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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).
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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.
​
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​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.

​
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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.
​
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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....

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..... 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.


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The showy male sky-blue Scarab Beetle
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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.
            
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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.

PictureFemale 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.

 
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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.
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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!


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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.
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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.
Picture
Large Pincertail
PictureThe 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)
 
PictureA 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!
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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.
Picture
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....
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Tracks in the sand
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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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)
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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.

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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.

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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.
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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.
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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
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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.)

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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.
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Wood tiger moth, sleeping on a plant beside the lane
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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.*

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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!

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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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It's Not as Simple as Folk Make Out...

15/4/2018

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By Robin Noble

If I am on my own for a while, I have a tendency to eat too fast, and in order to avoid that I read, and re-read, magazines at meal times. Recently I went back to an issue of that beautifully presented and illustrated one, PYRENEES Magazine; this was the issue from November/December 2017. There was, as ever, a lot in it of interest, including the information that the Corbières and Fenouillèdes (areas we explore quite a lot) will, in 2019, become a new Parc Naturel Régional. There was also an article entitled: OURS: les enjeux du conflit. (BEAR: what is at stake in the conflict). If anyone is seriously interested in the topic, I do recommend, of course, that they refer to the magazine, as I do not propose to precis it here, merely to pick up a couple of points.

The topic of the bear within the Pyrenees is, of course, of general interest; it is of some particular interest to Martine and me, as we make regular sorties further west in the Pyrenees, and it is precisely that area, the Ariege, which is the focus of the said conflict. But, interestingly, one bear has apparently been located in our area, that of the PO. The population of Slovenian bears, introduced in 1996/7 and 2006, now officially numbers 39, although some of those are on the Spanish side of the mountains.

According to my reading of the article, the brown bear is, in Europe, a protected species, and where it has been made extinct (I have no idea within what period of time), there is an obligation to reintroduce it, hence the programme of releases referred to above. Nobody denies, I think, that those bears do, and will, take sheep in particular, although I presume that goats, foals and calves must also be at risk. There is in place a system of compensation, and I do not read that there are any particular problems with it, either in the scale, or the rapidity (so often a problem with such schemes) of payment. The trouble last year seems to have begun after 209 sheep died after jumping over a cliff, panicked by a bear. And the fundamental question seems to be: to what level will this population of brown bears be allowed to grow, and what effect will this have?

In all honesty, these are pretty fair questions, of the sort that, in Britain, we should be asking the proponents of the introductions of the lynx or wolf. There is no doubt, to someone interested in the natural world, that there is a great, if simple, attraction in the idea of restoring missing species to the landscapes they once inhabited. In Britain, the ospreys did it themselves, but we have successfully reintroduced the red kite and sea eagle, among the predators, and there are projects to do the same with bustards and cranes. It all sounds very attractive; but, for instance, the reintroduction of the sea eagle has not been without similar problems of compensation required when lambs have been taken. Those introductions are, obviously, of birds; the problems become significantly greater when you are talking of mammalian predators that are capable of taking larger prey.

And at this point, there is a compelling need, I think, to ask three questions: why exactly are you reintroducing these creatures? How many of them should there be? And what will the impact of those numbers be on the likely prey species (which always include farm animals)? While it may seem quite simple to answer the first, the rest are far more tricky, and, to be honest, often ignored by their proponents. If the answer to the first is that you are reintroducing bear, or lynx, or wolf because they are currently “missing", then there has to be an answer to the other questions - and that you can rarely get. The normal justification for reintroducing lynx (apart from the fact that they are simply "no longer there") is that they would help control the number of deer in Britain. I have succeeded once in asking: How many lynx do you think there need to be in order to have any such impact? The answer was: About three thousand. And the man who gave that answer had really no interest in the question about the other impacts that would arise from such a population of lynx.

An area like the Pyrenees, or the Highlands of Scotland, has been populated for thousands of years and, until very recently, that population did really have to live off the land, whether by cultivating small fertile patches, or herding stock elsewhere. That history created its own diversity of scenery, and its own biodiversity within that scenery - such as hay-meadows. The stock - sheep, cattle, horses and goats - which we still see in the Pyrenees but far less in the Highlands, play their own part in shaping that landscape. I have written often enough about their contribution at the Batère to keep the foothills of Canigou clear of encroaching dense woodland, and allowing the wildflowers to flourish in the grazed grasslands, along with their attendant butterflies and birds (to say nothing of the marmots!). Actually, it could be argued that such an area, which a serious environmentalist might describe as merely “semi-natural", contains far greater biodiversity than would a purely natural woodland, even with bears.

