Category: Insects

Fleeing the Heat

26/9/2018

By Robin Noble

Any readers may know that we all “cope” with the heat of high summer in different ways, and that Martine, for instance, returns to the comparative coolth of the South Coast of England for a while. They may know, too, that I tend to spend some days in a campsite in the foothills of Canigou, in a steep wooded valley, where the comparative shade and somewhat higher altitude make it easier to survive the hottest time of year. Crucially, there are cold mountain streams running through the property, and, so far at least, the dreaded mosquitoes are rare.
The latter is as well, for what the reader has not so far been told, is that this is a naturist campsite, and that most of the folk staying there are, most of the time, completely naked. In the south of France, this is really less noteworthy than it would be, say, in Britain; in the high summer, most of us live partly in skimpy swimwear, or in light shorts and teeshirts. Taking these garments off is a fairly simple, often obvious choice...

This blog is not intended as a treatise on, or defence of, naturism, but I would like to explain what I feel I gain from spending time here in the mountains, without any clothes. For a start, and quite obviously, I am cooler and sweat less; that, given the increasing humidity we seem to be experiencing, is actually a significant bonus. Being undressed, I can wander into, or out of, the cold, refreshing pools almost without pause, wander on without bothering to dry with a towel – the warm air does it in seconds, minutes at most. There is more to it than just saying that I love the feeling of freedom it gives me, I feel the silky cold of the water, or the bouncy warmth of the summer wind, just that little bit more vividly. It feels wonderfully natural...

The campsite slopes down into a mountain valley, through which run the icy streams to which I have referred, and there still remain, down there, some old meadows, which are occasionally cut. Their vegetation seems to be mostly wild mints and marjorams, and as you walk, you are surrounded by their scent; along the banks of the streams the buddleias waft their deep honey fragrance over you – small wonder there can be clouds of butterflies!

I enjoy walking this path in the evening, as the light begins to fail; often I am the only one around, and I can walk as silently as possible through the short vegetation. One late afternoon, when it was still quite light, I was doing this when I spied a movement around the base of one of the fruit trees which border the meadow; I saw, quickly, a familiar black-and-white striped face. This was a young badger, whose greed had overcome his caution – he was searching for ripe plums which had fallen from the tree. He did not stay around long, but I had an excellent view; the first badger I have seen in France.

A few days after, it was later, and I was moving silently on to the same meadow; there was a fox quite close to the path, and he got a real shock when I appeared. Of course, I froze to the spot, but he certainly did not – with long, smooth bounds he was away, the white patches on his muzzle and the tip of his tail shining in the half-light. I stood stock-still for a moment, watching him go, my heart beating fast in excitement...

As so often this summer, we had a whole afternoon of thunder and lightning, with some heavy rain. When it eventually ceased, I was glad to go for a walk along the same route. At one point, I saw something dark (the light was poor anyway), climbing one of the trees which line this section of the path. It moved rapidly, and I realised that it was a squirrel, properly a “red” squirrel, but in fact rather dark brown as I think may be more common here. As I peered up, it decided to give a bravura performance of acrobatics, leaping across the wide track, high in the trees, from one slender branch to another. It was rather wonderful – but for the icy shower of raindrops it caused to fall on me – the naked observer of all this animal grace!

And, of course, along the banks of all the mountain waters, are the beautiful insects which I try each year to photograph, the demoiselle aigrions. They seem to be thriving, and I spend ages half in and half out of the water, trying to get better pictures; two appear below, the blue is the male, the brownish-green one, the female. Best of all is when I am swimming below them, and they fly right over me, even landing on my head for an instant...at one with nature in the mountains!

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Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

31/8/2018

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By Robin Noble (Photos by Robin and Martine Noble)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a young one

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A Walk on the Wild Side

24/8/2018

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By Bruce Hyde

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

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

A distinctive cricket with a white flash

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

Lesser Purple Emperor with the sheen showing on one wing

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

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

Lesser Purple Emperor's plain underside.

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

The striking Broad Scarlet male .....

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

..... and female.

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

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

The showy male sky-blue Scarab Beetle

Chestnut brown Monkey Beetle

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

Mining Bees waiting to mate with females

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

Female Blue-eyed Hawker

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

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

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

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

Brilliant camouflage

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

Cleopatra

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

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

An Iberian Marbled White posing for its photo.

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

Swallowtail

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

Large Pincertail

The formidable graspers of a male Pincertail

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

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

A typical Tech riverside scene which makes the point.

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

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

Orange-spotted Emerald

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

Egyptian Grasshopper

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

Tracks in the sand

Probable spraints

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

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

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Les Gorges du Sègre

14/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click photos to enlarge image.

