle Short-toed eagle Tawny owl Scops owl Grey heron Common crane Duck of some kind in the distance, probably mallard, Gull ditto in the distance Cormorant And, last but not least, I once saw a green parrot of some kind (not a parakeet) in a tree in the garden; no doubt it was a domestic escapee! And a local starling keeps trying to pretend that it is a golden oriole, but I have not counted it either! I make that 46 different species; when you consider that there are a few quite common birds around which I have missed, I think that makes a reasonable total for casual watching, and suggests that this is quite a good place for birds. We have views of the mountains, birds from the woods at the back of our estate clearly come down into the garden in the winter, and it seems that we are on a reasonably busy migration route to judge by the numbers of bee-eaters and hirundines which have been passing over in recent weeks. All in all, quite a diverse area for relaxed bird-watching! By Robin Noble (Photos by Martine Howard) Through the last four years, we have seen a lot more fish, and Martine has become more skilful in photographing them. We think, therefore, that the time has come to provide a simple, photographic blog, listing and illustrating the fish that we see regularly, and a few rarer ones. The quality of the illustrations does, inevitably, vary somewhat, but we hope that the result will be useful. (Some of these fish vary quite a lot in colour and patterning, and the two reference sources we use do differ quite markedly at times, so we cannot guarantee 100% accuracy. Click on photos to enlarge image.) Bream Family: Saddled Sea Bream White Sea Bream Two-banded Sea Bream Sharpsnout Sea Bream Zebra Sea Bream Gilt-head Sea Bream Mullet Family: Red Mullet Thicklip Grey Mullet Salema Damselfish Blenny Family: Tampot Blenny Parablennius incognitus (apparently no English name) Parablennius sanguinolentus (ditto) Goby Family: Sarato’s Goby Buchich’s Goby Golden Goby Wrasse Family: Rainbow Wrasse (male illustrated here) Rainbow Wrasse (female illustrated here) Peacock Wrasse Painted Comber Big-scale Sand Smelt In addition to these, Martine has also definitely seen Ornate Wrasse, Grouper and Barracuda, but the photos are not good enough to reproduce. (And we have, of course, also seen a few octopuses as reported in recent blogs.) There are, doubtless, other species to find, but the above list, allied with the sheer numbers seen, does at least make clear the richness of the close waters of the Mediterranean.
By Robin Noble (Photos by Martine Howard)
Our “Côte Rocheuse” has long stretches of high cliff, broken by deep bays, where many of the attractive coastal towns like Port Vendres and Collioure are situated. There are much smaller bays as well, some under the high expanses of rock, others within the larger inlets. Particularly if it is breezy, we spend a lot of time swimming around in these little, often idyllic places, and as they are fairly shallow, have come to notice the often subtle differences in the seabed. Recently we were in exactly such a place; it is not at all deep, and provided with one or two large rocks, so few boats actually anchor there, and the seabed is relatively unscathed. Some of it is almost sandy, there are areas of small stones, and where the coastal rocks slide down into the sea, there are narrow cracks and small chasms, relatively deep and dark. Most of it is quite well “vegetated”, with large areas of low, gungy algae, and several of the white, whorled, flower-like things, which are called “peacock’s tail”. (I say “things” because I am not totally sure whether they count as plants or not!) It was very sheltered and calm, and I was able simply to relax, enjoy my swimming, and have a good look at what was going on under the surface of the gently moving sea. There were quite a few little fish scooting around, often babies of the friendly saddled bream, which like to hang around under the hull of our boat. But, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few, different fish, nosing between the stones; they were wrasse (I think of at least two kinds, certainly there were rainbow wrasse of both sexes), and they seemed to be concentrating on something, almost, one would say, harassing it. For a moment, I thought little of it, but then the “something” moved, and so I swam over to have a better look. It was a small octopus, about, we think, some six inches across when its tentacles were curled into its body. It obligingly moved around a bit, and I called Martine to have a look at it; two of her photographs appear below. As it moved about, it changed colour, from a greenish-brown, fringed with palest green-to-white, to a darker speckled brown. When we were on holiday in the Maldives, in February, we were lucky enough to observe – from a pier, looking into very clear, shallow water – a much larger octopus, which obligingly shifted around the seabed, for several minutes, in full view. Its motion could best be described as “flowing”, which it did for a few feet at a time, before pausing, almost “collecting itself”, the tentacles coming into the body, resting for a short while, then moving on. As it manoeuvred in this fashion, it changed colour too; this one went light blue round the edges as it halted. At times, our little local one was the colour of the seabed, which made following it more difficult. Reading up about these strange creatures, we have learnt that they are considered