Of course it would be wonderful if in Scotland you could train wolves only to chase deer, and in the Pyrenees the bears only to take wild boar, but the reality is that in both cases sheep make much easier targets, and farmers have as much right to earn a living as anyone else.

Wildlife management is never simple!


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Iconic Blog!

13/4/2018

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By Robin Noble

As a writer, I tend very much to avoid that word “iconic“; it is over-used, and I feel it should be reserved for something that is truly special. But when I get good views of an osprey, then I feel I can use it...


There is something impressive about most raptors, it is true, and the osprey is pretty big and splendid even among raptors, being, I think, larger than a common buzzard, and magnificent in its white and darkest brown plumage. What makes it so special for me, is that just as I was becoming truly conscious of the wildlife of the Scottish Highlands, (when I was about ten), the osprey hide at Loch Garten in Speyside was opened by the RSPB, in order to let the general public see these, then very rare, birds. They had been persecuted into extinction in Britain, but, despite continuing threats, particularly by then from egg-collectors, they had returned on migration and started breeding. Once the hide was open, my family started making an annual visit there, and I was well and truly hooked (perhaps an appropriate metaphor, as these birds have occasionally also been called “ fishing eagles “?!).

Accordingly, when Lesley told me recently that she had had a quick view of an osprey over the motorway, I felt rather envious, not having had a decent sighting of my favourite birds, for several years. And so, one fine day (believe it or not, before this recent return to distinctly wintry conditions, we did have some!), I did my usual coastal round trip, which I have described before. One of its main destinations is the Etang, and it was when I was strolling around its eastern shore, looking over the expanse of water, that I saw a very large bird heading straight for me. I recognised it immediately; it was an osprey, and it was flying back and forth over the shallow water, close to the Fishermen’s Huts. It did hover several times, but the water was, as ever, slightly murky in the usual breezy conditions, and sadly, I never saw it dive or catch a fish. I did, however, watch it for perhaps twenty minutes, before it departed to the other side of the Etang, where maybe it had more luck.

There were other birds in view, close by, at the same time. Prominent among them were some great crested grebes, parading back and forth, quite close to the shore. They are also wonderful creatures, and were in full summer plumage, complete with bizarre neck-ruffs and ear-tufts. But, significantly further out, there were other, smaller grebes, and, to make identification even more difficult, they were only just emerging from their winter plumage. It was clear to me that they did have a golden patch behind the eye, which both the lovely Slavonian and almost equally attractive black-necked grebes possess when in full summer plumage, that of the first being even more prominent than in the second. The black-necked are better-known this far south, although, this being the migration season, it is hard to be definitive about which will turn up where!

The unusual amount of rain threatens to turn the gravel of our “ drive “ into a meadow, and I was out one day, on my knees, trying to weed it, when I heard a call which, like that of the osprey, seems to be embedded deep in my brain. It was some kind of eagle, and when I looked up, there were two, heading north across the valley, and high in the grey sky. It was impossible to tell what they were, but they certainly seemed intent on going somewhere, like so many other birds at this season. Very recently, when the cold rain of the morning had ceased, and the temperature had risen as the wind dropped, there must have been a hatch of insects around one of our pines, as the air around it was suddenly full of martins. I am not sure what type they were, and as I was on the phone, I did not drop everything to rush out and make an identification. In any case, they did not hang around long - but it does show that, maddening as our current weather may be, it is still a very exciting season!


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In Search of Otters

28/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

Just over a week ago when I was at Als Bachous (see blog of 24th March), I didn't explore beyond the western side of the lake, so decided to do so yesterday. After about 15 hours of rain three days earlier, I thought there was a fair chance of finding otter tracks in mud around the Tech.

It wasn't a dawn expedition, and even though it was a dull, slightly showery morning, there were plenty of flies around - attracting swallows and house martins. This was only the second time I've seen house martins this year, and the first time for swallows (but the local bird group reports having seen both of those, plus alpine swifts, at St Nazaire as early as 2nd March). Further on, three ducks took off across the water. Significantly smaller than mallard, with a distinctive flash of white under the wing, they were reminiscent of, but not, sandpipers. On my way back later, I would see them again, at some distance away on the water. Even with binoculars it was impossible to pick out markings, other than a lot of white on the head of two of them. Later, comparison of poor quality photos with my book, would identify them as garganey ducks. A species I must have seen at some time in my life before, but don't recall. Two males and one female. The white on the male's head is a bold white stripe over the eye. Males also have pretty silver-white patterning on their sides, and pinkish-brown backs. Very striking, and hard to mistake for anything else. My book tells me they will only be passing through here, not breeding.