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

Click photos to enlarge image.

Wood tiger moth, sleeping on a plant beside the lane

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

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

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

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

Plan B?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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 Bees' Knees in March

19/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

Last year I never got round to clipping one of the hedges down the side of our front garden. It's a type of broom, I think, and produces a colourful show each spring and autumn. Over the winter I kept looking at it, feeling guilty for letting it get quite so overgrown, but told myself I wouldn't be wise to tackle it before the frosts were over. However, even before the end of February, new flower buds were forming. I'd left it too late.

Now I'm glad, and my laziness has paid off because it's a mass of red flowers, attracting bees in great numbers. Honey bees mostly, but also dozens of carpenters. I've never seen so many of those black "bombers", as Robin has nicknamed them, all at once. Sometimes they knock into one another as they compete for a flower. An astounding sight this early in the year.

Click on photos to enlarge.

Carpenters really are giants compared with honey bees. Below, there's one of each on apricot blossom, which is right next to the hedge.

This is the first year that young tree has bloomed, and I'm hopeful it might even give us some fruit this summer, now that the bees are doing their thing!

In the back garden, the plant that attracted so many bees last spring is doing the same again right now. (Through the spring and summer months of 2017 I kept a photographic diary of the different species that visited our garden - it can be found here.)

Bumbles, more than honeys, seem to love this bush - perhaps because they have longer tongues to get into its long flowers. The little one below rarely stayed still, so I never quite managed to capture his white hairy face. But I notice he also seems to have white tufts on his knees.

Honey bee

In the short clip below, those carpenters are hard at work.

Carpenter Bees in March from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Now I have a dilemma. What do do about the hedge after it's finished flowering this time? Let it get even bigger or tame it? Given the size of our garden, I think it'll have to be the latter. But perhaps I'll just give it one trim, so it'll be big again by the end of next winter, and ready to nourish the local bee population once more.

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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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Upland Update

2/9/2017

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By Robin Noble

If you go up high anywhere in our area, say the shoulders of Canigou, the Albères or the nearby, lesser Pyrenees, you cannot help but be conscious of the enormous area of wooded habitat. It stretches in all directions, broken only by lots of bare rock, and a few, remaining high meadows. Importantly, it is much more extensive than the maps would suggest, as most of it is hugely steep, plunging to the valley floors. And it is really impenetrable; the only sensible access tends to be by path or track.

Because of these factors, we really do not tend to see many of the inhabitants of this, certainly the largest habitat in our area-apart from the Mediterranean itself! And mammals tend to be shy anyway, which means that any sighting feels significant and memorable.

During the recent hot and humid spell, I went for a couple of visits to a favourite campsite, which, being at a higher altitude, tends to have a fresher climate, and, generally, rather fewer mosquitoes, despite the stream that flows through it. Here I could enjoy a stroll at dusk without smothering myself in evil-smelling repellent. The water flows along the floor of one of these deep, wooded valleys, and possesses a couple of meadows which are still cut annually, although more for amenity than for hay as they would once have been. But the meadows are backed on all sides by the usual precipitous jungle of bushes, trees, creepers and various sharp, spiny things...

One magical, quiet, warm evening, I was wandering on my own here, walking up a sort of natural ramp, on to one of these meadows; quite recently cut, its short turf was highly aromatic in the still evening. Looking at the ground, it was as much covered by various types of mint and marjoram, (which by day attracted hosts of tiny butterflies), as by grass. As I looked to my right, along the meadow, I saw a big fox, almost black in the fading light, loping easily across the open ground. It turned its head and saw me, of that I am sure, but maintained the same, unhurried pace until it disappeared in the rough margins of the field.

A few days later, my wildlife sighting was in some contrast to this, and rather more comical. I was in the same place, and halted in my stroll, as I heard various grunts coming from the wood. I guessed that this must be sanglier, and waited in slight hope that something would emerge out into the open. Rather to my surprise, “something” did: a mother wild boar, followed by a single baby. She crossed the meadow, almost to the other side, followed by junior, and started to root around in the grass. I knew I must be silhouetted against the evening sky, and stayed totally still, but somehow she became aware of me, abruptly turned, and headed at speed for the cover of the wood, tail high. She very noticeably failed to wait for her offspring, who started to squeal as it, too, belted for safety in the trees. There did not seem to be much evidence of maternal concern among sangliers, I decided, unable to suppress my giggles.

