Category: Birds

Route March around the Empordà

14/3/2019

By Lesley McLaren

Inspired by Robin and Martine's visit to the Aiguamolls de l'Empordà wetlands in February, I was keen to witness the abundant birdlife for myself, and an opportunity came two days ago. With my husband minding the dog at home, I could make a full day of it, and intended to explore the southern end of the reserve further than previously.

Laden as always with camera, binoculars and rucksack, plus the added weight and challenge of a newly purchased spotting scope, I set off from the main car park at about 11.30. On emerging from the information centre with a map of the whole reserve, I was passed by a raucous, swift-flying flock of parakeets. (The book lists two species in the reserve, but I couldn't say which they were.) Even more raucous, was a much larger flock of Spanish primary schoolchildren on a day trip. Happily for me, they were heading for the north end. For now.

I'd asked the man at the information centre if there was anything of special interest around, given that migration is now underway. I was hoping for ospreys but he said it was too early for those. As expected, there were marsh harriers, though. And cranes were in the area. That perked me up, until he told me that they spent the daytime in fields near to - but not in - the reserve, and at night would fly into the wettest part of the reserve - the area nearest the sea and least accessible to birdwatchers like me.

No cranes, then, but I did see a lot of other things - most of the species recorded by Robin and Martine, although notably no geese or lapwing. I undoubtedly missed some too, but my tally came to 43 nevertheless, and included at least two new ones. There were some surprises too.

Once before, Robin and I thought we might have heard a water rail, but I rather despaired of ever seeing one. It was wonderful, therefore, to glimpse one this time, quietly poking around a marshy area of dead grasses and reeds, not far from the track to the first hide. Later in the year I would never have seen him or her through all the foliage.

After the Observatori de las Daines (Fallow doe hide), which overlooks a field beloved by storks and - of course - deer, I continued for about another fifteen minutes, alongside the narrow canal (huge carp splashing about, spawning, in there), stopping next at a big hide on stilts (Observatori Pallejà), looking east towards the sea. This is in the section we've previously driven on to from the main car park.

I spent a very peaceful twenty minutes or so here, with the hide to myself most of the time, watching a few ducks, coot and little grebe on the water, as well as storks on the grassland and marsh harriers drifting south to north over the marshes beyond. A pale form booted eagle came close several times and was mobbed briefly by a kestrel. Then another falcon appeared, which at first glance I expected to be the kestrel again, only to realise it was giving chase to small birds flying over the water. Kestrels don't hunt this way and, when it later circled round, a flash of its dark face confirmed: peregrine falcon - the first I've seen in the region, either side of the border!

Booted eagle

With the day shaping up nicely, it was time for a spot of lunch.

I was just finishing my sandwich, when the hide was besieged by schoolchildren. As they claimed every bit of space on the benches around me, it was all I could do to stash my lunchbox, gather all my gear, sling it across my shoulders and stand up before getting trampled. The teachers looked mildly apologetic as they vainly called for hush, and I escaped.

Round the corner, heading for the Camargue horses, I met a handful of British birders with telescopes trained on a wet field full of shelduck. The leader pointed out water pipits not far from us. I have never knowingly seen one of these before and probably wouldn't recognise one again unless in its ideal watery habitat. Like most pipits, they were unremarkable - dunnock-like - even through binoculars or scope. The sun was much too bright on the water to see much colour in anything, however, and I didn't linger there either.

The horses were close to the fence, having an afternoon kip, when I passed them, and a few minutes further on, after three more hides, it was a short stroll to the sea.

Penultimate hide before beach - looking towards the old grain silos converted into observation towers

Little to see from these last hides that day - all the birds were further inland, where they were more sheltered from the wind

Last hide before the beach

On the beach, a sand dune regeneration project is underway, and a line of wooden poles marches north, marking the eastern perimeter of the reserve, for as far as the eye or binoculars can see. Signs warn against walking on the inland side of these posts, so as not to disturb ground-nesting birds in the breeding season, as well as plants. This means you can't avoid the sand.

After consulting my map, I was interested in getting to a hide about halfway up the beach, because it was on the edge of where I'd been told the cranes spend the night. While I had no expectation of seeing any (it was still much too early), I thought there might be other stuff about. Plus, according to the map, at another hide some distance beyond that, a dotted line showed an "alternative route" which would eventually bring me full circle to the visitors centre. Marked as "closed from 1st April to 30th June" (breeding season), it should be OK now. Except that it appeared to cross quite an expanse of water. Perhaps there was a boardwalk?

It turned out that I had about a mile's hike ahead of me, on very soft sand, into the gale. Even at the water's edge the going was no easier, and I needed my fleece and hat now. I dismissed the idea of giving up; if I didn't explore this area now, I probably never would but would wonder what I'd missed.

Apart from driftwood, there was little obvious plastic or other rubbish, which was gratifying. It was close to pristine - and completely deserted apart from me.

Short, plodding steps got me to the first hide. But there was nothing to see here today.

Accessible from the beach (after a 20 minute walk), this hide looks across the area where cranes spend the night. Allegedly.

Grim determination had got me close to the next hide, when I came upon a few tiny waders standing facing into the wind, near the wooden posts. Brilliantly camouflaged against the sand, they were relatively tame, running a few feet ahead of me as I approached, before stopping and again facing the wind - and flying sand. Presumably they face this way so their feathers aren't blown about.

I'm out of practice as far as waders are concerned, not having watched them much since my teens at the Northumberland coast, but I'm fairly sure two were sanderling and the others, Kentish plovers. The latter was another first for me. So it was worth the slog - just about - to see those.

Sanderling

Kentish plover (winter plumage)

At this last hide, although I wasn't surprised, my heart sank to find the whole area well under water. No sign of a boardwalk, track or dotted line of an alternative route anywhere inland. If I wanted to attempt a short cut to the visitors centre, I would have to get my feet wet. If not swim. There was nothing for it but to plod back the way I had come.

It took half an hour but felt like forever, and the only other birds I saw were a migrating kestrel (skirting the coast northwards, perilously low over the sea as it battled the wind), one yellow-legged gull, one marsh harrier and a male stonechat. I don't think I'll soon repeat that walk, beautiful though the views are.

The depressingly long walk back, retracing my footprints, which were disappearing fast in the wind.

It was 4pm by the time I regained firm ground and, not far from the horses again, I found myself walking through huge swarms of mosquito-like flies. Apart from a few butterflies and a single dragonfly, these were the only insects I'd noticed all day.

By now there were few people around. The children had long gone, the sun was much lower and there was a pervading sense of calm. It's in quiet moments like these when you tend to feel less like an observer and more like a participant in the natural world.

Close to the information centre once more, I couldn't resist checking out the first hide again before leaving. The skies showed no sign of cranes, but some birds seemed to be gathering for the evening. Among egrets great and little, at least twenty grey herons now occupied the area where I'd seen fallow deer earlier. The deer themselves were further round; a lone coypu was enjoying high tea in the water, and two terrapins were taking advantage of the fading sun on a half-submerged tree trunk.

Late afternoon serenity

Despite the earlier relentless and relatively unrewarding beach walk, a feeling of peace descended as I hobbled - weary but happy - to the car. The day had held a number of surprising highlights, and perhaps the cerise sur le gâteau came during the morning: an albino buck among the deer.

Here he is in a short clip - after a pair of beak-clacking storks. I gather he's quite famous among regular visitors to the reserve.

Aiguamolls de l'Empordà from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Bird list:
Little grebe, great crested grebe, cormorant, great egret, little egret, grey heron, white stork, glossy ibis, flamingo, shelduck, mallard, shoveler, garganay, teal, water rail, moorhen, coot, booted eagle, marsh harrier, buzzard, peregrine falcon, kestrel, ringed plover, Kentish plover, snipe, sanderling, yellow-legged gull, wood pigeon, parakeet, lesser spotted woodpecker (heard), sand martin, water pipit, white wagtail, stonechat, black redstart, robin, chiffchaff, Sardinian warbler, fan-tailed warbler, Cetti's warbler (heard), starling, cirl bunting, Spanish sparrow.

