Category: Birds

Midwinter Travel

26/1/2018

By Robin Noble

One of the almost-inevitable aspects of the ex-pat life is that we sometimes travel back to Britain. We each have our favoured, or most convenient, way of doing it. If I am travelling alone, I get the wonderful one-euro bus from close to home, to Perpignan, and one of the smooth, spacious trains to Montpellier, from where I take a plane to Gatwick.

The train journey can be wonderful, and it was so, when I went that way before Christmas. It was a brilliantly sunny and windy day, quite blinding at times as the blazing light was reflected off the waves on all the étangs through which the railway wends its way. And all the way along, there were the usual birds, but in greater numbers than I had seen before. Many of them were quite close to the low embankment on which the train runs, enjoying its shelter, which meant that I saw them closer than I usually do. The train goes at quite a speed along this section, so I had fleeting views of an endless procession of flamingos, the pink showing clearly if they flew as the train approached, and the clean white of an equal number of egrets. Depending on exactly where we were, at times the background was a fairy-tale view of a lofty, snowy Canigou. In places, particularly in front of the bridge at Béziers, there were lots of gulls, equally vivid in the sun. On this day, the birds lit up the complex landscape of the étangs, marshes and old salt pans through which the line passes.

As world sea-levels rise, so, inevitably, must that of the Mediterranean, and the rich agricultural land, the vineyards and orchards that lie further west are fortunate in having this extensive and watery area as a barrier between them and the rising sea. In Britain, there are several places where farmland has been recently sacrificed to the sea, as marshes and pools dissipate the power of the rising seas and oceans much more effectively than solid barriers. (As British winters seem to be getting increasingly stormy, this will become more necessary with the passing of time:) And, as my recent journey proved, such areas are very beneficial to wildlife, too. My only worry is that one day the railway might get washed away!

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A Favourite Old Haunt Revisited

21/9/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

Not long after my husband and I moved out here in 2005 we met Bruce, who told me about a lake not far from home, hidden among orchards and vineyards between the River Tech and busy main road that runs from Le Boulou to Argelès-sur-Mer. It's known as the plan d'eau de Villelongue-dels-Monts. Which has always struck me as odd because it's much closer to the village of St Génis des Fontaines.

For at least three years I came here a lot with my first dog. It only takes about fifteen minutes to circuit the whole thing, but the northern shore is a few hundred yards from the river, so we would often extend walks over there. The general area had a variety of habitats: land immediately to the east and west of the lake was sand quarry. The west one was no longer worked, but the other was active. While far less scenic and tranquil – especially when diggers and trucks were reversing and beeping – several sand heaps and high quarry banks were favourite nest sites for colonies of bee-eaters. I had my best ever views of these birds in that spot, and have yet to come across another breeding ground.

Bruce often reported that while hunting dragonflies down by the river, he had found spraint containing fragments of bone and shell, on stones. Were there otters here? When he later found the near-skeleton remains of one by the lake, our question was answered. Determined to see the living creatures, we once mounted a sunset otterwatch expedition. I’d heard that pine martens have a sweet tooth and can’t resist jam, so if it worked for them... After daubing the otters’ favourite rock with strawberry compote, we scrambled up the bank and concealed ourselves as best we could among the trees at the bottom of the concrete flood barrier; binoculars trained on Jam Rock. The wind direction was in our favour and dusk was falling. We neither moved nor spoke.

All was quiet until a bell-jangling flock of sheep trotted along the flood barrier above us. Their shepherd, on the other side, might not have been aware of us, but several sheep gave us funny looks as they passed. No otters showed up. We weren't that surprised – it was always a long shot and, in retrospect, a fillet of trout might have been a more appropriate lure. The trip wasn’t a complete waste of time, though. Sometime after the sheep had disappeared, suddenly – as if from nowhere – a kingfisher landed on a twig right in front of us.

Over time the west quarry became overgrown; sand heaps were removed from the east quarry, and it was hollowed out, leaving a bare, bleak basin, before all work stopped. The bee-eaters lost their summer homes and were forced to move elsewhere. Although neither quarry filled with water the way the central lake has (I assume that was a quarry too at some point), they stayed damp from autumn to spring. If I walked along the high, man-made ridge separating the lake from the east quarry, I would sometimes see black-winged stilts striding about in big puddles in the bottom. Unfortunately, all too soon the most frequent visitors were youngsters on quad bikes and motor scooters. Peaceful walks became impossible at weekends and throughout the summer. Increasing numbers of free campers in tents and campervans began to invade the lake surrounds too, transforming the landscape into a refuse tip and public toilet.

I stopped going.

My first trip back for about seven years was in May 2015, on an outing with the local bird group (GOR). They call the lake by its Catalan name: Als Bachous. We set off at about 8.30am, when there weren't too many other people about. The main aim of that trip was to look for amphibians and reptiles in the former west quarry, which by then had turned into a natural marshy habitat, repopulated with grasses, low shrubs and poplar trees.