very intelligent; there is a story that captive octopuses (the more correct plural, as the word is not Latin), have been known to leave their own tanks at night, climb into adjacent ones full of fish, eat the fish, and return to their own tank before morning. It is hard not to ascribe very human qualities to a creature capable of working out and performing this, but we should, I guess, be very careful before doing so: their brains and nervous systems are hugely different from ours. Wikipedia says that two thirds of their “neurons are to be found in the nerve cords of their arms, which show a variety of complex reflex actions which persist even when they have no input from the brain”. Strange, too, is the fact that most octopuses only live for a period of up to five years; effectively, they breed once, and then die. This seems an extraordinary waste of all that brainpower and complex ability. We have seen a significantly larger octopus in the very same bay, so perhaps it offers ideal nursery conditions for the young. Click on photos for larger image. By Robin Noble
If you go up high anywhere in our area, say the shoulders of Canigou, the Albères or the nearby, lesser Pyrenees, you cannot help but be conscious of the enormous area of wooded habitat. It stretches in all directions, broken only by lots of bare rock, and a few, remaining high meadows. Importantly, it is much more extensive than the maps would suggest, as most of it is hugely steep, plunging to the valley floors. And it is really impenetrable; the only sensible access tends to be by path or track. Because of these factors, we really do not tend to see many of the inhabitants of this, certainly the largest habitat in our area-apart from the Mediterranean itself! And mammals tend to be shy anyway, which means that any sighting feels significant and memorable. During the recent hot and humid spell, I went for a couple of visits to a favourite campsite, which, being at a higher altitude, tends to have a fresher climate, and, generally, rather fewer mosquitoes, despite the stream that flows through it. Here I could enjoy a stroll at dusk without smothering myself in evil-smelling repellent. The water flows along the floor of one of these deep, wooded valleys, and possesses a couple of meadows which are still cut annually, although more for amenity than for hay as they would once have been. But the meadows are backed on all sides by the usual precipitous jungle of bushes, trees, creepers and various sharp, spiny things... One magical, quiet, warm evening, I was wandering on my own here, walking up a sort of natural ramp, on to one of these meadows; quite recently cut, its short turf was highly aromatic in the still evening. Looking at the ground, it was as much covered by various types of mint and marjoram, (which by day attracted hosts of tiny butterflies), as by grass. As I looked to my right, along the meadow, I saw a big fox, almost black in the fading light, loping easily across the open ground. It turned its head and saw me, of that I am sure, but maintained the same, unhurried pace until it disappeared in the rough margins of the field. A few days later, my wildlife sighting was in some contrast to this, and rather more comical. I was in the same place, and halted in my stroll, as I heard various grunts coming from the wood. I guessed that this must be sanglier, and waited in slight hope that something would emerge out into the open. Rather to my surprise, “something” did: a mother wild boar, followed by a single baby. She crossed the meadow, almost to the other side, followed by junior, and started to root around in the grass. I knew I must be silhouetted against the evening sky, and stayed totally still, but somehow she became aware of me, abruptly turned, and headed at speed for the cover of the wood, tail high. She very noticeably failed to wait for her offspring, who started to squeal as it, too, belted for safety in the trees. There did not seem to be much evidence of maternal concern among sangliers, I decided, unable to suppress my giggles. The stream here harbours several of my favourite insects, about which I have written before: the beautiful demoiselle aigrions. Once again, I set out to watch and photograph them, which must look pretty funny, as I teeter on the edge of the water, or crouch within it, camera in hand. This year, there seemed to be more of them, perhaps also a consequence of the different weather. This meant, as far as I could see, that the vivid-blue males were having difficulty in maintaining their territories, and aerial scuffles were more frequent. I am puzzled by the casual nature of their inter- actions with other species of insect, especially with the larger dragonflies. One of the male aigrions, having seen off a rival, settled for a few seconds on the head of a much larger dragonfly, but the latter paid no attention at all. I did observe behaviour which was new to me, between a male and female of the species. The female was positioned on a prominent leaf above a dark pool, (a very typical location) when a male came over to her, and hovered gently above her. The effect was hypnotic, the black, shot-with-blue wings, the vivid blue body glinting in the dappled sunlight, a brief vision of real beauty. Alas, the lady seemed unimpressed, paying the ardent male no attention at all, and after a while, he gave up... Click on photos for larger image |
AuthorsBruce Hyde Archives
August 2020
Categories
All
|