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The High Pyrenees

1/3/2019

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By Bruce Hyde

Winter stayed a long time in the high Pyrenees last year. The snow lasted on the ground and all wildlife was slow to emerge into the spring sunshine.

We had decided to make an earlyish start to our June expedition only to discover on arrival that our plans might have been better served to have waited an extra week or two. But time, tide and Pyrenean weather wait for no man, so we assembled cheerfully in St. Pierre dels Forçats, high in the mountains, and took local advice on which of the mountain paths and trails to explore.

In the event we were never disappointed, as the views were stunning with high-level snow adding an elegant backdrop, mountain streams gushing with snow melt and all nature readily welcoming the arrival of warmer weather.

With my specialty being dragonflies, I was somewhat disappointed to see only one species. However, I know they are quite late arrivals, typically waiting for warm sunshine before emerging, and the late snows were not to their liking. This was the dragon I saw, a Broad-bodied Chaser (Libellula depressa)

However, butterflies, also a hobby of mine, seem to be much hardier.

I saw more Orange Tips (Anthocharis cardamines) in our few days than I would normally observe in a whole season. They are often the first to appear in the spring and will fly for only a few weeks. Early in the season they are hard to photograph as they flit around seemingly non-stop. And this was early in their season! Even so there they were, every day, enjoying the sunshine.

In all, I photographed 22 different species, seven of which were new to me.

One of these – a Bright-eyed Ringlet (Erebie oeme) - is very much a high-level butterfly, inhabiting the upper levels of the Pyrenees from near Pau as far east as the Pic du Canigou.

As is always the case, there was an abundance of the little “blue” butterflies. According to the maps in the classic Tolman and Lewington guide there are roughly 30 different species of these to be found in the French Pyrenees and many are so similar that identifying them can be challenging, to say the least. I was helped by Roger Gibbons, whose website “Butterflies of France” is an excellent source of reference. I was surprised that most of the blues were on the Cerdagne plateau rather than, as I had expected, near the mountain streams. Some wet patches beside the country lane leading to the tiny village of Sauto had quite a few species puddling for mineral salts.

A new blue, Amanda’s Blue (Polyommatus amandus) occupies a habitat that runs along northern Spain, then the Pyrenees, and follows the Mediterranean coast as far as the Alps. It appears to be widespread in Eastern Europe.

Lots of them are not even coloured blue – for instance some species, as well as most females, have brown upper wings. This shows the startling difference between the female (on the left) and male Common Blue (Polyommatus icarus):

I managed to photograph (easy) and identify (difficult) 6 different “blues” – which is quite satisfying given our relatively brief stay and the lateness of the season’s arrival.

Another very pretty specimen was this Adonis Blue (Polyommatus bellargus). To be expected here, as its territory covers most of Europe from Portugal to Turkey; it is absent in all but the south of UK and, curiously, from the southern tip of Italy.

The Eros Blue (Polyommatus eros) was another new one. In France, this high-level insect is only found in the Pyrenees, the Alps and Cantal in the massif central. I think we were lucky to come across it as it usually doesn’t appear until July.

The third new blue was the Mazarine Blue (Cyaniris semiargus), which copes with high altitudes, up to 2000 metres. Extinct in Britain, it has a wide distribution in mainland Europe, from near the Arctic circle down to the Mediterranean.

The fourth and final new one among these tiny jewels was the Turquoise Blue (Plebicula dorylas), whose range extends from northern Spain, across the centre of France and well into Eastern Europe.

Having sorted those out, there were a couple more to add to my list of new species.

This Pearl-bordered Fritillary (Boloria Euphrosyne) insisted on hanging upside down as it nectared on vetch. It has an enormous range covering most of Europe as far north as the Arctic circle.

Finally, there was this Wood White (Leptidea sinapis) which was rather more obliging for my camera. Terrain like the Pyrenees is a perfect habitat, and it is probable that the ones I saw would have over-wintered as pupae.

No record of those high meadows and hills would be complete without the flora. As Robin and Lesley wrote in their blogs about our séjour, the mountains were abundant with flowers, from azalea bushes, just coming into bloom, nestling by mountain streams…

…to fields covered with wild daffodils, gentians by the mountain tracks and dog rose, borage, pasque flowers, buttercups and so many more. I managed to identify at least three species of orchid and have photos of other flowers as yet unidentified.

Wild Narcissus

Dog Rose

Fragrant Orchid

Gentian

Pasque Flower

Western Marsh Orchid

I was hoping to see some of the majestic raptors that dwell at those heights. Having previously spotted lammergiers, griffon vultures, and eagles in the mountains around Canigou, I was happy to see a short-toed eagle, as well as a golden eagle, both soaring majestically over their domain.

Short-toed Eagle

I am always in a quandary while out photographing wildlife. I am mainly interested in dragonflies and butterflies. Because these are all quite small, it is handy to have specialised photographic kit to capture the detail; by moving very slowly and unobtrusively one can often get quite close – sometimes within a few centimeters. Birds and mammals, though much larger, are challenging in different ways, and because one can’t get very close to those, a long lens is useful. Herein lies the quandary: it is all very well lugging a heavy telephoto lens around with you in the hope of seeing an eagle, but by the time you have taken it off and swapped it for a close-up lens, the dragonfly you have just spotted has well and truly gone!

And, in just that scenario, lies my memory of forgetfulness. Armed with my camera over my shoulder, and knapsack containing telephoto lens, bottles of water, sandwiches and other stuff, I was enjoying a steep walk up the surfaced footpath of the Sègre Gorge walk. After an hour or so I turned to head back, whereupon, to my surprise, I met Ann and Isobel.

We stopped, I put down my sac à dos, we chatted, drank some water and then carried on down towards our cars. We were not far from the bottom when I realised I had left the knapsack behind! Quelle horreur! Not only did it contain my lens, but it was also borrowed from Lesley! I immediately charged off back up the hill. My big fear was that it would have been picked up by someone else!

I passed a few people coming down and asked each if they had seen the bag. Yes, they said it was beside the path. It took a good 45 minutes of strenuous uphill power-walking before I rounded a bend and saw it – exactly where I had left it. I sent thanks to the gods of the mountains! Then back down again – which seemed to take forever. Ann was walking up to meet me; we heaved a collective sigh of relief and decided that a cold beer was very much the order of the day. And so it was – and particularly delicious too!

Our home for those few days was a traditional timber chalet at the edge of the village where we enjoyed the rural life.

As a final reminder, I shan’t forget the sun breaking through the clouds as it set over the mountains. Who could possibly ignore the lure of the high Pyrenees?

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A Winter Wetland

20/2/2019

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By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

The wonderful winter weather has largely continued, broken by some high winds and occasional low cloud. We have had many frosty nights, but once the sun rises, everything warms up quickly, and we have often had morning coffee and lunch out on the sheltered terrace.

Such weather encourages us to visit favourite places (and new ones, too), but had to include a trip into Spain to the large wetland reserve we tend simply to refer to as “the Emporda"*. This latest trip was slightly more complicated than usual, in that our van was neatly broken into at a deserted parking area; very little damage was done, and very little of value taken, and so a good day was not actually ruined, despite the initial shock.

As has been made very clear (especially by Lesley!), the late autumn was very wet and, as a consequence, there was more water all around the reserve than I think we have ever seen. Initially cool and grey, the day became sunny and bright, and we were welcomed by the white horses which seem happily to live ankle-deep in water, which is also where they were foraging. Soon after, from one hide, we had good views of a kingfisher, almost exactly where Martine had photographed one, probably two years ago. We had already had one surprise; although we have watched, in the past, the storks departing on migration in the autumn, quite a number this year appear to have decided to over-winter, or had returned very early. They were very much in evidence, and the ritual beak-rattling was audible all around us.