On the way, our leader pointed out a couple of night herons on the edge of the wooded island in the middle of the lake. I was used to seeing grey and white herons on there, but night herons were entirely new to me. They must have been present years ago as well, and I'd never noticed them – never thought to look! We were too far away for good views, even through binoculars, but to me they were like the undertakers of the bird world, standing on or in the trees, hunched and motionless, sombre and silent, waiting for night to fall again.

I also learned that, years ago, there were always penduline tits around the lake. They built their hanging, flask-shaped nests of cobwebs and "cotton" (plant down) from the water-loving black poplars that grew here. I would love to have seen those. But there are no more black poplars (I think due mainly to drainage and hybridisation), so the penduline tits have gone elsewhere too. I'm not clear as to whether all black poplars have disappeared from these parts, however, so that will be something to investigate one day.

While frog hunting in the marshes, we were also lucky enough to see a black kite, a pair of short-toed eagles and a solitary griffon vulture pass low overhead. All probably migrating – I've certainly never seen griffons in the Albères before or since.

One evening a few weeks after the GOR trip, I took Isobel there. Bruce met us and, while I did a circuit of the lake, they both sat by the water, close to where we'd parked; Isobel, armed with camera and long lens, watching for night herons on the island; Bruce watching for dragonflies. By the time I got back to them, Isobel had taken some lovely shots of a great crested grebe, and of swallows skimming the water's surface – as well as a distant night heron. The peace was soon shattered, however, by a couple on a quad bike, haring noisily up and down the track mere yards from us, kicking up choking clouds of dust as it skidded round the car park, trying to impress. Or annoy. Interestingly, although we couldn't get away fast enough, none of the birds seemed bothered at all.

It wasn't until earlier this month that I decided to venture over there again, intrigued to see what might have changed.

I took a leaf out of the GOR's book and arrived early, at around 8am. At the entrance, a big sign declared that the only activity allowed at the lake is fishing. There was also a low concrete arch over the road (height restriction 1.9m.). Impossible not to duck as I drove under that. In the car park – deserted but for me – a couple of large dustbins were chained to trees. No litter or broken glass. This was encouraging.

I headed west first of all, to the point where the lakeshore is nearest the island. Against the early, low sunlight, dozens of house martins were skimming the water for insects, and carp were leaping and splashing heavily in every direction. On the island several egrets, two cormorants and one grey heron were immediately obvious in trees at the water's edge. After some scanning and squinting, I was delighted to finally spot two night herons as well. They were, once again, mere silhouettes through the binoculars, but on checking photos cropped to fuzziness later, both turned out to be juveniles (brown, with streaked chests). They are stockier than their larger grey cousins, and their normal stance – legs straight and set quite wide apart – creates a slightly comical appearance head-on.

At the western shore I passed several fishermen/women, plus a couple of campers. It's still possible (even if interdit) to drive round three-quarters of the lake, so I don't see how camping will ever be stopped completely, assuming that’s the objective.

At this point I left the lake and climbed over the ridge, which was (and has always been) covered in the ubiquitous bamboo that blocks one's view of so much of our waterways), skirted the old quarry marshes I'd explored with the bird group, and carried on to the river. Here, I was able to walk on stretches that spend the winter underwater. I had to watch where I was putting my feet – first of all crossing mud that was hard-packed, worn smooth and slime-coated, then scrambling over ankle-twisting loose rocks.

As I reached an islet, an explosive warble in a bush a few feet away stopped me in my tracks. The sound kept moving around but whatever was making it must have been wearing a cloak of invisibility. A little further on I found a bigger, flattish rock where I could sit and wait, with a short view upstream. Several warblers were teasing me with their song now, and I did finally glimpse one (small, brown - could have been anything) flying across the river. After recording their call on my phone, I've since confirmed that they were Cetti's warblers. Non-migratory. The I.D. was a surprise because I thought I'd recorded a Cetti's a few years ago by the pond in the vineyards; turns out I misidentified that one.

The soundtrack of birds, running water and breeze through poplar leaves, combined with the sight of several female mallard pootling about in the shallows up ahead made for a very pleasant fifteen minutes’ rest. Flies, dragonflies and moths were constantly flitting over the river, and these drew my attention to more distant “somethings” that proved very puzzling. In a deeply shaded stretch under overhanging bushes by the far bank, they seemed to be skimming back and forth on the water (like pond skaters, only much bigger) and then dipping underneath the surface. I didn't think they were frogs or fish. Big beetles perhaps? There were lots of them. Also over there, between them and me, a big boulder sticking out of deeper water had droppings on it. Very likely otter, I thought.

Then another movement caught my eye: a small bird, flying low and fast as a dart, upstream. A flash of tangerine below, turquoise above as it passed. Kingfisher! Fantastic to see they're still here, and within yards of where Jam Rock used to be. The end of the summer can be a good time to see them, apparently - when rivers are low and fish are concentrated in the shallows. In five seconds this one had gone, and didn't return - I was lucky to have seen it at all.

It was impossible to walk downstream alongside the Tech for far, but after detouring back inland for a few hundred yards, I got to the river's edge again. More droppings on stones here too.