Once over the steep bank beyond the western shore, I was delighted - sort of - to solve the mystery of the earth mounds I talked about in my previous blog. A new lake has been dug out. This was a huge surprise, and I wonder if the intention is for another fishing lake or nature reserve. I seem to remember that the GOR was interested in purchasing the land at one point, so their involvement is possible. I shall ask them. My delight was tempered only because the original quarry-turned-marshland seemed to have been well populated with amphibians - reptiles too no doubt. Many creatures will have lost their lives during construction work.

Click on photos below for larger image

Down at the Tech, close to Jam Rock where Bruce and I hoped, but failed, to see otters a few years ago, I found prints left by dogs and possibly beech marten, but no otter tracks.

Apart from a lone sandpiper, the river was quiet, but a big, intriguing, stationary blob in the water upstream had me clambering over, under and around trees and brambles to get a closer look. For sure it was no animal, but I was somewhat taken aback to discover it was an abandoned jet ski! It might have drifted down from elsewhere but rather looked as though it had been brought to a sudden halt by floating tree debris.

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Any feelings of schadenfreude were short-lived, however.

I had left the river again and was making my way back towards the main lake, skirting the concrete flood barrier, when the sight of a dead animal brought me to a sudden halt. How does the saying go? Be careful what you wish for.

It was an otter.

I know they all die eventually, and this one might have succumbed to natural causes, but her position, right by this wide track used by earth moving vehicles for the new lake, makes me suspect she was in a collision. Very unlucky if that's the case, because otters are generally nocturnal. I couldn't see any sign of attack by another animal, but blood around her nose suggests to me that her head was hit. One canine tooth was broken and several small front teeth were missing. That could be down to age for all I know, and her red, swollen gums might indicate gum disease (can otters suffer from that?). Equally, it could point to trauma as a result of a head injury - or maggot activity? So very sad to see, whatever the cause.

Because her body wasn't yet too decomposed (maggots were present but tiny), it did give me an opportunity for a very close look and, in the end, I made a second visit, armed with rubber gloves and tape measure! Perhaps I missed my calling as a pathologist.

If you're squeamish, scroll down past the next set of pictures. If you're not, click them for larger images.

Before leaving her, I lifted her away from the puddles, to rest a little higher up, in dead leaves against the wall. And, on returning home, I reported the grim discovery to SOS Loutre, who ask to be notified of sightings, dead or alive, and may be interested in recovering her body.

It's doubly sad that this female was only a few hundred metres from where Bruce discovered the skeleton of another, back in 2009, close to the lake. At least I now have incontrovertible proof that otters are still present in this area - I just wish I hadn't discovered it this way. But where there's one, there will be more, so my quest to see a live one continues.

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Back at Als Bachous

24/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

Despite best intentions last September, the first time I returned to Als Bachous since then was a week ago. As soon as I got out of the car, it was evident that there has been a lot of human activity. And some, at least, is welcome.
 
At first I was aghast to see great heaps of earth at the southern end of the former eastern quarry (now marshland). I had to go and investigate straightaway, and scrambled up the bank separating marsh from lake. There’s just a single line of mounds, but no sign of any fresh quarrying – the marsh, which I explored last time, is still exactly as was. I couldn’t really tell, therefore, where all the earth must have come from to create such spoil heaps. Unless it's been imported? If so, for what purpose? It occurred to me that the GOR might be trying to tempt bee-eaters to breed here again. But the heaps look much too stony to me, so I think I can rule that out.

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Looking across the eastern marsh (former quarry) to new soil heaps
More heartening was the sight of additional efforts made since my previous visit, to prevent vehicle access all round the lake. By ploughing! The wide track on the far side has been completely dug up, and earth barriers created across it in places. 4x4s, quads and scooters might still cope with it, but it should deter most people. A single car-width of track has been left down the east side of the lake, but passing and parking is now difficult owing to the ploughed 'verges'. Nevertheless one determined fisherman was installed along there beside his van when I walked past. They’ll have to keep ploughing, because rain – and more daring drivers – will gradually flatten the soil back down. But it’s a great improvement and the whole area was very quiet. Perhaps this is linked to the mounds of earth – in which case work must still be very much in progress. I was relieved that there was no activity of heavy machinery while I was there.
 