Because it was all so wet, it seemed that there were, pretty well, birds wherever we looked, and while I have no doubt that we missed some (and a number, like the inevitable, noisy Cetti’s warbler, were unseen in the bushes), the final list seemed quite impressive:

Greylag goose, Egyptian goose, shelduck, (looking spectacular in the clear light), umpteen mallard of course, shoveler, garganey, teal, dabchick, great crested grebe, white stork, grey heron, great egret, little egret, cormorant, coot, lapwing, common snipe, redshank, curlew sandpiper, various gulls (sorry, did not pay them much attention!), kingfisher, chiffchaff, starling, robin, black redstart, white wagtail…….and flamingos, doing the shuffle which Martine has also photographed in the past. And, for variety, three coypu, swimming and feeding very close to us.

Dabchick (Little grebe)

Coot

Shoveler

Teal

Greylag

Mallard

All in all, a pretty good day; we do hope that anyone who reads this will make the easy trip over the border into Spain, and enjoy this special place. There are very good paths and hides, so access for everyone is pretty easy ... but do remember to park only at the main visitor centre, where the parking area is under video surveillance. We had rather ignored, before, the little patches of broken glass in the other car park; but they tell a rather obvious story!

*Aiguamolls de l'Empordà

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Winter Wanderings

13/2/2019

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By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

In some years, we seem not to have had real winter weather until we were into the “official” Spring, but this year, albeit in fits and starts, quite a few days have been convincingly cold and dank. On the plus side, there have been a number of brilliantly sunny days – some of them very windy, which makes them more suitable for touring than longer walks. We have, accordingly, made a few rather pleasant jaunts on days when we have not been working outside in the garden.

One of these was to the coast; we spend so much time on, and in, the Mediterranean that it always seems strange to walk along its shores and know that it is totally impossible to swim in it! One day, we went first to Argeles-Plage (where we often launch the boat) and to Racou, quiet in its winter sleep. The profile of the beach has changed quite a lot during the winter; at one end, the wind has driven the sea to remove a significant amount of sand, and at the other, people have created banks of sand as some sort of defence for the chalets and cottages which are so close to the water’s edge. On rocks at the end of the beach, a few gulls and cormorants were resting above the splashing sea.

We went northwards through the quiet resorts, as far as the Etang and the Fishermen’s Huts, to which I have often made reference. Here, as so often, it was very windy, but we got out of the van to walk around, and are so glad that we did! Almost immediately, we discovered that there were no fewer than five hoopoes feeding industriously in the sandy grass; they were comparatively tame, and we had amazing views of these wonderful birds – I don’t think I will ever be able to get used to seeing them around, they are so exotic to look at. Things were quiet on our side of the wind-blasted water, but there were cormorants, gulls, great-crested grebes and a few flamingos in the distance. As we arrived, we had had distant views of a marsh harrier flying low in the wind.

It transpired that lots of birds were seeking shelter that day; we took a different route home, returning via the much smaller pond which is close to the Golf de St-Cyprien, and was obviously once part of a larger Etang. In a relatively sheltered corner, there is a small island, and it was crowded with birds, like the nearby bank. We could see both types of egret, dozens of cormorants, and on the water, a lot of the cinammon-headed pochard, a handsome duck we have not seen there that often.

Other trips have been up our own valley of Vallespir, dominated by a moderately snowy Canigou. On the first trip, we went over the Col d’Ares, into Spain; down to Camprodon, then up a beautiful side valley which we only discovered during the past autumn. It leads, to all intents and purposes, to Canada; of course, this seems crazy, but the upper valley is dominated by hugely steep and craggy mountains, their rough lower slopes covered by tall conifers, and the result looks just like the Rocky Mountains. There is a skiing area at its head; in the autumn, it was totally deserted, apart from several lively marmots, and there were still gentians blooming on the short grass of the pistes.

On this recent visit, which was on a Saturday with blazing sun, we decided that the whole of Spanish Catalonia was out for the day, most with numerous happy (or screaming) children, enjoying a real winter wonderland.

During one other such trip, up to the high village of Serralongue, we had paused again to photograph the snowy ridges of Canigou, when I caught site of a raptor flying high above us. I grabbed the binoculars hastily, and it obligingly circled back into full view. There was no doubt that it was neither eagle nor buzzard, as its tail was too long for a start, and it was no kind of falcon, as the wings were comparatively rounded. It had to belong to the family called the “accipiters”, either sparrowhawk or goshawk, and as it was a considerable distance from us, and high up, I have concluded that it had to be a female goshawk, often regarded as one of the “ultimate” birds of prey. This was a great thrill for me, as it is a bird that has eluded me for decades, and here it was flying against the magnificent backdrop of the snowy massif of Canigou.

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Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

31/8/2018

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By Robin Noble (Photos by Robin and Martine Noble)

We made two visits to our favourite local upland in the early summer; like most trips, there were good sightings and no-shows. Of the latter, once again there was an almost complete lack of big birds – we had a couple of views of griffon vultures, but that was really all. The usual ravens and choughs were present and voluble, which was nice, and skulking in the bushes were several thrush-size brownish birds, on which I am still pondering; some decent views would have helped!

But high spots there were in plenty. Because of the unusual amount of rain in the late spring and early summer, the flowers were wonderful. There was a magic carpet in whichever direction you looked. From the track that goes along to the tower itself, shading upwards to the gentle summits and the col, it was the little yellow cistus, rock-rose-type flower which dominated, but there were umpteen other species in bloom. As a result, the butterflies, particularly the tiny blues and little copper-coloured ones were like confetti – again best seen in the few damp patches along the trackside.

One of the most interesting areas was the rougher ground through which we descended to the track and the van. This is where the growth of higher vegetation, stunted pines and prickly juniper and bramble, is beginning to recolonise the grazed grassland. It is quite hard walking, and you need to choose your route carefully, but it is clear, for a start, that many of the elusive smaller birds nest within it, and there are one or two botanical treats lurking in the undergrowth. Things growing out of prickly bushes are not unusual; sometimes it may be because the prickly bush protects the more delicate plant (or bush or sapling) from grazing, sometimes because birds often sit on top of the prickly bushes, and … well, you can work the rest of that out for yourself, but there are a number of plants which regenerate best if the seed is passed through a bird! And so again, you will have the prickly bush protecting something growing up within it.

We saw two plants growing like this, and both were rather lovely. Both, too, were quite new to us, although the first was known to us from many illustrations; it was something I had long wanted to see. The picture below of the pyrenean lily (simply Lilium pyrenaicum) is, I am afraid, not quite in focus – I was standing on a really steep slope, one bare leg in the prickly juniper, the other perilously close to some very healthy nettles, focussing sharply uphill!

It was, fortunately, easier to get the picture of the next flower, similarly growing out of prickly bushes, but much more in reach. I immediately recognised that it may be related to the toadflaxes, because of the distinctive shape of its flowers, which resemble the garden antirrhinum. It is quite a large family, and I have so far only managed a very tentative ID. It vaguely resembles Linaria reflexa (no English name), but seems much more robust than the illustrations I have so far seen. Nameless or not, it seems very pretty to me!

Another feature of interest that day was what had been the common, rather remarkable, “flat-flowered thistles”, the Carlina acaulis, which are very common all over these hillsides. Here, within the area of significant regeneration (which presumably offers some cover), the actual flower itself had, in many cases, been grubbed out, leaving the surrounding wreck of very prickly leaves. We had never noticed this before and were surprised at the number which had been so treated. Presumably it is wild boar who find the thistle flowers so tasty, but if so, there must be quite a number of them lurking in the pinewoods below the track!