At that point I was east of the lake. From there, through breaks in the bamboo, I could see another side of the island. Perched in a tree on its edge – though still too far away for a good photo – stood an adult night heron, looking this way and that. His or her pale creamy chest, dark head and back were quite unlike the youngsters. By then it was nearly 10 o'clock. Rather late for a night heron to be out?

This morning I went back, and had the whole place to myself. I wanted to see if I could explore the former east quarry, and found a way in on the side closest to the river. It involved slithering down a pebbly slope (dog in tow), onto a disused vehicle track. This seemed to be the only way through and, the further we walked, the more overgrown it became. Very few people must venture down here. The most prolific plant life, after poplar, seemed to be those tough, spiky grasses you associate with marshland (I have no idea what species), some kind of myrtle, wild carrot, pampas grass and bamboo.

But there were a couple of areas of bulrushes too. The sign in the photo below (erected by the GOR, I noticed), asks people to keep out of the water just there, because it’s a breeding area for amphibians and dragonflies.

So it looks as though the bird group may be managing the land to some extent. The presence of bulrushes made me wonder if bearded tits might be attracted to this spot (if not now, in the future – as the area matures). They are not far over the border, at the Aiguamolls de l’Empordà wetlands reserve.

Although not especially boggy, the ground was still fairly damp – it’s unusual for my walking boots to get wet at this time of year. And there were dragonflies. All the same species, I think: hawkers of some kind, with blue and black abdomens. (I must check with Bruce.) They rarely settled, but one or two hovered for several seconds, right in front of me. Once or twice I noticed one curl its abdomen under and round to its head for a few seconds, while it was flying. I have no idea what that was all about – it was all on its own, so no hanky-panky was going on. Common blue butterflies and grasshoppers were the only other insects of note. I can imagine this will be alive with birds in spring, but today I only heard Cetti’s warblers again, plus one or two goldfinches. Any amphibians were keeping a low profile, but I didn’t go rooting about disturbing them. It will certainly be worth visiting again in different seasons.

The other reason for today’s return was to recce the second area of the river where I saw more possible signs of otters last time. With a view to a pre-dawn visit (without jam), I wanted to find a spot with a decent view of the river.

To get there from the quarry was a short but strenuous scramble (for me if not for Digby the dog) over a series of steep, stony ridge and furrows – created deliberately, I imagine, to discourage kids on bikes and quads.

Once at the river, so many stones on a wide islet were decorated with grey, crumbly (old) droppings. From what I could tell, they were mainly composed of crustacean shell fragments. I believe we do have mink here (escapees) that compete to some extent with otters. However, their droppings apparently resemble those of beech and pine marten (more liquid, comprising berry seeds, possibly frog bones). I’m pretty sure the ones I found were left by otters.

While I was examining one lot, Digby found a fresher specimen, I think, which he licked before trying to rub it behind his ears. A few minutes later his nose went up, sniffing and pointing towards a thicket just across a narrow stretch of shallows on the other side of the islet. No way were we going to investigate that.

I was more interested in a huge tree root left by a flood. Bruce has written about flood debris before, and I’m always staggered by the volume, height and weight of it to be found along the Tech. Whatever deposited this would have been an awesome and terrifying sight.

I had weighted down the end of Digby’s leash with a stone, and was crouched, composing what would turn out to be a rubbish shot of Flood-Debris-and-River-Through-Bamboo, when surreptitious sploshing made me look round. The lead was free, trailing in the water behind the dog, who was nearly across. I lurched, slipped, landed on my left buttock, reached out, and just managed to hook one finger of my left hand round the very end of the lead. By now I was nearly horizontal but his progress was halted and, providing he didn’t jerk me facedown into the water, all would end well.

It did. Neither camera nor binoculars got baptised.

Time to quit while I was ahead, nevertheless. And, back on the main bank, I found what might be a good spot from which to watch for otters sometime soon.

What strikes me most about both visits this month is how the habitats around the lake have changed in only the twelve years I've lived here. The east quarry, now a lush, dense expanse of green – mostly young poplars, same as the west side – is near impenetrable to all but animals and birds, and has such different residents these days. The bee-eaters' arrival in and departure from this little spot seems to have been wholly dependent upon human activity. On the one hand it's sad that those birds have been forced out, but on the other, it's pleasing to see how quickly nature has reclaimed the land – with very little human help – and is currently providing a wonderful damp, safe haven for many different species.

It also means that Als Bachous may be back on my regular walking itinerary.

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Five-Year Garden Bird List

20/9/2017

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By Robin Noble

As Martine and I have been in this house (and garden) for five years now, I thought it might be interesting to write up the list of all the birds seen (and heard) in, and from, our medium-sized suburban garden on the outskirts of Ceret. The following is in the “official" order, as used in most birdbooks.