Down in the eastern marsh it was indeed soggy. Tadpoles were active in water-filled ruts, and insects were on the increase, including speckled wood and orange tip butterflies. There were fewer birds than I expected, but I did see one fan-tailed warbler, and heard several Cetti’s (neither of which migrate). At the foot of the GOR notice about amphibians and dragonflies, spraint on a stone looked to have bone fragments in it – possibly left by otter or mink.
 
At the Tech, it was good to see the river running well. Although not especially deep, it would have come to my knees at least, had I tried to wade across to the islet I stood upon in September. From my position on the bank, even with binos, it was impossible to see if there was any fresh otter spraint – my main objective for the day.

It proved equally impossible to spot any of the several Cetti’s warblers that were taunting me with their explosive song. I wondered if the old nest in this low bush on the islet was made by a Cetti’s – quite probably, I think.

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At one point a small blur of brown flew into a bush only a few metres away, immediately disappearing behind leaf buds. That had to be one. I waited for some minutes, camera poised for when it would reappear, which it must eventually. Surely? Nope. Only when I gave up and moved, did it bob into sight for a nanosecond, before flying into deep cover on the opposite bank. One day I'll get a proper look at one.

That morning I had to content myself with watching a group of mating pond skaters, close to the bank. They seemed unbothered by me hovering close above them, but getting a photo in focus was near-impossible because they were constantly on the move, rowing at high speed with those super-long middle legs. I've read since that the males, which are rather shorter than the females, die after mating. Females, on the other hand, have two breeding cycles in a year. Lucky for some!

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This female is multi-tasking - eating a moth while mating.
Back at the lake, the island in the middle looked starkly white with guano – which it always does before the leaves return on the trees.
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At the start of my walk I'd picked out a couple of night herons on there, as well as grey herons and sunbathing cormorants, but on the way back, something black and glistening caught my eye at the water’s edge on the south side. Some kind of animal? Binos confirmed a terrapin. Three, in fact. After a few minutes two more crawled out of the water, and by the time I’d walked on a bit, there were seven. Not far above them, one of the grey herons stood motionless among bamboo canes. I hoped it would consider them too big too tackle, and certainly, at least while I was watching, it paid them no attention.
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Scanning further along the water's edge, my binos picked up a biggish-looking burrow and a strip of bare earth to its right, which looked as though it led to another hole. The fresh looking soil and lack of plant debris seemed to point to these being active, not old and disused. And, presumably, whatever lives in them must be a swimmer ... with a penchant for fish perhaps?
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Apologies for such an over-exposed shot - the only way to make the holes visible.
Although an island burrow should be safe - especially from human disturbance in this lake - somehow I suspect an otter holt would be better concealed. I feel it's more likely that these belong to coypu or mink - but really don't know enough about any of those species.

If I do return around dawn one day, perhaps I'll start observations at that point, before heading for the river. The clocks go forward tonight, so sometime over the next few weeks would be ideal for an expedition like that - before it gets too difficult to throw myself out of bed in the dark. In any case, I need to return soon, to see if there have been any developments with those mounds of earth.

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The Sound of Music - in the Orchards?

14/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren
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For some years I avoided walking too deep into the orchards, partly because of a kind of natural barrier at a line of tall poplars, but mostly because often there emanated, from somewhere beyond those trees, the sound of an electronic keyboard.

Depending on the time of day and direction of the wind, dreadful plinky-plonky noises would drift across the vineyards - a few bars of this, followed by a pause, then a few bars of that. Almost a tune, but not quite. It annoyed me because it clashed with the birds. One day last autumn, when it started up yet again, I gave in to curiosity and changed direction to track down the source. I imagined a house somewhere close by, where an enthusiastic beginner practised, with the windows open. When no house was visible, I next wondered if someone had transported their keyboard to the middle of the orchards and was playing to the trees - a variation on talking to them. There's no accounting for human behaviour, and people play the piano to elephants, after all.

The sound was getting louder; I was closing in. But what I found was, if anything, even more bizarre than I'd imagined.