And, finally, we have found another attractive place where the marmots live, and Martine thinks she managed her best photograph – so far!

This is a young one

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A Walk on the Wild Side

24/8/2018

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By Bruce Hyde

This summer I spent 12 days in June in Occitanie. The main purpose of my trip was to explore wildlife in the high Pyrenees along with the rest of our group, but because I had some days to kill before and after, I returned to a favourite old haunt of mine in the Tech valley. It always yields interesting fauna; this time was no different and there were some surprises in store as well as species new to me.

One of the first insects I saw, and new to me, was this lovely little Roesel's bush-cricket (Metrioptera roeseli).

A distinctive cricket with a white flash

It was particularly exciting to see the relatively unusual Lesser Purple Emperor (Apatura ilia) butterfly. The males, not the females, develop the purple sheen on the wings which is only apparent at certain angles. Lesley and I were close to the river at the time, and we felt lucky to get such a good view as normally this butterfly flies around 1 metre or so above the ground and when it settles it does so in trees at a height of about 3 metres, making it difficult to get good photos.

Lesser Purple Emperor with the sheen showing on one wing

It is common in the insect world to find that males that are more elaborately patterned than females.

The difference between the upper side and underneath of the wings always surprises me. The underside has no trace at all of the purple gloss.

Lesser Purple Emperor's plain underside.

An old dragonfly friend - there are quite a lot around - is the Broad Scarlet (Crocothemis erythraea). These beautiful insects are well named, the males being brilliantly coloured, including the eyes and face.

The striking Broad Scarlet male .....

This species is a prime example of the male showing off in all its splendour while the female remains quite dowdy, as would be clear a few moments later when we saw the female....

..... and female.

Lesley showed me an area along the south bank of the Tech near Ortaffa, which I had not been to before. Here we found two beetles, both of the scarab family but looking completely different. The first, Hoplia coerulea, is an iridescent sky-blue. This insect is really hard to photograph as the colour seems impossible to capture correctly. On that day we were lucky in that it was overcast and the diffused light brought out the delicate, iridescent hue really well. Yet again, it is the male that is the show-off, with the female being a dull brown.

The other, called a Monkey Beetle (Hoplia philanthus), still a handsome creature, had lovely chestnut brown wing covers (elytra). In fact, these are the first of their two pairs of wings, but they are not used for flying. In beetles they have evolved instead to protect the soft abdomen and delicate structure of the second pair, which they use for flying.

The showy male sky-blue Scarab Beetle

Chestnut brown Monkey Beetle

On a soft, sandy path there were a number of bees seemingly burrowing around in the sand and dust. I know that bees often nest underground but seeing them behave like this, in what would appear to be a fairly hostile environment, seemed strange. Lesley has done some research and they are Mining Bees (Colletes succinctus). Although solitary, they can form colonies. Their normal habitat is heathland and moorland, although there are some populations which occur in dunes and beaches. Females burrow about 30cm down and create a few chambers at the end of the tunnel. They lay a single egg in each chamber and then place pollen next to the egg, for the emerging grub to feed on. When the young bees finally emerge males congregate around tunnel openings, waiting to pounce upon and mate with any females. So we think the scrum we saw that day was exactly this event.

Mining Bees waiting to mate with females

As dragonflies are my main insect passion, it is always a great pleasure to see large individuals, and flying around near the Plan d'Eau at St. Génis-des-Fontaines were two Southern Migrant Hawkers. The pair, both female, were hunting along a path then retreating to perch in the bushes. At the time I couldn't identify them, but knew I hadn't seen them there before. The undergrowth was quite thick and on a steep bank; I had to struggle in without either disturbing the dragons or getting myself scratched too much. Having surreptitiously worked into a position where I could actually see them clearly, avoiding branches and twigs I took the photograph.

Female Blue-eyed Hawker

I have known that particular area for well over 10 years, so it was exciting to find a species which I knew I had never seen there before. It wasn't until I got home to my books that I confirmed these two ladies were Blue-eyed Hawkers. As with a number of dragonflies they have several other names - in this case Southern Migrant Hawker, L'Aeschne affine and Aeshna affinis.

In my French reference book Les Libellules de France, Belgique et Luxembourg they are listed as not being present at all by the Tech. It is clear they are extending their range in France and there have even been a few sightings this summer across the Channel in England, as reported by the British Dragonfly Society.

If I hadn’t already spotted those two in flight, I might never have found them when perched, as they blended into the background so successfully.

Another fine example of camouflage is the Brimstone butterfly (Gonepteryx rhamni). Among the leaves on a bush, this one was almost invisible.

Brilliant camouflage

Another member of the Gonepteryx family is the Cleopatra (Gonepteryx cleopatra) which is largely restricted to the Western Mediterranean area. The main difference between the two is the orange flush on the upper side of the Cleopatra's wings. The problem is that it always settles with its wings closed! However I was lucky enough to get a shot just as one was taking off with the colour showing right through.

Cleopatra

Lesley and I were talking about the many Golden Orioles we hear around the Tech valley, but seldom actually see. I suppose the subject came up because we were hearing them nearby, hidden in the trees, singing their typically mellifluous song. (Click this link to go to our collection of birdsongs - Birdsong) At that moment five or six of them appeared from behind us, swiftly crossing the river and going into the high trees on the opposite bank. They were only in view for a few seconds (too little time to get the camera up) but this beautiful bird is unmistakeable. We were so lucky to have seen them.

While some butterflies are quite tolerant of being approached, others are rather skittish. The Iberian Marbled White (Melanargia lachesis) is just like that and is notorious for the way it flits around, seldom settling. This time I was lucky!

An Iberian Marbled White posing for its photo.

On the trail beside the Tech was one of the more spectacular of European butterflies - the Swallowtail (Papilio machaon). It is large with a very hairy body and has stunningly coloured "eyes" in its tail. This was a pristine example which had only recently emerged, spending plenty of time letting its wings harden in the sunshine.

Swallowtail

A relatively unusual dragonfly is the Large Pincertail (Onychogomphus uncatus). This time I saw two females and one of them had unusually pale markings on the body, which actually made the identification easier. The eyes are a pale blue, hence another of its names - Blue-eyed Hooktail.

Large Pincertail

The formidable graspers of a male Pincertail

We saw two or three of its close relative, the Small Pincertail (Onychogomphus forcipatus). The males of both species have fearsome appendages at the end of the abdomen, which gives them their name. The purpose of these "pincers" is to grasp the female during mating!

A detailed description of the differences between Large and Small Pincertails is in an earlier blog (follow this link - dragonfly-differences.html)

A typical Tech riverside scene which makes the point.

Insects are cold-blooded creatures and rely on Mother Nature to get them up to working temperature each day. Usually they simply bask in the sunshine, perched on leaves or branches; at other times they can draw heat by settling on warm stones. The Large Pincertail above was doing just that. While this is all very well for insects, it can present a challenge for anyone trying to photograph them, as that sort of terrain makes for very tough walking.

The final dragonfly I saw near the Tech was another species new to me - the Orange-spotted Emerald (Oxygastra curtisii). This was particularly difficult to photograph as it never settled. As is usual for the species, it chose a gap in riverside vegetation about 4 or 5 metres long and patrolled ceaselessly back and forth hunting for prey. It flew fast so getting a good shot of it proved almost impossible. This is the best I could get, and I can't wait for another chance!

Orange-spotted Emerald

A typical insect of the region is the Egyptian Grasshopper (Anacrydium aegyptium). While these are not uncommon they are large and very clumsy fliers. This one popped out from a bush and crash landed in another a few metres away.