The stream here harbours several of my favourite insects, about which I have written before: the beautiful demoiselle aigrions. Once again, I set out to watch and photograph them, which must look pretty funny, as I teeter on the edge of the water, or crouch within it, camera in hand. This year, there seemed to be more of them, perhaps also a consequence of the different weather. This meant, as far as I could see, that the vivid-blue males were having difficulty in maintaining their territories, and aerial scuffles were more frequent. I am puzzled by the casual nature of their inter- actions with other species of insect, especially with the larger dragonflies. One of the male aigrions, having seen off a rival, settled for a few seconds on the head of a much larger dragonfly, but the latter paid no attention at all.

I did observe behaviour which was new to me, between a male and female of the species. The female was positioned on a prominent leaf above a dark pool, (a very typical location) when a male came over to her, and hovered gently above her. The effect was hypnotic, the black, shot-with-blue wings, the vivid blue body glinting in the dappled sunlight, a brief vision of real beauty. Alas, the lady seemed unimpressed, paying the ardent male no attention at all, and after a while, he gave up...

Click on photos for larger image

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Blowing Hot and Cold in August

15/8/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

You know it's August when the lawn crunches under your feet. Brown-going-on-white, it's tinder dry, like most of the countryside around. You know it's August when you hear sirens of fire engines racing to tackle another small wildfire. More often than not the blazes are started by unthinking or uncaring people who toss cigarette ends from their cars. You know it's August when you can't bear to to stand in the sun for more than a few minutes, and if a southerly wind is blowing it feels like you're in a fan oven. This is the month when the population of my village trebles, thousands of tourists migrate to the Med, and I take refuge indoors or in the garden.

August sometimes has surprises in store, however. Its first week this year was unpleasantly humid, with some hot southerlies or easterlies that made it feel like 38 degrees in the shade. The second week brought a chilly tramontane, which crashed the temperature to below 20 for several days, and spits and spots of rain fell as snow on Canigou. I don't remember seeing fresh snow up there in August before.

While I selfishly welcomed the freshness, some creatures were suffering. The GOR reported several bodies of house martins and swallows being found beneath nests. I can only presume this is due to the sudden scarcity of food. Too few insects flying. For sure, we didn't have many bees in the garden at that time. They are usually much more active when the sun is out - perhaps because sunshine triggers flowers to release pollen, which in turn attracts the pollinators?

Temperatures began rising again this last weekend, and everything seems to be returning to 'normal'. Swallows have been swooping to drink from our pool, bees are in abundance, and there seem to be more butterflies around, which the cold spell can't have killed off.

On Sunday, around 11 o'clock, I was watering the bees' favourite salvia, which is prone to flopping in the heat if not frequently hydrated, when I saw several big butterflies on a lantana across the garden. Some kind of fritillaries - probably silver washed, I decided. As I walked back to the outside tap, I nearly dropped the watering can when an even bigger butterfly glided into view. A two-tailed pasha! It was heading straight for my neighbour's strawberry tree, which stands against the wire fence, just above my lantana. Praying it might stay put for a while if it was laying eggs in the tree, I dashed for my camera.

After fumbling with the lens cap and fiddling various settings, I stood there, poised ... Two fritillaries were still on the lantana, a swallowtail flew past and, to my amazement, the pasha was also there. In truth it was here, there and everywhere, never settling for more than a few seconds. My camera never caught up with it. I felt sure patience would pay off, but the fritillaries conspired against me by harrassing it and eventually chasing it away. I had no idea that butterflies mob one another - the way small birds sometimes mob raptors. Their behaviour seemed particularly mean, considering the pasha had no interest in the lantana and they had no interest in the strawberry tree.

I had to settle for photographing them instead. Good thing too, because on checking the photos later, I discovered they were cardinals (the largest of the fritillaries), not silver washed. This is the first time I've seen cardinals in the garden - unless I've always mistaken their identity of course!

After that I sat in the shade of the pergola, waiting for the pasha to return, but it never did. The other butterflies disappeared too, perhaps because by then it was too hot for them as well. But other insects were around. An Asian hornet inspected the grapes above me in the pergola, and chased a carpenter bee. When the bee plummeted, I lost sight of them but heard the thunk as they hit a pot. Seconds later, the bee flew off, unscathed. A pair of palm moths was doing circuits and bumps - resting on eleagnus and cordyline in between flights. A hornet considered one of those on the wing too, but had second thoughts. Probably wise, it was like a spitfire buzzing a Vulcan bomber. Lots of "gingers" and "humbugs" among the bees on the sage flowers. The gingers are my favourites, the humbugs make me smile. Times like these become a kind of meditation.