A tall white pole with loudspeakers on each side of a box at the top. Solar powered. In fact there was a pole every few hundred metres, over several square kilometres. Mercifully, they weren't all belting out the same random notes at the same time, (although I would one day hear two going at once, with different “tunes”). What on earth was the intention behind them? It couldn't be to entertain the fruit pickers, because harvesting was long since over. Surely it couldn't be to encourage growth?

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Quite a mystery. Although it has continued all through the winter, it's only lasted for about five minutes when I've been over that way, which has encouraged me to walk this section of the orchards more frequently than my regular patch.

My main reason for putting up with the intrusive, if spasmodic noise, is that this area is much further from the busy main road, and most of the time the only people I see are those working the land. Except for Mondays when several large groups of what I presume are U3A members crisscross the plantations at speed, arms pumping, walking poles clickety-clacking.

Most of this January was spring-like. In contrast, February was much colder, with several sharp frosts - more what you’d expect for winter. Nevertheless, while the so-called Beast from the East and Storm Emma struck much of Europe and the UK, down here, we got off lightly. Nighttime temperatures didn't seem to go below -4°C, and the lowest daytime temperature I noted was 6°C. We've been getting frequent, short-lived but violent southerlies, though - more than I remember in past winters. These have kept temperatures up but brought down several of the tall, thin poplars that border many of the fruit plantations.

The terrain in between each plot of trees also offers more variety of habitats than the side I usually explore. It’s more watery for one thing. There are several deep irrigation ditches, which sometimes run with water, and whose steep banks are covered in interesting vegetation. Last autumn there was plenty of frog activity - every few feet one or two leapt into the water as I walked along the track above them. Then there’s the narrow Canal de Palau, which I guess might have been dug by the Romans originally.

Close to the canal, several big old oaks stand like sentinels in a grassy spot between orchards (first photo in this blog). It's lovely to see they have been preserved. One is particularly huge and ancient-looking. It's lost a lot of limbs to gales over the years, but the main trunk looks solid enough still.

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Further on, the River Tanyari runs roughly parallel with the canal. That too is relatively narrow. Despite having high, man-made banks either side – flood defence style – it's not deep, but deep enough to cover your boots at a ford, so I haven't ventured across it yet. In any case, I think houses and a lane lie not far beyond. Impenetrable bamboo is the dominant plant on the banks here. Great cover for all sorts of creatures, including Cetti's warblers, which are singing loudly again now. Apart from the ford, you can only see the water where animals have created tracks to it.

I've seen a fox on patrol, and I imagine badgers may also roam. Otters probably visit the river, or perhaps live on it. With the arrival of true spring weather this week, a hare has appeared three times. Yesterday it was on the track ahead, some distance away but ... haring straight for us. Diggers and I stood still (the dog doubtless unable to believe that lunch might be about to run straight into his mouth). With only a few metres to go, it finally veered off, through the nectarine trees. I expected to see something in pursuit, but nothing showed itself. Hares aren't that common in these parts, and I have a feeling we’re encountering the same one. I hope I’m wrong and that’s it’s not alone.

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On a different day, he or she was well camouflaged among the fruit trees
Lizards have been making an appearance for some weeks - the sun is really warming up - and I often hear or catch sight of one scurrying through leaf litter along the northernmost border. Protected by tall poplars and that high river bank, it's the most sheltered stretch. If I haven't already had to take off a layer of clothing by the time I reach it, I'll get down to a T-shirt here. This morning, shorts would have been a good idea.
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Nothern boundary - river bank to right of poplars
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Poplar flowers emerging
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On another warm, sunny morning a few days ago, I heard significant rustling a few feet in front. My first thought was mouse, and I automatically shortened the dog's lead, in case Diggers lunged. When I homed in on the sound, I was surprised to see a small snake writhing in a knot, at the foot of a tree. Was it injured? After a few seconds it unwound itself and seemed to split in two - the bigger part sliding away fast, up the bank; the smaller part wriggling down towards my feet - whereupon it froze. Not part of the snake, I realised, but a lizard with a very long tail. It didn't look wounded, but only when I touched one of its legs did it race off. Fascinating to have seen the reptilian food chain in action - and the first time I've ever seen a snake with prey. I think it must have been a common grass snake (natrix natrix). Lucky day for the lizard. Unlucky day for its captor, which had probably sensed our approach and decided to sacrifice a meal in order to save itself.
 