Egyptian Grasshopper

My only disappointment during the trip was that I didn't see an otter. Whenever I am near the river, and Lesley feels the same, we are on the lookout for any signs of them. We know they are present as once we saw a skeleton and there was also what looked like one that had been run over by the bridge on the D914 where it crossed the Tech near Palau-del-Vidre. In the past we have seen various signs....

Tracks in the sand

Probable spraints

... but we have never seen an actual otter. We were hoping our luck might change, and at likely spots we were creeping stealthily around, but it was not to be. It won't stop us continuing to keep a good look-out - hope springs eternal!

My next blog will see us in the high Pyrénées where the flora and fauna, not to mention the views, are so very different.

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Bad Mountain

15/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

June 21st. Our last full day exploring the Cerdagne and Capcir. My destination was Mt. Puigmal d'Err, which I hoped might be the high point of the whole trip for me. Figuratively as well as literally. If there weren't eagles here, where would they be?

After my recce the previous afternoon, I drove the fast route, turning off the Andorra road beyond Saillagouse and Err. As you'd expect, the road winds steadily upwards, but it's wonderfully wide as well as scenic. In winter, snow ploughs could be three-abreast. In early summer, with little or no other traffic (just the occasional cow), it was a joy.

The Err valley is steep-sided and wooded for most of the way. After about 25 minutes you pass the ski station, after which the road narrows and, a little further on, parking is obligatory - even though the road continues, according to the map. I was already slowing down when something bounded along the left-hand verge, a few yards ahead. A small dog? Briefly, I caught sight of it again before it darted sharp left and disappeared (over the edge?). A marmot.

If you start seeing creatures before you're even out of the car, it has to be a good sign, and that immediately whet my appetite for what the day could have in store. Where there's prey, there will be predators.

Even if you venture no further than the car park, the views on three sides make this a lovely spot and well worth the drive. Slopes on the opposite side of the valley have interesting rock formations, streams and waterfalls.

Copper-coloured rocks appeared wet, with reddish soil at the top. Colouring due to mineral content?

To the left, you look back down the Err valley and across the Cerdagne plateau to the Carlit mountains and lakes of the Capcir, where Martine and Robin were the day before.

I would be heading the other way, due south. The forecast warned of thunderstorms later, which meant I would have to keep an eye on the sky, but right then, there were just a few light clouds. After packing my rucksack with all-weather clothing - and treble-checking food supplies - I set off with Digby.

Like the rest of the Pyrenees, the summit of Mt Puigmal d'Err straddles France and Spain. At 2910m, It's 11m shorter than Mt Carlit and 126m higher than our own Mt Canigou. You don't get nearly such an impression of height as with our local mountain, however. I suppose this is because the approach is from a plateau that's already around 1500m, and you park at the 2000m point. Nevertheless, close-to, the glacial basin has a desolate kind of beauty above the treeline.

I had no intention of hiking to the top, but to follow my nose, as it were. And at the first hairpin in the road, my nose led me off the tarmac, straight on, up a track alongside the river. Somewhere up there, was the River Err's source. More stream than river at this height, it was fast flowing but benign that day. All around me there were signs of a more violent nature, however.

At the hairpin, next to a small building whose purpose I couldn't guess, it passed under the road. Uprooted conifers (many still green) were piled in and around the river on the north side of the man-made "bridge". The hairpin itself was strewn with bits of tree, rocks and rubble. It also looked as though the top layer of the building's roof had been ripped off, part of which lay yards away, up the road. Ahead, here and there on the left-hand flanks of the mountain, teardrop slashes of shale broke up the vegetation. Flattened conifers still rested on some. Perhaps a combination of violent storms, avalanches and land slips had uprooted the trees and brought many to the valley floor. After that, floods from snow melt and torrential rain swept them to the bridge, where they dammed the river until a huge surge carried them over the top and dumped most on the other side. It was sobering to picture the ferocious, churning mass of water right where we were standing now. A glance at the clouds drifting over Puigmal's summit from Spain added a small frisson. Already denser and greyer, but not really dark. Not yet.

Later I would learn that "Puigmal" is Catalan for "bad mountain". "Puig" is pronounced "pootch" (phonetically: putʃ)

We carried on. So far the skies were empty of raptors whenever I looked up, but it was early days. And I could hear something calling: the whistle alarms of marmots from a grassy area on the other side of the stream, plus a bird I didn't recognise, from somewhere lowdown and nearby. At last I spotted it. Fairly small and dark, flying from broom bush to broom bush not far ahead. Binoculars trained, I gasped at the sight of a broad white collar under its throat. It was my first ever ring ouzel - a bird I'd long wanted to see. I shouldn't have been surprised at all, of course, because this was the perfect habitat for the "mountain blackbird". Quickly, I steered Digby off the track to a pile of boulders nearer the stream, where I could hunker down and quietly observe. And how lucky was I that it stayed fairly close - doubtless aware of me, but unconcerned.

After a few minutes a man and woman appeared from round the corner beyond it, heading towards me. Painfully slowly. The man carried binoculars so I expected him to see the ouzel, but he strolled within feet of it, apparently oblivious. Perhaps he'd seen hundreds before. I met them back on the path and we had quite a chat. Husband and wife - in their late sixties at a guess - on holiday from Bordeaux. Unfortunately I couldn't remember the French name for ring ouzel, and a rather fruitless discussion followed, with me describing it and Monsieur suggesting names, few of which I recognised. If he knew his birds, I was sure he would work out what I was on about, but he simply looked bemused. Maybe it was my bad French. Maybe he wasn't a bird watcher at all. They were very pleasant, anyway, and told me how shocked they were to find the rhododendrons still only in bud. This time last year the mountain was blanketed in red. Also this time last year, they'd been able to walk much further alongside the stream. "Don't bother going round the corner," Madame said. "The track is now the river."

I decided to continue for a bit anyway - always keen to look round the next bend. But before I got there, the ouzel appeared again, even closer, and suddenly I realised why. There was a nest here somewhere. I stood still, waited, and watched as it swooped to the ground between bushes only a few feet from me. And, oh my goodness, it hadn't flown to a nest but to a fledgling, which it promptly fed!

They must be very hardy birds. Our chalet host had told us that only three weeks before our arrival, there was heavy snow on the plateau. It would have been much worse up here, yet at least one young ouzel had survived. My book says they have two broods (5 or 6 eggs in each) April to June. And they like nesting in "steep banks, rock cavities or fallen stone walls". My observation post among the boulders might have been the perfect spot!

After pausing to take a couple of photos, I turned round and headed back before I disturbed them any more or there was a tragedy. Siblings might be around too, and if they were like normal blackbird fledglings they would be running rather than flying. It was quite possible that one would run straight into Digby's path at any moment; he can snatch things up horribly quickly, even when he's on a short lead.

Click pictures to enlarge image

I passed the couple again, roughly where I'd left them, and showed them a photo of the parent bird, on my camera. But Monsieur was none the wiser and clearly couldn't understand my excitement.

After leaving them again, I was a bit disappointed to have to regain the road, but it did mean that progress uphill was swift and easy. The tarmac was more broken up by now, with a lot of shale on the edges, studded with flowers. Mini rockeries. A few butterflies visited them, but nothing out of the ordinary.

After the next hairpin, we were heading south again, roughly parallel with the river but much higher above it. Below, the Bordeaux couple hadn't made much progress at all. I'd noticed them standing still for some time, facing our direction, so I waved but they didn't respond. Perhaps they weren't looking at me, but something lower down. My dog had certainly caught sight or scent of something and was pulling me towards the edge. Marmots, directly below us! This was a whole new potential snack for him, and he sat down, ears forward, mightily curious.

Several of them were lounging around and grooming, but two had a wonderful game, chasing and leaping on each other; rolling on their backs and having mini boxing matches. I last saw them doing that at the Batère when I was with Robin, several years ago. This time I managed to film them - albeit from a long way off.