Yesterday a silver washed did visit, so I was able to photograph it to compare with the cardinal. Both are in the photos below (cardinal left, silver washed right), along with a scarce swallowtail that was enjoying the same flowers earlier in the month.

Click on photos for larger image.

By then the temperature was ramping up, with heat haze veiling the Albères and a sea breeze turning the air slightly soupy once more. Nevertheless, around midday I ventured out to nearby Mas del Ca where there are lots of strawberry trees. If the two-tailed pasha were laying, I thought, they would surely be laying there.

I've always called this spot The Park because it would make a great picnic place for families. It looks as though it was once a small arboretum, which failed either through neglect or vandalism. Last year, Sorède's community finally installed picnic tables, and turned it into an outdoor fitness area complete with exercise equipment (well bolted to the ground). At the top, where I used to sit and gaze across the Roussillon plain to Canigou, they built a solar 'oven' - a replica of the original that was built in the hills above the chapelle Notre Dame du château.

Because Mas del Ca is just the other side of the road from a retirement home, the west side is strimmed in the summer, for fire prevention reasons. All the grass is now unattractively brown and shaved, just like our lawn. On the east side, above the River Tassio, there are more trees and, so far, the heather, gorse and rock-roses haven't been cut. The rock-roses have been crisped up by the sun instead. No flowering plants in sight anywhere, which is no surprise for August.

East side, looking south, towards pic Néoulous

It's on the northern perimeter, near some pine, oak and mimosa, where most of the strawberry trees can be found. They aren't too tall and are conveniently close to the footpath.

On arrival there was no obvious butterfly activity. I waited. In the full glare of the sun it was painfully bright as well as sizzling hot. A few dragonflies passed me. A flock of bee eaters flew high overhead, heading south. And I waited. Gulped down half a litre of water. Wondered how long I should wait.

At last, a pasha turned up. And another. At least two!

As flighty as the one in my garden, in a continual dance, they barely paused long enough on leaf or twig before they were off again. Then they would disappear as suddenly as they arrived. After a while I would catch sight of a shadow, birdlike, on the path. When I followed that, I found the butterfly. Related to emperors, admirals, peacocks and tortoiseshells, the pasha must be the biggest of all the species we get here. Glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, it could easily be mistaken for a small bird.

They rarely settled on any outer leaves, much preferring the dark interior, but I felt sure it was only a matter of time before one would stop right in front of me and stay still long enough for me to take a photo. You have to be optimistic in this game.

After forty-five minutes my calves were burning and I was beginning to feel sick. The butterflies had been absent for some time - overcome by the heat too? - so I reluctantly headed back to the car. Once home, I sifted through umpteen pictures of leaves, berries and sky, to find one that included a recognisable pasha. I recorded that as a good start.

Their underside patterns are far more striking than the uppers, whose plain blocks of brown and orange are dull by comparison and usually only seen when they glide. With two tails per hindwing, perhaps these beauties should be called four-tailed pashas?

Today I returned, an hour earlier and with twice as much water. It was gone midday before one put in an appearance, fluttered around leaves right in front of me as if trying to find the perfect spot, and finally settled. Just for a couple of seconds.

These are such exotic, entrancing butterflies that I know I'll be braving the August heat again soon, while they're still around. I also know what I'll be planting in the garden, come the autumn.

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In Search of Butterflies at Le Col des Auzines

30/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren Photos by Bruce Hyde

Around mid June, Bruce and I headed to a new area to look for butterflies. Our expectations were high, following a tip-off from members of the GOR who, five days earlier, had seen 34 different species there. Their list included the elusive, splendidly named two-tailed pasha, which Bruce hadn't seen before and I'd only briefly glimpsed once or twice.

At Îlle-sur-Têt we headed north-west, into unfamiliar territory beyond les Orgues. The winding road gently climbed, offering spectacular views of the north side of Canigou - a side we rarely see - with its remnants of snow stubbornly refusing to melt. After passing through the little village of Mantalba-le-Château and tiny hamlet of Trévillach, we pulled into a surprisingly big car park in the middle of nowhere, on the crest of a hill. According to our map, this was our destination: le Col des Auzines.

For June, it was very hot, but also very windy, which didn't bode so well for butterfly hunting. Photos are often essential for identification - especially of the blues and fritillaries - and even if we could hold our cameras still enough in these blowy conditions, the butterflies were unlikely to settle for long.

Loaded up with kit and one dog on a lead, we set off down the only visible dirt track. The terrain was more akin to the Corbières than most of the Albères: few trees on the slopes, more scrub, with occasional rocky outcrops. Shrubs seemed to be predominantly rock rose (which had stopped flowering long ago), gorse, broom, and what I think was some kind of myrtle. To our surprise - considering the tip-off - there weren't many plants in flower, and no sign of any running water nearby to attract butterflies in numbers.

