Category: Insects

An Evolving Land- and Seascape

30/9/2021

By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

It is two years since we spent a summer in PO, and it was, of course, a great joy to get back to familiar places and do the things that we always used to. A high priority, especially in the surprisingly hot, humid and mosquito-ridden month of September, was to get out to sea in the good boat Puffin. It was quite a windy month, which somewhat restricted our swimming in the more exposed locations, but almost everywhere we stopped (tied up or anchored) showed how life underwater had progressed in the last two years.

There are, quite simply, more fish than there used to be. One species, of which we are very fond, the saddled bream, is very friendly, and gathers under the hull pretty well as soon as Puffin is brought to a halt. They always appeared like this on the reef of the Marine Reserve off the cliffs south of Banyuls, but now we were finding them, in significant numbers, in new locations – bays where previously they did not appear. And, while September on the reef was always more busy with fish than June, this year Martine encountered the lovely salema in numbers which she had never experienced before, numbers which would not shame a glossy TV nature programme.

Despite the fact that individuals certainly do fish on the Reserve (and fishing boats seem to come rather close to it, too), there can be no doubt that the Marine Reserve is doing precisely what it is intended to do; fish populations are building up and spreading out to further locations.

The only new species we have to offer this year does not really arouse much enthusiasm – because it is a jelly-fish; one, apparently, called the ‘fried egg jelly-fish”. We saw three of them…

Saddled Bream

Salema

A totally different place, of which we are very fond, is the foothills of Canigou which we simply call ‘the Batère’. This upland was once mined for iron-ore, and there are some traces still of this activity, including some obvious quarry locations. The zigzag tracks which lead gently uphill were no doubt used to transport the ore but have now greened over and make for easy walking. We always used to access one of these tracks via a short, steep section of hill, which was mostly grazed meadow, full of wildflowers and wonderful for butterflies. The very first, short section of this route is even steeper, and involved pushing our way through a few bushes of broom and a little bracken. Two years on, it was a major battle to get through the explosion of new growth and, once we had, we found that our little ‘alp’ had hardly been grazed this year; the grass was long and lank, and there had been far fewer wildflowers. The worst was yet to com – at the top of the alp we used to work our way to a bend in the easy track; now it is a nightmare of broom, concealing tangles of bramble and hidden nettles, which was hell to struggle through…in shorts!

I have noted before that the grazed area of these foothills, so good for wildflowers and butterflies, is slowly being colonised from the nearby conifer woods, gradually losing its wonderful biodiversity. Here, in only two years, we have proof of this process; the cattle and ponies had not broken through to graze down our little alp and it is likely slowly to disappear altogether.

And a final note: September, as I said, was unusually humid, much, apparently to the delight of insects. That particular characteristic seems to have applied to much of the Southern France – as we drove north at the end of our stay, right up the country our windscreen was splattered with insects in a way we had not seen for decades. We certainly suffered from the hordes of mosquitoes; we can only hope that insect-eating birds had a bonanza before setting off on their migration south! We had watched huge groups of swallows and martins all through our stay in France – perhaps the humid weather had at least done them good.

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The Wasp & the Spider

3/8/2020

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by Lesley McLaren

24th July, despite the heat, I decided to check on a small colony of bee eaters nesting in the north bank of the Tech near the Moulin de Breuil vineyard. There wasn't much activity - only two nest holes still being visited by adults as far as I could see - so perhaps the others had fledged already. Apart from the surprise sighting of a honey buzzard, carrying prey, there were few other birds in evidence. It was a different story for insects, of course; high summer is truly their time. July is marked by the constant grate of cicadas in trees, by grasshoppers and crickets hopping out of your way in grassland, by flashes of colour from beetles, butterflies, dragons and damsels as well as the equally important, if arguably less welcome, flies and wasps.

After a while I left the river and headed along the flood defence wall towards the pond and wetland area of "Les Bachous". Eyes down now, looking out for dragonflies, which seem to love this hot spot, what brought me to halt and lift my camera was a different, big insect crossing my path. At first glance, its black-tipped yellow wings made me think it might be an exotic kind of fly. It didn't seem to notice me until I changed position to get a better photo, whereupon it opened its wings, to reveal a black and yellow striped abdomen. More likely a wasp, therefore. If I stood still, it closed its wings and carried on wandering - apparently aimlessly - but each time I moved, it flashed another warning. Clearly it was perfectly aware of me. Given its size (about 30mm) and how badly I react to stings from much smaller social wasps, I moved on.

Like the river, the pond appeared relatively quiet. There were the usual Floridan turtles, mallard, coot and little grebe. On my way to the north eastern end of the plateau above the water, a couple of herons took off from the trees beyond. The first was grey but, to my great and happy surprise, the second was purple. Unlike the grey, he or she circled round to fly very close - checking me out, I'm sure. Purples aren't common in the PO and currently there are no known breeding pairs, so this was a special moment.