Marmotwatch

Marmots At Play from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Despite frequent checks of the skyline, I only saw one griffon vulture passing by, high and distant. By now the clouds were thickening up, and a few spots of rain had me packing away the camera, but they came to nothing. On we went.

At the third hairpin I left the road once more, and struck diagonally across a patch of short grass and rocks - to a track that led to the river and continued the other side, into the bowl of the mountain. Another bend beckoned. But the water would have come well over my boots and was too wide to step over. I would have to take a running jump to clear it, and wasn't sure that was a good idea with a dog on a leash. What if Digby didn't jump with me?

Reluctantly, I accepted this was as far as I would get today, so did another about-turn and found a good, ant-free spot for lunch. The slopes around us were covered in rhododendrons - such a pity none were in flower, but I could imagine the spectacle and it gave me an incentive to return another year. Mixed in among them and the broom, especially on the far side of the river, were lots of Great yellow gentian plants. In the gorge the previous day, some of these had been on the point of blooming, but here, there was not even a flower stalk in sight. As the name suggests, they're big plants - leaves reminiscent of hostas - and must be fabulous in flower. Assuming they usually come out at the same time as the rhodies, the colour combination must be stunning. Is it any coincidence that the Catalan flag comprises yellow and red stripes? There are several theories about the origin of the "Senyera", but none connected to the natural landscape; perhaps it would be too fanciful to suggest that, centuries ago, much more of Catalonia was covered in great yellow gentians and red rhododendrons.

My sandwiches went down a treat and we were slowly retracing our steps towards the road, when two young women appeared from nowhere. With an enviable lightness of step, they crossed our path and struck off, at impressive speed, up a steep, narrow track through the rhododendrons. Rather them than me, if they were heading for the summit. If our presence was remarked at all, we would have been tagged "the snail-paced Anglaise and her dog."

I'd just creaked upright after taking photos of some blue gentians and a tiny pink flower almost hidden in the grass, when a pair of grey wagtails caught my eye. I'm used to seeing them flit from rock to rock, but these put on a beautiful display, flashing bright yellow as they spiraled up and down, intertwined, in an elegant dance. They were the first birds I'd seen since the vulture. All the eagles, I decided, were over at the gorges du Sègre.

Great yellow gentians (Gentiana lutea) - whose roots are apparently used for medicinal purposes and for flavouring alcoholic drinks! (Source: "Mountain Flowers - Pyrenees & Picos" by Cliff Booker & David Charlton)

Bank after bank of rhodies - Pyrenean alpenrose or Rusty-leaved alpenrose (Rhododendron ferrugineum). Azalea-sized leaves and flowers.

Click photos to enlarge image

It really does pay to stand still every so often. Had I not stopped to watch the wagtails, I might never have noticed the isard (Pyrenean chamois), who was wonderfully camouflaged against the hillside a couple of hundred yards ahead and slightly above us. Isards are smaller than their Alpine cousins, apparently, and I'd never seen one of these before either. For some time he seemed unaware of us as we sat and watched him graze. Even after he did finally turn and look directly at us, he didn't rush away as I expected.

Seeing large mammal species like this was one of my wishes come true for the trip - and perfect compensation for the lack of raptors.

Eddie the Isard

Back on the road again, we began a slow descent, often stopping for me to scan the mountainsides, in search of movement. I kept being drawn to a couple of caves on the other side of the valley. Caves fascinate me for some reason, and I always have to check them out with the binoculars, even though I know I won't see anything. That day I imagined what might have lived or taken shelter in them over the centuries, before humans overran everywhere. Bears, wolves and lynx, I bet. There are bears and lynx today in remote parts of the Spanish Pyrenees, but wild though the Puigmal d'Err is, it isn't wild enough for those species.

To my surprise, when I scanned a smaller, more distant cave, I realised an animal was lying in it. No bear or lynx, obviously, but something quite big. A deer? By happy coincidence, the cave turned out to be directly opposite where I'd parked the car, so, about half an hour later, I confirmed my suspicion.

I found Robin and Martine at the parking spot too, having a snooze in their van. I knew they'd planned to come here at some point in the day, and guessed they'd already had a walk. Not wanting to disturb them, I sat and kept watch on the cave for some time. Hard to see anything with the naked eye, but the doe was quite clear through binoculars. When an isard ambled past her, she didn't move other than to lift her head for a few seconds. She was still there when my friends emerged, and Robin remarked on how unusual it was to see a red deer all on its own, when you can hardly move for them in the Scottish Highlands. Eventually, perhaps because evening approached and it was cooler, she got up. With no need for haste, she gradually picked her way through the rocks, stopping here and there to nibble at something, before slipping out of sight in the scrub.

By then Robin had spotted some more marmots further down the valley, and I found a burrow right by the roadside - which probably explained the disappearance of the one I saw on arrival. A mystery bird we heard but couldn't see might have been another ring ouzel (already I'd forgotten the call of the one I'd seen earlier). In the shelter of the valley below us, rhododendrons were just beginning to show some colour among the broom, and Robin pointed out lots of blue flowers by the river. Even through binoculars we couldn't tell what they were, but none of us had either the energy or enthusiasm to tackle the steep hillside for a closer look. It was time to go - back to the chalet for our last evening in this magnificent region.

The day wasn't quite over, though. On the way back down to the main road, I had to pull over twice. Once to check that two vultures soaring low overhead were griffons (they were - great views!), and once to photograph a roadside bank of lupins.

The Bad Mountain of Err had certainly delivered, in many unexpected and delightful ways.

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Les Gorges du Sègre

14/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

20th June, day two of our "Warblers" Cerdagne trip, most of us headed in different directions again. My plan was to walk Les gorges du Sègre. Even the drive there was spectacular, via the back road from our base in Saint-Pierre-dels-Forcats, through Eyne, across the meadowy tops with broom-scented air, wheatears on fence posts and Andorra mountains beyond.

The only blot on this awe-inspiring landscape came suddenly, shortly before the road dropped into the hamlet of Llo: a huge array of industrial-sized mirrors and pipes over the grassland.* But that was soon forgotten when the dramatic crags of the Sègre Valley came into view. I couldn't wait to get going. Despite Bruce's somewhat disappointing trip (from a fauna point of view) in the neighbouring Eyne Valley the day before, I was hoping for butterflies and raptors galore, and planned to spend the day here. Me and my dog in the rugged mountains. Perfect.

The map shows a circular walk, and friends had warned that to avoid a cardiac-arresting uphill slog, it's best to begin at the thermal baths end, just south of Llo (at about 1400m). Great advice, not least because, from the outset, this would take me alongside the loud, fast-flowing River Sègre. Where there's water there should be butterflies.

Shod in my sturdiest boots; bearing walking pole, heavy-ish rucksack (all-weather gear, first aid kit, map, water for two, sandwiches, energy snack bars aka mini Kit Kats), camera slung diagonally across my body, binos on a harness (to protect my neck) and dog on a lead (to protect everything), I was surprised to find myself on an asphalt road. In pristine condition yet prohibited to motor vehicles, it wound gently uphill through lush, mixed woodland, around and between the crags. Easy walking. Although on one hand tarmac diminishes the wildness (and can be hot underfoot in summer), on the other, it makes this place accessible for handicapped and less-than-nimble people. I was messaging Isobel immediately, to say that her electric scooter should cope with it. (It's not often she can get to the places the rest of us explore, but the next day she was to immerse herself here.)

After noting several orchids like those around our chalet, the next thing I came across was a group of young people (twenties) swishing butterfly nets and scrutinising leaves. They didn't appear to be hunting butterflies in particular. Biology students perhaps, carrying out an insect survey? Even though I was taking photos every few metres, we soon left them behind. There were one or two other walkers and some mountain bikers - even a couple of cars, which I assumed must be from a farm up ahead - but relatively few people otherwise. Which helped make this a special place for me.