In the hope that the habitat might change further on, we continued. A wooded gully fell away to our left, whose trees and impenetrable undergrowth indicated the presence of water in other seasons. Hillsides to our right.

A few butterflies began to make an appearance - Spanish gatekeepers and large walls for the most part, skittishly leading us further down the track. A clouded yellow and one or two Cleopatras fluttered past without stopping. Most couldn't have stopped if they'd wanted to.

What brought us to a sudden halt, however, was a loud, harsh, bark, echoing up from the gully on our left. The kind of sound that lifts the hairs on the back of your neck. Whatever made it was big, not canine. Bruce and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised, while my dog "pointed", sniffing and straining to give chase. Was it a stag? Do stags call much, outside the rutting season? The bark continued intermittently, moving slowly, steadily up the gully, roughly in the same direction as us. We couldn't see a thing through the vegetation but nor did we hear a single twig crack or leaf rustle. We moved on too and, when we reached a left hand bend, the animal barked again, somewhere above us now, on our right. It had crossed the path perhaps seconds before we got there. As it moved further away, my dog was desperate to follow. Given the expanse of wildness here, it was tempting to think the beast was a lynx (they can make a bark-like sound, and sightings are occasionally reported further north, in the Corbières), however I thought it more likely to be a hind. (Robin has since suggested roe deer buck or doe, as they have a different annual cycle from the red, giving birth and rutting much earlier in the year.)

Just ahead we discovered a bigger flower patch (scabious mostly) with butterflies, so we stopped, unloaded rucksacks, and hung around for a while - cameras poised. It was here where we found a single, stubby strawberry tree (Arbutus unedo). We'd been looking out for them because they are the larval food plant of pashas. Where there are Strawberry trees, the butterflies are often in abundance, so it's said. This one was in a small fenced off area (more shrine than garden, with no habitable building for miles), so we didn't think it was self-seeded.

One or two pashas did whizz by (or the same one once or twice), but we really only got a fleeting impression of size (similar to swallowtails) and a flash of orange edging to dark brown wings. On a still day they glide like swallowtails too. As their name suggests, they have two long "tails". Underside wing markings are more ornate than the uppers, but we needed the butterflies to settle, wings closed, in order to see those. They didn't co-operate so our ambition to observe them properly is put forward to another year.

Species that did settle included a small tortoiseshell, swallowtail and quite a few whites (Bath and Iberian marbled). Several blues too, photos of which subsequently had both of us in a head-scratching, fidget-inducing spot-the-difference exercise, trying to separate the common from the Chapman's and Escher's. Not to mention the expletive-triggering Ilex verus False Ilex hairstreak challenge. For once, even the fritillaries proved easier. A highlight of the day was a white admiral. These probably aren't scarce but I hardly ever see them.

Click on photos for larger image

For a while we walked on, passing signs of former human occupation: a high stone wall and "casot" (outbuilding). When a derelict house came into view, we wondered if it was somehow connected to the little garden we'd found earlier. Plant life wasn't changing, however, so we headed back.

In all, we idenitifed just 17 species, against the 34 seen only a few days earlier on a still day. Given the conditions we met, perhaps this tally wasn't so bad. Our region has many micro climates and it was interesting to learn that Robin and Martine were having a very different experience on the same day, south of us and much higher, in the wind-free foothills of Canigou. Robin's blog (dated 7th July) describes an impressive spectacle of butterflies - in terms of sheer numbers, if not species.

I had also been told to look out for rock thrushes at the Col des Auzines. The males have blue-grey heads, rich rust-orange undersides and tails. I'd never seen one - and wasn't to see one that day either. Just about the only birds in evidence were linnets. Not even a buzzard or short-toed eagle dropped by. Mind you, our eyes were down most of the time.

Beetles were in abundance, including one new to Bruce and me, which scurried purposefully down the sandy track towards us. Heeding the orange-red warning stripes on its long black body, we didn't attempt to pick it up for a closer look, or let my dog sniff it. Just as well, because if threatened they can exude an oily substance that irritates skin and can cause it to blister. Which is why they are called red-striped oil beetles, or blister beetles.

As far as butterflies were concerned, the outing was perhaps a little disappointing, and we hope to return next year on a calm day. It's also an area worth exploring just for its hills, steep gorges, limestone cliffs and caves. Mile upon mile of wildness sticks in your memory. For Bruce, that day might also stay memorable for the tick he acquired, and neither of us will soon forget the haunting bark of The Beast.