Goldcrest
Great tit
Blue tit
Coal tit
Crested tit
Long-tailed tit
Robin
House sparrow
Greenfinch
Goldfinch
Serin
Chaffinch
Backcap
Sardinian warbler
Redstart
Black redstart
Short-toed treecreeper
Wryneck
Nuthatch
Cirl bunting
White wagtail
Swallow
House martin
Swift
Blackbird
Starling
Bee-eater
Collared dove
Great spotted woodpecker
Hoopoe
Magpie
Jay
Raven
Cuckoo
Kestrel
Sparrowhawk
Buzzard
Golden eagle
Short-toed eagle
Tawny owl
Scops owl
Grey heron
Common crane
Duck of some kind in the distance, probably mallard,
Gull ditto in the distance
Cormorant

And, last but not least, I once saw a green parrot of some kind (not a parakeet) in a tree in the garden; no doubt it was a domestic escapee! And a local starling keeps trying to pretend that it is a golden oriole, but I have not counted it either!

I make that 46 different species; when you consider that there are a few quite common birds around which I have missed, I think that makes a reasonable total for casual watching, and suggests that this is quite a good place for birds. We have views of the mountains, birds from the woods at the back of our estate clearly come down into the garden in the winter, and it seems that we are on a reasonably busy migration route to judge by the numbers of bee-eaters and hirundines which have been passing over in recent weeks. All in all, quite a diverse area for relaxed bird-watching!

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Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

22/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

In May the local bird group alerted members to an apparent dearth of woodchat shrike in the region. Although not officially designated a species at risk, its favourite habitat of vineyards, orchards and scrubby grassland in the Roussillon plain is being eaten up year on year by building projects; we were asked to look out for this handsome little butcher bird.

They are summer visitors, similar in size to a wheatear - bigger than a sparrow, smaller than a song thrush; nicknamed "butcher birds" because, like other shrikes, they have a gruesome habit of hanging dead prey on thorns. I have yet to find one of these larders, but for several years running have seen an adult (always on its own) in roughly the same area on my regular vineyard and orchard circuit. Early this spring I saw one on two occasions, but in a slightly different section of the walk. Come April, I switched to walking in the hills during the worst of the tick season (ticks can be particularly bad in the vineyards, where sheep are sometimes grazed), and only returned to to the plain around the beginning of this month.

In the last three days, to my delight, I've identified two small family groups of woodchat shrike. Except that up to now, per group, I've only ever seen one adult and no more than three young in the same place at the same time. One lot I keep finding in an area of apricot, olive, pine and a few oak trees; the other, among vines and oaks (exactly where I've seen a single bird in previous years). Only two or three hundred metres of grassland separate these micro habitats, which isn't far as the shrike flies. So I've been trying to work out if one family of five or six young has split into two, to facilitate feeding and training duties, or if, in fact, there are two families of about three young each. I've learned that the first scenario is quite possible. Equally, it's not unusual for this species to nest very close together, but in those circumstances adults usually have spats along the territorial border. So far I haven't witnessed any arguments.

Yesterday I photographed one parent in the olive and apricot habitat, and this morning finally captured the other in the vines. On checking the pictures, it's obvious straightaway that they are different birds. But which sex? If both the same, I could safely assume we have two families.

Unfortunately, sexing woodchat shrike isn't easy; they have very similar plumage. Apart from a bright chestnut cap, which extends down the back of their neck, they are black and white. A white rump and bold white flashes on their wings are especially distinctive in flight. According to my book, the main difference is that the female has a little more white around her eye. Impossible to spot that in the field, and inconclusive in my photos at maximum magnification. Today I asked the GOR for their opinion. Apparently there can be a lot of variation between individuals, but the consensus is that my rather more drab adult with blobs on the chest, is most probably a female (below left), while the other, with brighter, smarter plumage, is a male (below right). I might have have guessed.
Click on photos for larger image.

Here's the male again. Upset by my presence, he was sounding a harsh, rattling alarm and wagging his long tail - from side to side as well as up and down.

Below: two juveniles. They are quite spotty, but already have the beginnings of wing and tail patterns. You might also just be able to make out the little hook on the end of the beak, which is invaluable for dealing with their favourite food: mainly insects, but occasionally small vertebrates. Most of the time they keep watch from a bush or post, and drop onto prey. They occasionally catch insects on the wing, and I did watch one youngster attempt this today - without success. They still have quite a bit to learn before their long, first journey to sub-Saharan Africa - which may begin as early as next month.

I was amused to watch two chasing Dad at one point, and I wondered if they were harrassing him for something in his beak that I couldn't see. Denied an easy meal, were they being forced to hunt for themselves, or was it a game? In many respects they are already behaving and sounding like grown ups, but from time to time they regress to begging. To me, their begging call sounds like the French word for "quick". Vite...vite...vite...vite, they cry. Dad doesn't seem to be falling for that any more, but Mum is still a soft touch. She gave in to this one.

In the clip below, the same youngster is still reluctant to fend for itself.

Woodchat shrike - juvenile begging parent from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

In the next clip, you can hear the alarm call and see how the male flashes his tail about, to intimidate the likes of me. For a while, one of his offspring is alongside, practising tail-wagging and his spot-and-drop hunting technique.

Woodchat shrike (male with juvenile) from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

My conclusion, at least for the time being, is that there is one family of five or six young, split into two groups.