Although the valley seemed quite sheltered, clearly the flowers were as late here as on the plateau. Pink-red azaleas, clinging to crevices in the rock, were only just coming out. At ground level some plants looked tantalisingly close to blooming, but I only know the most common by their leaves alone, so had no idea what most were. Of those that were flowering, blue aquilegia studded shady areas of dense vegetation by the river. And another water-loving plant was prolific, with big heads of fuzzy pink. I felt I should know what this was and, after consulting my dad's alpine flower book, decided it might be Pyrenean valerian. I really could have done with Robin for this, but he and Martine were across the other side of the plateau, exploring the lakes around Mt Carlit.

Click photos to enlarge image.

Alas, scant flowers meant scant butterflies. I shouldn't have been surprised after Bruce's experience. But as the temperature slowly rose, more did appear. This was was the third week of June, yet orange-tips (which fly in spring) were still abundant. Lots of whites, including green-veined. There were numerous fritillaries but all the same species - Glanville, I think - and several Camberwell beauties. (I last saw one of these years ago, in the Albères.) They proved frustrating. First impressions are of something big and very dark except for white edging on the wings. That day, this was my last impression too, because they refused to settle wings-open and reveal the inner line of purple spots, which earn them "beauty" in their name.

Click photos to enlarge image.

Wood tiger moth, sleeping on a plant beside the lane

Early on, from the other side of a fence, this chap was keeping an eye on Digby.

The only birds I could hear over the noise of the river were robins, but I never saw them. Once, I glimpsed a grey wagtail flying along the river. No dippers. The crags constantly drew my eyes upwards in search of peregrines, vultures and eagles. All I spotted were crag martins. Perspective fooled me from time to time. A distant, perched raptor - at least buzzard-sized - raised my heart rate, until I got the binoculars on it and discovered it was a kestrel! One lone griffon vulture flew high overhead. This was most unexpected. Where was everything?

After about an hour of slow, mindful walking, with many stops for photos, the tarmac ended at a crossroads. I had a choice. To my left, a track led up and back towards Llo (the second half of the circular walk), which I guessed would be the most popular route. To my right, another, less obvious, track led quite steeply up as well. Straight on, a gentler-looking wide, stony path continued up the valley - as far as the Coll de Finestrelles on the Spanish border, according to the map. Unlikely I'd get quite that far (2064m), because I wasn't too keen on any steep uphill work, but I might make halfway or more. The map also promised open views across the hills to the left of the river. More chance of seeing those elusive eagles and vultures? That was the route for me. First though, time for a sit down in the shade of a tree. Water for the dog, water for me and ... how about one of those mini Kit Kats?

Depending on which order one has put on one's binocular harness, camera and rucksack, it can be quite a performance getting to one's Kit Kats. And it was only once Digby was tied to a tree and my equipment lay scattered around my feet that I discovered I had plenty of water and dog biscuits, but my sandwiches and vital chocolate rations were languishing on the kitchen worktop back at the chalet.

Plan B?

Cursing my stupidity, I decided to head towards the coll nevertheless. But as that direction would continue steadily uphill, I'd be foolish to go too far without food other than dog biscuits.

Watered and loaded with clobber once more, we set off. Although still following the river, we were soon much higher above it. The trees changed from deciduous to pine, but - as per the map - they began to thin out on our left. And there was no one here but us. Glorious.

For a moment I nearly inhaled white butterflies. Green-veined again, but other species too - I'm not sure which - were congregating around a wet patch of mud. Every time a white flew past me I was hoping it might be an Apollo, but I think they were late or the habitat wasn't right. There were blues as well by now - and the occasional scarce swallowtail.

But the scenery stole the show. This stretch turned into one of those walks where you just have to see what's round the next bend. Every few metres the view seemed to improve yet again, leading me on and up. We stopped for another water break, looking down at a little wooden bridge over the river. Strangely, there was no visible track leading to or from it on either bank.

Further on, a man who had overtaken us much earlier on the road now passed us again, from the opposite direction. So far, he was the only other person we'd come across on this section. I wondered how far he'd got and whether the track ahead became more difficult. Would I need my stick at some point? Thinking of which, where was my stick?

I thought I'd tied it onto my rucksack, but must have left it at the last water stop. What was the matter with me today? Altitude ditziness? I have other sticks, but that was an expensive Manfrotto. I wasn't about to go back for it, though, so ground my teeth and carried on, hoping the man would do the decent thing and leave it where it was.

We'd probably been going for another hour or so when I decided to head back. The track was getting steeper and, although the return trip would be all downhill, I would soon need food. With great reluctance, therefore, after scanning a distant peak for the last time (no raptors) and promising to return one day, I turned round.

Soon I started to encounter more walkers, and decided the chances of my stick not being picked up were now slim-to-remote. A couple of women hove into view. As we crossed paths and I narrowed my eyes at the poles they carried, one of them asked if I'd lost mine. Why yes, I replied. "La voilà," she said with a warm smile, pointing behind her. And there it was, a few metres ahead of me, resting against a bush, where I couldn't miss it.

With my faith in human nature restored, I fair bounded down the track after that - often in a kind of mad zigzag, trying to catch up with another Camberwell beauty.

At the crossroads, on regaining the asphalt road, I once again met the students hunting insects. Several of them were sitting down, scribbling notes and peering intensely into specimen jars. I hoped the scarce swallowtail I'd just spied wouldn't end up in one of those. I really wanted to quiz them on their mission, but failed to catch the eye of any, and when my jovial bonjours were studiously ignored, I walked on, none the wiser.

Back at the chalet I stoked up on calories, feeling high from the scenery, but disappointed that my day had been cut short. However, my ditzy moment proved to be a blessing. After studying the map again, I drove a pretty but at times hair-raising route forestière along the next valley south of Llo, and ended up at 2,000m by the ski station of Err-Puigmal. As soon as I stepped out of the car and looked around at this wild place, I had my plan for the next day.

*I've since read that construction of the centrale solaire thermodynamique (roughly 153,000sqm of mirrors) began in 2016. Dubbed "eLLO", it's scheduled to begin converting sunlight into into electricity for the EDF from this year. More info here.

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A New Seabird

7/7/2018

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By Robin Noble

The 2018 boating season is underway, but the changeable weather has rather limited the days we have had out on the water, so far. Anyone who reads these blogs will know that I am constantly wondering why there are so many fish in the water, and so few birds looking for them. We have, if anything, seen fewer cormorants this year, for instance, but are certainly seeing as many fish ... so the appearance of a totally new seabird gives us a lot of excitement.

It happened rather quickly; we were heading quite briskly along on a nice bouncy sea, when I noticed the white dots of a group of gulls on the water-in itself, not a very common sight. There were some greyish, brownish birds beside them, which I assumed to be young gulls - until they lifted quickly into the air, and set off with a low gliding which we instantly recognised; these had to be shearwaters. They were perhaps twenty in number, definitely more brown than the blue-black and white of the Manx shearwater with which we are both familiar (from Scottish coasts), and I read that they are also slightly larger. (But they were definitely smaller than the three Greater shearwaters we had seen on a previous occasion). As they departed quickly, we had to wait for further elucidation till we were back home and got the books out.

There seems to be no room for doubt; these were, if you like, our "local" shearwaters, the Balearic, which breed in the Western Mediterranean, and particularly on those islands. One account says that they are among the rarest seabirds in the world, and relatively little known.