A different predator has also been at work in the same spot. Diggers has sniffed out the decapitated body of a song thrush. I would have expected a sparrowhawk to have eaten its kill, so I suspect the culprit in this case may have been a magpie, or possibly a jay - there's a big, rowdy gang of jays hanging around, and both species seem to enjoy killing for kicks. I was so sad to see this, not least because it was probably the bird I'd been listening to for about a week. I'd wondered why it had stopped singing, and assumed it had moved on to declare a better territory. Its death won't be wasted if something - one of the buzzards perhaps - benefits from the carrion, but as at today its body lies untouched.

All birds are tuning up now of course. Each time I walk here I'm hearing all three kinds of woodpeckers. Often I'll see the green and great spotted, but the lesser spotted remains elusive (living up to an alternative interpretation of its name, perhaps?). There's quite a lot of drumming going on too - plenty of dead trees for them to raise young in. It would be lovely to locate a green woodpecker's nest hole this year.

A different nest I have noticed is close to the top of an oak tree in the copse I've often visited on the south-eastern edge of this area. The big, twiggy construction is visible only because new leaves haven't quite opened yet. I think it's an old one, but its size - though difficult to judge precisely - makes me wonder if it was perhaps made by buzzards. I've often wondered where the resident pair rears its young - and I know they've been successful at least once. But that really is wishful thinking on my part. There are a few corvids around here too, and it may have belonged to crows for all I know.

Two herons are regulars - often flying overhead between the pond, near the main road where I park the car, and the River Tanyari. Once I was surprised to hear what I thought was one of them calling continuously while perched (invisibly) in a tree. Curious behaviour for a heron. I should have guessed - it turned out to be a jay, imitating.

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As for those plinky-plonky sounds imitating organ music, I have now solved the mystery, thanks to one of the guys who works for the Villeclare estate. He is rounder and balder than many of the others workers, so I recognise him easily at a distance, and we've often waved at each other. One morning he was taking a breather from ploughing and, seeing me approach, pulled out his ear plugs and walked over for a chat.

This was the first time we'd spoken, and his Catalan accent was so strong that for the first ten minutes I only recognised about three words per sentence; all I could do was nod and laugh at what I hoped were appropriate moments. There was mention of a bad back and retirement in a couple of years, and an awful lot about something else. Gradually I got my ear in and gleaned that the Villeclare estate owns 75 hectares of vineyards and orchards. The land with the loudspeakers belongs to someone else.

He explained, with all seriousness, that a certain tiny insect attacks and kills the fruit trees, and that the music is supposed to deter it. "Mozart and the like," he said, "mais ça ne sert à rien." I'm not surprised it's useless - if that's Mozart, I'm Schubert. Besides, I’d love to know what scientific studies have shown that any kind of music will keep away any insects, never mind this species exclusively. And surely it would have to play continuously from spring to autumn - not just for half an hour a day, which seems to be the current schedule.

As the man said, it certainly doesn't seem to be effective, considering the number of diseased trees that were dug up last autumn; work has been ongoing all winter to replace them.

While I have to award points for tackling one problem in an environmentally friendly (other than noise polluting) way, I'm disappointed to see that the same principle isn't applied to other materials used in plantation maintenance. I'm sure I recently read that environmentally friendly tree protectors exist - but I expect they're harder to come by and more expensive than the usual type. Hundreds of plastic cylinders have just been put round young trees in this musical sector of the orchards. I'm not sure if they'll be removed and disposed of properly once the trees are older, but if not, they will simply turn brittle in the fierce summer heat, break up and be dispersed by the wind. To be fair, I haven't yet seen a lot of evidence of this type of litter from past plantings, but much of it might now be too small to notice with the naked eye, or ploughed into the soil.

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There’s very little general litter – no surprise considering the lack of people – so yesterday, an empty chocolate wrapper beside the track really stood out. I did my bit: picked it up, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it in a pocket. Only at that point did my fingers register that the paper was slightly wet. The ground, however, was quite dry. Uh-oh. My best hope was that a dog had peed on the wrapper, but my worst fear was realised when a sniff test on my hand revealed the distinctive, pungent pong of fox. So much for good deeds. I managed to extract the wrapper from my pocket and pop it into a dog poo bag. Shame I hadn't thought to pick it up with that! As anticipated, even rinsing my hands in the river made little difference, so that turned into a very smelly walk. Usually, though, despite unmusical interruptions every so often, the varied habitats and views of Canigou and the Albères massif make this a lovely, peaceful place to wander.
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Impossible to tire of sights such as this
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