This behaviour strikes me as practical, and a clever way of increasing the survival chances of the whole brood. It also intrigues me. If I understand correctly, adult pairs aren't hardwired to do this every year as a matter of course. So how do they make the decision, and how do they communicate it to each other and their young? My first guess is that it depends on numbers. It's normal for five or six eggs to be laid. But if all chicks fledge, this number of mouths to feed could be the trigger (which then begs another question: can woodchat shrike count?). My second guess is that the female feeds only some of the young once they've fledged (which would indicate that adults can tell their offspring apart). Those individuals imprint on her and follow her wherever she flies. Meanwhile, the male feeds only the others, and they imprint on him. These suppositions have no scientific foundation whatsoever but are, in lieu of further research, my best stab at thinking like a shrike.

Metres away from all this activity, golden orioles are having flying lessons. Yesterday an adult male - tropical bright - was accompanied by three others that were much greener. One might have been his mate, or all were juveniles. (Females and young can be easily mistaken for green woodpeckers, which are only a little bigger than orioles.) They seemed to be having great fun zooming acrobatically back and forth through a stand of pines until, for a moment, three of them took a breather in the same tree.

These birds are notoriously difficult to capture on camera and this is the closest I've been to any that have made themselves visible. They are extremely shy - more often heard than seen - which is frustrating, and a great pity because they are so beautiful. The male contrived to hide his head each time I clicked the shutter. After he had flown off, I did manage a couple of slightly better shots of a juvenile eating a small pine cone. Even then, as you can see, I never managed to get the whole bird in the same picture!
Click on photos for larger image.

I usually stay on the dirt tracks but yesterday, while stalking shrikes and orioles, I crossed a couple of patches of grassland, which had been cut for hay earlier in the season. It was nearly lunchtime and, as the heat rose to sizzling, so the cicadas and grasshoppers turned up the volume. In one rather more overgrown corner, they were everywhere, leaping out of my way as I brushed through stubble and young, green shoots. I was now back in Mother Shrike's territory. No wonder she and her kids liked this spot.

Temporarily distracted from birdwatching, I took a closer look. There seems to be a huge variety of grasshopper species, and all are so well camouflaged.
Click for larger image.

Shortly after snapping those two, something much bigger scurried from under my feet.

At the other end of the size scale to my crab spider of last month's blog, yes, it is as massive and hairy as it looks, and is another master - or possibly mistress in this case - of disguise. It's a type of wolf spider (Hogna radiata). It takes refuge in tunnels, and actively hunts for prey instead of spinning a web or waiting in ambush. I blogged about wolf spiders in November 2015 when I came across a female of the same or similar species, with young on her back. I didn't manage to photograph that extraordinary sight and haven't seen another one until today. If I return to this grassy spot with my camera in the autumn, perhaps I'll be lucky and capture one who's carrying her spiderlings - or even, you never know, teaching them to hunt and run.

Inevitably, new discoveries lead to new questions. Now I'm wondering if woodchat shrike prey on wolf spiders...

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Short Marine Blog

9/7/2017

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By Robin Noble

When we are out at sea, exploring our amazing coast, we are always conscious of the endless eastern horizon, that great expanse of ocean; (yes, I know the Mediterranean is just a “sea”, but it is, in fact, enormous, and gives me the same feeling as looking across the Atlantic from Orkney used to do!). We do get to peek under that endless surface, when we are snorkelling around the coastal rocks, but once further out, it is hard to get any real sense of what goes on, under or over the water, as we constantly look eastwards, and generally, see nothing.

But, sometimes, it is different. One day recently, we watched a trawler coming into Port Vendres: they had obviously had a catch, and were gutting the fish. The boat was followed by a great crowd of gulls, but there were other birds, too, which must have been lured from much further out than we normally venture, as we very rarely, or never, see them. There were several young gannets, in various shades from dark blue-grey to blotchy white, but there were also birds belonging to a family which we immediately recognised from our (Scottish) West Coast background. These were, clearly, shearwaters, wonderful birds, which wander the oceans of the Earth, only coming ashore to breed. We had once before seen members of this family here: the Greater Shearwater, large and handsome, but these birds were smaller, plainer, if equally brownish in contrast to the blue-black of the Manx with which we are so familiar. They have to be Balearic Shearwaters, which breed on the islands of the same name, but wander the Mediterranean from Greece westwards, and even may be seen at times around the British Coast and in the North Sea. This we discovered once home; on this day we were just happy to watch their characteristic looping flight, as they described figures-of-eight around the trawler.

And yesterday we were enjoying the slightly turbulent water around Cap Béar. Here we briefly saw another of the shearwaters, and then, ahead of us, a rather wobbly, tall fin. Intrigued, we hastened towards it, and for a quick moment, had a good view of one of the strangest creatures of the sea. It was a sunfish. These, to be honest, look to me like one of Nature’s jokes, as it seems simply like the front half of a fish, which has unfortunately lost its rear end. I would have to admit that in the water it did not look quite as weird as in some of the photos you see. We did not have long to admire it, no time to get the cameras out, as it was obviously aware of the presence of the boat, and submerged quite quickly. It seems they can grow to great size – some being over three metres in length – but ours was probably about one metre. Its diet apparently consists of jellyfish, of which as a swimmer who does not wear a wetsuit, I can only approve!