As it happens, I had just been reading a really wonderful book about seabirds: "The Seabird’s Cry", by Adam Nicolson, and from it I had learnt a great deal of information which was new to me, despite an almost-lifelong interest, particularly in the petrel family of seabirds, which includes the shearwaters and fulmars. That they are long-lived (fulmars may live up to sixty years), and are unlikely to breed until they are eight or nine, I knew. During those early years, all species range over the oceans of the world; they are, it seems, so perfectly "designed", that, given a bit of wind, they use as little energy in flight, as they would when sitting on what they consider to be a nest. Hundreds, even thousands of miles are nothing to these extraordinary birds, so the ones we saw might well head back to the Balearic Isles with food for their young. And, perhaps most fascinating of all, these birds find their way across the trackless oceans, and find food, by smell...

More I will not say; anyone who is really interested in what is now known about these amazing creatures, should definitely buy the book! It is published by William Collins.

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Birding & Ticking in May

19/5/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

May is a month that never disappoints when it comes to nature, and this year is no exception. After quite a wet spring, the wildflowers seem more abundant than ever (not to mention weeds in the garden). Insect numbers are increasing - including unwelcome tiger mosquitoes and ticks. Rock pools are full of tadpoles and young fire salamanders. I've seen one mouse and two foxes. But the stars of the show are, as usual, the birds. Singing their hearts out, building nests, feeding young...

An unusually cold couple of weeks at the beginning of the month delayed many migrants, but this week there was a tremendous "rush" as the GOR would describe it. They reported the 16th as remarkable on the hillock at St. Nazaire, when a "safe estimate" of 100,000 (five zeros is correct!) birds passed through. "Streams" of swifts, swallows and house martins for the most part, but 4,000 honey buzzards and 2,000 bee eaters were among them. And I thought I was lucky to spot about 60 honey buzzards over two days. Wave after wave of small flocks passed over the house - visible only because cloud and high winds forced them to fly low - and also the orchards.

At this time of year I usually avoid the vineyards and orchards, because they are literally crawling with ticks. But for various reasons I've ventured down there several times this last week, and boy has it been been worthwhile.

The areas of rough ground between and edging the plantations are a mass of grasses, thistles and other wildflowers. A superb haven for many creatures. I'm enjoying seeing it so lush, before it gets frazzled or cut back.

In terms of birdsong, nightingales are outdoing just about every other species for volume and length of song. In some stretches of trees and hedgerow, there seems to be a nightingale every few metres. And for some reason I've clapped eyes on more than in any previous year. One or two have even sung for some minutes in full view. That's a first.

Out among the vines and fruit trees themselves, it's woodlarks, serins, goldfinches and linnets that I hear and see most, with some corn and cirl buntings mixed in. Yesterday a smart male stonechat was chatting from the scrubbiest fringes of the southernmost vineyard. In April I also saw one or two whinchat on the opposite side. I need to establish if the latter are still around, though, because they might have been migrants; I've never noticed them here before.

One of the reasons for braving the ticks is that I wanted to see if the woodchat shrikes were back. Although I can't confirm if the same pair as last year has set up residence, I've so far seen three or four shrikes in different parts of the whole area, and one bird exactly where the female was feeding fledglings last year. Some might still be migrating through, I suppose, but I'd have thought most would have found territories by now. Today I saw two, in different sections of the walk. A few seconds after one flew out of a tree across the vines, I then realised a small-sounding bird was singing in an oak tree right next to me. I didn't recognise the song at all. If you could even call it a song. It was an extremely varied, unmusical jumble of squeaks, clicks, chats, rattles and sizzles, with snippets of nightingale, wryneck and several other birds mixed in. It stayed hidden, so I recorded it. On listening back home, I wonder if it is indeed imitating other species. It's definitely not a starling. I've read that great grey shrikes mimic small prey birds, hoping to attract them. We don't get the greys here but I wonder if my bird is the mate of the woodchat shrike that flew out of the tree. I need to listen again and compare with recordings on the internet - an activity which isn't always as easy as you'd think, depending on the song in question. It requires great patience and stamina.

I also wanted to check out something in one of the copses. Back in March, before the oaks came into leaf, I spotted a very big, twiggy nest, and wondered if it belonged to buzzards. There's a resident pair here, which I know has successfully reared at least one youngster, and I've always wondered where they nest. I've never seen a buzzard's nest before - and size is hard to judge when the construction is close to the treetop - so for all I knew this could belong to crows or magpies. And it might be old. After reading that buzzards do re-use old nests, I checked it periodically through that month and early April, but it seemed unchanged and unoccupied. Brambles and thorny climbers were too thick around the base for me to get close enough to look for droppings or other evidence of recent or past occupancy.

But things were different this week. On three days, as I entered the wood a good hundred metres from the nest, a buzzard slipped silently down through the trees and away. It either came from the nest itself or a tree very nearby. This seemed promising but I didn't want to disturb them by hanging around. Today I unexpectedly found a much clearer view of the nest from outside the copse, along a side I rarely walk.

No sign of any activity on it, but when I'd walked a little further on, I heard buzzards calling. Two - one much darker than the other - were flying together. At first I thought they were playing or displaying, but then realised the paler of the two was chasing off the darker one. Through the winter there was a very dark phase buzzard here and perhaps it's now overstayed its welcome? Minutes later, the pale buzzard's pale mate joined it and they circled each other, much more relaxed. I stood as still as possible, half hidden behind a nectarine tree (though I bet they had their eyes on me), waiting to see if one of them would return to the nest. After a minute or two, the lower bird turned towards the copse, settled into a steady, descending glide and disappeared into the trees - on a direct line with the nest.

From photos it looks as though this bird is carrying prey. There's a trailing "line" from her feet - the tail of a mammal perhaps? I've often asked myself how these birds find enough to eat in the orchards, but clearly there's a lot more around than I imagine, or they wouldn't stay.*

Today's most exciting highlight came right at the beginning of the walk, however. Near where I'd parked by the pond, I was watching swifts scythe past at eye level, when a large raptor caught my eye beyond them. Very low and close. My immediate thought was "not buzzard". The shape was wrong, as was the flight. Robin is spot on with his description of buzzards' flight as a kind of "flap-flap glide". This was more "flap-flap-flap-flap-flap-flap circle, circle, flap-flap-flap-flap...". With each change of direction I got flashes of white underparts, which made me think short-toed eagle, but that didn't seem right either. Osprey? Too small, wing shape all wrong.

Luckily for me, it came towards us, and my camera proved a good substitute for binos. Underwings white along the front, black along the back. All-white body. Booted eagle - pale form!

These are classed as relatively rare in the region. I've only seen about four in the past, and never this close. It was so low, flapping and circling, that I also got clear views of the beautiful patterning on its back and the light V across its tail. Photos have picked up the identifying "headlights" on its shoulders, either side of its neck - markings I've never managed to see before.

I was astonished to come across a booted eagle at such low altitude, but on studying the photos more closely, I see it's feet are also holding prey. Something far more substantial than the mouthful carried by the buzzard. A partridge? Had I been looking in the right direction a moment or two earlier, I might have witnessed the spectacular "stoop" of which these eagles are capable when making a kill. Perhaps the heavy load meant it had to work hard to gain height, hence all that flapping and somewhat erratic flight path. Eventually it disappeared north-westwards - towards Buzzard Copse.

I was inclined to think this was one of those very late migrants - I would never expect to see one here normally - so asked the GOR for their opinion. They tell me it could well be nesting locally!

Cropped to the point at which focus is lost - just to show "headlights" catching the sun

All these wonderful discoveries make up for also finding at least one tick on either the dog or me each time, even though we stick to stony paths wherever possible. I keep checking us on the way round, so most don't get the chance to latch on. For any that do, I'm armed with my trusty tick-pick. Just as well, because I now have an eagle challenge for the summer!

* Update 20/05/2018: Adult buzzard seen on the nest.

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Route March around the Empordà

The High Pyrenees

A Winter Wetland

Winter Wanderings

Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

A Walk on the Wild Side

By Bruce Hyde

Bad Mountain

Les Gorges du Sègre

A New Seabird

Birding & Ticking in May

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