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May - It's Been a Wild Month!

29/5/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

This has been an extraordinary month for me in terms of wildlife observations. Most have taken place in the same small area of the Albères, which seems to be inhabited by a rich variety of creatures. This must be because habitats range from scrub, vineyards and a cherry orchard on the north side of the track, to cork oak woods with a stream and rock pool on the south side. I'm sure just as much has been happening around me in previous years - I've simply been looking harder this time. And I put that down to having a new camera, which, crucially, has a viewfinder.

The photos and video clips I've shot, whilst not high quality, have provided far more detail than I could pick up with the naked eye or would have remembered from fleeting glimpses through binoculars. Since that first sighting of the lesser spotted woodpeckers (blog, 13th May), I've taken the camera (in preference to binoculars) on each morning walk. If I hadn't, I might never have confirmed the identity of those little woodpeckers or the fire salamander larvae.

Then there were two different warblers I kept hearing but couldn't identify from their songs. On successive mornings the one bird chattered and warbled its heart out, hidden from view behind leaves, while the other skulked low in shady bushes. They were less than fifty feet from each other. From sound recordings, I pinned the songs down and, some days after that, finally caught sight of the birds. The yellow Melodious Warbler was superbly camouflaged and never budged from his position. I have seen him only once. The skulking Subalpine, on the other hand, turned very obliging, suddenly taking to singing in full view from a pine tree. Neither was very close for good shots - but close enough to help identification.

More familiar to me - and less reclusive - is the treecreeper. It's one of my favourite woodland birds, but I recently discovered that they are rare in this region. Instead, we have short-toed treecreepers. Unless I saw the two species side by side, I doubt I'd be able to tell the difference. Both are quick movers, darting up this tree, flying to that one, busily working their way up and up, poking at the bark for insects and grubs. But serendipity struck again when I photographed one that flew onto the stump of a dead cork and stayed still, wings spread, for a good minute. Behaviour I've never witnessed before, whose purpose mystified me. Because the bird was in full sun, it surely can't have been cooling off. Perhaps I was close to its nest and it was pretending to be injured, to lure me away. But birds that play wounded usually flap about as if they have a broken wing and can't fly. This one neither moved nor called an alarm. For now the mystery remains - but I'm grateful to be able to look at the wonderful patterning on its wings, as often as I want.

Here's a more classic pose.

One of the most exciting sightings came mid-month at about 9.30am. My dog and I were walking down the edge of an abandoned vineyard, which is gradually being reclaimed by the forest. Scrub to our right, and the start of a copse to our left. A rustling sound in dead leaves at ground level on our left made us both pause. Neither of us could see anything through the mass of brambles and oak suckers. My first thought was Blackbird. But my dog doesn't usually pay any attention to those. He knows their smell. He was "pointing", visibly interested and trying to identify the scent. Whatever it was seemed to move away. A few feet ahead, there was a way through, into the copse, so I decided we would take a look, even though I expected any animal to have disappeared by the time we showed up. My dog was extremely helpful, nose to ground, and dragged me to a tree. By now I was thinking red squirrel or domestic cat. I peered up, into all the trees immediately around us. And there was something. Quite high. Peering down at us. It was either a pine or beech marten.

Photos confirm it's a beech marten. (Necks and chests of pine martens are more apricot coloured)

He seemed as curious about us as I was about him. My dog couldn't see him, lost interest and waited patiently while I took photos. I was astonished when, after a few minutes, the marten turned around (revealing quite clearly that he was indeed a male!), disappeared behind the main trunk and slowly, ever so quietly, began to descend. I watched his shadow on the leaves as he came down. Finally he reappeared on a lower branch. But now my dog spotted him, barked, dragged on the lead, desperate to give chase, and that was the end of photo opportunities.

I don't often see mammals here, so this was a real treat - especially as beech martens are more often creatures of the night or dusk. Robin, who is familiar with their pine marten cousins in Scotland, told me that it probably has young at the moment; those extra, hungry mouths might necessitate more activity during daytime.

Certainly a lot seem to be about generally; I'm noticing their distinctive droppings everywhere - including outside our front gate. At the moment they appear to be gorging on cherries - wild ones as well as those in our gardens and orchards, I expect.

With only a few days of the month left, and birdsong already beginning to diminish, the chances of seeing anything different on my regular walk were low, I thought. But I was forgetting about reptiles. May is Snake Month of course. I sometimes hear a prolonged rustle in the verge as something slithers away. They usually move far too fast to spot. So it was a delight, a couple of days ago, to come across a ladder snake in the middle of the lane. Also something of a surprise at 7.45 in the morning, when the temperature was relatively cool. The snake was lying completely still, but didn't look injured. I wondered if, having sensed our approach, it was playing dead. The road was shaded just there too, so the snake, if chilly, might be sluggish?

Although there is little traffic on that lane, there was still a risk it would be run over by a vehicle or bike if it stayed there. Most snakes I see are dead ones. Another walker passed, had a look, gave it a helpful poke with her stick, and decided it was dead or ill. I wasn't nearly so sure and, once she left us, I noticed slight movement. After capturing the snake on film, I gently touched the tip of its tail with a twig. No response. With the twig, I lifted its tail a little. Nothing. Was I going to have to pick it up? Not knowing if ladder snakes are the kind that squirt noxious liquid from their anal glands, I decided against that. Gradually, I teased it into movement, and it slowly slid away off the road and down the bank.

Bruce subsequently told me ladder snakes, though not venomous, do bite if handled. I'm so glad I made the right decision.

The 'rungs' of the ladder are more prominent in younger snakes - markings fade considerably with age.

It looks longer than it was - which must have been about a foot and a half. (Beech marten droppings by its head - note a couple of cherry stones!)

Here it is, on the move, scenting the air (to the accompaniment of several birds, including that melodious warbler, whose tree is nearby).

Ladder Snake from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Sometimes it can be a bind, juggling camera and dog lead, but each day the effort has paid off, leaving me with a fine collection of memories - of insects, birds, mammals, amphibians and reptiles. A wild month indeed.

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Nuthatches Leaving Home and House Hunting

28/5/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

A month after suspecting a nuthatch was visiting a nest hole, (my blog of 30th April) I returned to see if anything was happening there.

The bracken had grown up considerably since my first visit, acting as an umbrella over my dog as we navigated the narrow track. Brambles and gorse also made progress slower this time. It seemed much quieter generally than last time. With the breeding season well underway now - territories established and mates chosen - there is less for birds to sing about and more work to be done feeding young.

On reaching the glade, I was again careful to keep well back from the tree, and settled myself into a semi comfortable position, still and quiet. With the camera on maximum zoom, I immediately saw an adult outside the hole, with a beak full of grubs. After it flew off again, I was stunned to witness this:

Fledgling Nuthatches from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

For the few minutes I was there, I think at least four juveniles either left the nest or, like the last one in this clip, thought better of it.

A few years ago I was lucky enough to notice a couple of juvenile great spotted woodpeckers looking out of their nest the day before they fledged. To arrive, once again, at the very moment these nuthatches were fledging, struck me as highly unlikely. There's serendipity and serendipity. Most birds don't return to the nest after fledging, but I wondered if nuthatches might be different. Had they used it as a roost the previous night, and simply been having a lie-in? Internet research hasn't definitively answered that. It's possible. However, they still seemed a little unsteady on their legs and wings.

Today, in the same general area, but on the main piste, I watched two adults (presumably) investigate a couple of old woodpecker holes. If our village council hadn't strimmed a fire-break last year, I would probably never have seen them:

Nuthatches investigate old woodpecker hole from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

My book says nuthatches breed between April and July, so it's possible these two are late setting up home compared with the other family. Both holes in this tree seem way too big for them, but apparently they're good at conversion projects, and pack mud around the entrance until it's a perfect fit. This site also seems rather close to the track for their comfort - "location, location, location", applies as much to birds as humans - but I shall continue to look out for them whenever I pass by.

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Wishing for Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers

13/5/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

I don't consider myself a twitcher because I don't usually race off to far flung corners whenever a rare bird is sighted. Perhaps because of this there remain a lot of species I have yet to see. The Lesser Spotted Woodpecker is one, and, though not even classed as rare, it has long been on my wish list. Wishful thinking can be dangerous, however, when observing birds. My father once convinced himself that a nightingale had taken up residence in a field near our house in Northumberland. This despite the fact that nightingales were, literally, unheard of so far north, and the incessant "song" we were hearing at night didn't seem to match the description in the bird book (I was a teenager, and resources like the internet and Youtube recordings didn't exist in those days). After calling out the local RSPB guy, Dad was mortified to discover it was an insomniac sedge warbler.

This memory resurfaced yesterday when, on a regular walk, a bird caught my attention as it landed in a dead cork oak not far away, just beside the lane. As is so often Sod's Law, I had left the binoculars at home. And am still trying to get used to my new varifocal specs. In profile against the trunk (and against the light), the bird was definitely a woodpecker. My immediate thought was Wryneck because I was close, it was small and surely much too small for a Great Spotted. It looked pale, drab, and after pecking at the bark for a few seconds, it flew away. To my surprise another immediately alighted in exactly the same spot, and pecked briefly at the same bit of tree before flying off as well. This time I thought I caught a flash of black and white spots as it flew. Or did I? From the direction they flew in, I then heard a woodpecker call. Not a Wryneck, but vaguely similar: quick-fire, strident tchik-tchik-tchik-tchik-tchik... Had I just seen my first ever Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers? Or was I deluding myself?

I concluded that whatever species, this was a pair, which meant they were probably nesting somewhere nearby. Which, in turn, meant there was a high chance of seeing them again in the same area.

Back home, the distribution map in my RSPB bird book showed that, apart from a few isolated patches in Spain, the Pyrenees are on the south western edge of the Lesser Spotteds' range; this species is resident all year round. The wingspan is the same as the summer visiting wryneck but its body is about 1cm shorter, making it the smallest of our woodpeckers. Other than size, the most distinctive difference between Lesser and Great Spotted (and the difference easiest to spot) is that Lesser don't have bold white shoulder patches. Their backs are black, with broad white bars. According to the book, they excavate 3cm holes and prefer trees like limes and elms with very upright twigs. This made me doubt my sighting, until I remembered that immediately opposite the cork tree where I'd seen the birds, there were a few poplars. A Youtube recording of their call sounded very like the bird I heard. In fact, I realised, I've heard it several times before but wrongly assumed it to be the Great Spotted.

Today I returned - suitably equipped this time - excited but determined to make the correct ID. The tree they were in yesterday was on the off-piste track I investigated and blogged about in April. So, with the intention of gaining height and putting the sun behind me, I headed up it. From there I would have a fine view of the tops of those poplars.

Only a few metres in, I heard a single tchik, which I usually associate with Great Spotted woodies. I stopped. The bird sounded low down, not far in front of me, but I couldn't see any movement in the trees or on the ground. As the call continued and sped up, I recorded it on my phone. Sure enough, it matched the internet recording. This was promising but I really wanted to see one too.

Click on the 'still video' below to hear the call, which builds up at the end.

Lesser Spotted Woodpecker from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

I was only a few feet from the dead tree, and only now thought to look up at this south face of the trunk. Not far above a hollow stump where a branch had long ago broken off, I spied a small hole. Roughly 3cm in diameter. Roughly at the height I'd seen both birds from the lane yesterday. Perhaps they hadn't been pecking at the bark at all.

Hardly daring to believe my luck, and not wishing to disturb them if this was their nest, I quickly moved on, further up the track than I'd originally planned. After putting a good distance and plenty of cover between myself and the tree, I found an ideal spot from where, albeit on my knees, I could quietly watch the hole through binos.

Within a minute there was activity outside the hole. No white shoulder patches on the bird clinging to the trunk. Instead, black and white bars as described in the book. YES!

Every minute or so, one or other parent flew to the hole, popped their head in and - presumably - fed chicks.

It can often be hard to judge a bird's size if there's nothing close by to compare it with, but I was able to appreciate just how small these woodpeckers are when a starling harassed them briefly. Dark and intimidating (6cm bigger), the starling might, in fact, have been trying to inspect the cavity left by the broken branch as a potential nest site for itself, but wasn't averse to causing mischief at the same time. The woodpeckers weren't having any of it, however, and saw it off.

In the end my knees complained about the stony ground (I should have taken my camping stool!), so I creaked back onto my feet and carried along the track to see what else might be about. Not much today. I heard a wryneck, and a cuckoo in the distance; saw the same group of long-tailed tits as last time, and a huge boar print in the wallow. A lot of fresh pine marten droppings too.

Nearly an hour later I headed back, hoping that by then the woodpeckers wouldn't be too upset when I walked past their tree again. On the way I managed to get a quick, rather poor shot of one of them. Rather grubby looking, I suspect this is the female but can't tell for sure because the top of its head isn't visible (males have red caps). Now I see there's something in its beak - an insect about to be taken to the nest, or a faecal sac taken away?

These delightful little birds need to be left in peace to rear their young, so I'll keep well away from their tree from now on. With luck, though, I'll catch more glimpses of them from the road on my regular walks. Now I know their call, I expect I'll start hearing them everywhere! It's good to know that sometimes you do get exactly what you wish for.

Great spotted woodpecker - only a few dozen metres away

Update 21st May: Eight days on, this morning I was worried. Yesterday there was no sign or sound of the woodpeckers when I walked along the lane, and this morning I was alarmed to see, instead, a starling inspecting the spot where I knew the hole to be (just out of sight from my position on the road). Had the young fledged or been predated?

Back home, I've been researching. From the RSPB and BTO websites, I've gleaned that starlings do sometimes predate eggs and chicks from nests. A bigger threat to lesser spotted woodpeckers, however, seems to be their great spotted cousins! That was an unwelcome surprise, especially as I saw one of these very close by only the other day - but then, they seem to be everywhere in the woods here.

Given that the nest site of 'my' pair of lesser spotted is right in the open, with no leafy camouflage, that must increase the risk of predation.

My heart sinks at these discoveries, but further research into woodpecker chick development and their parents' behaviour makes me a little more hopeful. According to the BTO, in the third and final week before fledging, the juveniles are fed at the nest hole by both parents, but the adults rarely go inside. I never saw either parent go inside. It's eight days since I first saw them; two since I last saw them. And if the youngsters were that close to fledging, perhaps they would be too big for starlings to take (even if interested).

Although I may never learn the fate of this family, I'll be keeping my eyes open for young birds in that area.

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Great Spotted Cuckoos

30/4/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spring-time Sounds

20/4/2017

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By Robin Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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Midwinter Travel

A Favourite Old Haunt Revisited

Five-Year Garden Bird List

Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

Short Marine Blog

May - It's Been a Wild Month!

Nuthatches Leaving Home and House Hunting

Wishing for Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers

Great Spotted Cuckoos

Spring-time Sounds

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