Since it had rained a little the night before, I climbed a few feet up a bank to see if there were any fox prints around a large hole that I assumed was a den, having seen a young fox in just this spot in May. Instead of prints, however, I came upon another big wasp, like the one seen moments before. This one was running backwards at high speed, dragging a huge wolf spider in its jaws. Before I could even try to get a photo, it had disappeared backwards into the murky depths of the den! Unlikely there would be foxes here now, I thought, if these wasps had taken over occupancy. Talk about up-sizing your residence!

Seconds later, I spotted two more wasps running around frenetically a few feet away. These I managed to capture on film. The first few seconds are at full speed. Then I've slowed it by 50% (hence the "ralenti" in French) so the action is clearer.

Warning: some viewers may find this short scene disturbing.

Cryptocheilus alternatus (Pompile) (Spider-hunting wasp) from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

In retrospect I think their initial crazy manner of running was because they had lost the spider they had previously stung and perhaps left while the venom took hold. The spider in this clip is smaller than the first, which made me wonder if this one was a male and the first, female. Not their lucky day if they had been together with amorous intent at the time they were set upon. Unfortunately for the spiders, they weren't dead, just paralysed. Their destiny from then on was to have a single egg laid inside them and to be eaten alive by the emerging larva. A reminder how, at times, nature can be gruesome.

To end with more pleasant images, I'll leave you with a bee eater (who may have one of those wasps in his beak, who knows?) and the purple heron, both from that morning, although the full beauty of each is somewhat hidden against the light.

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Mole Cricket Serenade

9/5/2020

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By Lesley McLaren

In early April, not long after nightfall (around 9.30), I was indoors and had just turned off the television when I became aware of very loud trilling coming from outside. All the more extraordinary to be able to hear it with the double glazed windows and external doors closed. It seemed to be louder at the front of the house, and when I opened the dining room windows it was piercing! It had to be some kind of grasshopper or cricket. For the next half hour or so it continued intermittently and then silence descended once more.

It resumed for the next several evenings, always between 9 and 10 o'clock. Tramping about the garden, I finally homed in on an area of hedge at the front, close to a streetlamp. Even with the streetlight and a torch I stood no chance of seeing anything among all those leaves, however, and at that distance the decibel level was really quite painful, so I was forced to retreat, frustrated.

Excitement returned when, from a recording of the "song" on my phone, a member of the local bird group subsequently identified the singer: a species of mole cricket. I've only ever seen one or two of these - years apart - on early morning walks in the vineyards, and never expected to discover one in my front garden. After learning that they trill from burrows, not hedges, I duly found a hole around where I'd been tramping back and forth! I'd been told to look for two small holes close together but this was on its own and struck me as impressively large for a cricket's burrow. Nevertheless, since it was so conveniently positioned, I had to stake it out.

By mid-April I had not only heard but also seen him, several nights running. But it seemed I might not have been the only one on stake-out. At dusk one evening I crept outside with tripod, camera and torch, only to find a cat sitting right by the hole. Coincidence, or could it smell the cricket? It was certainly very reluctant to leave!

Mole Cricket (Gryllotalpa vineae) from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

The storm that was building on my last night of filming turned into continuous rain for several days. This scuppered my plan to continue watching in the hope of witnessing the arrival of a female lured by the serenade. With water levels rising, I increasingly worried for the cricket, and my fears seemed realised when the burrow entrance filled in with soil. Every morning, for days afterwards, I checked in case he had re-excavated it; but no. Every evening I listened for him, but could only hear more of his kind in the distance.

It was 27th April when I spotted two small holes, about a foot apart, in the back garden this time, on the edge of a border by what passes as our lawn. They were about the right diameter but the entrance to neither had yet been sculpted into an amphitheatre like the one in the front garden. I staked them out for a night or two at the witching hour between 9 and 10, but there was no activity or sound. Then we had more rain and one of the two entrances filled in with soil. If this had ever been a burrow, it seemed abandoned now.

Eight days later, when cutting the grass, I came across the body of a mole cricket within a few feet of the holes. At first I feared I'd mown him up (even though they are usually nocturnal), but closer inspection showed that he'd been dead for a while. Ants or other creatures had already had a go at him and he was in quite a fragile, desiccated state.

I should perhaps have been relieved, since mole crickets feed mostly on plant roots and are hated by vineyard owners and market gardeners, but this discovery made me very sad. Having never noticed them in my garden previously, it's perhaps unlikely I would suddenly find two, within days of each other, so I do believe this was "him". Come to think of it, that same cat had also been crouched near this part of the garden too, one evening. My hypothesis is that the rain forced the unlucky cricket out of his second burrow, whereupon he was predated by something. I don't think my dog is to blame in this instance, because he would have eaten the catch (being very partial to Egyptian grasshoppers). A cat, on the other hand, might well kill and leave it. Except cats don't like rain...

At least this gave me an opportunity to examine him more closely, especially those amazing, spade-like front feet, and it was a surprise to find him quite hairy! So I photographed and measured him (about 5cm from nose to the end of his abdomen, not including spikes), before giving him a dignified burial in the spot where he first set up home at the front of the house.

If you don't like to look at dead things, scroll down quickly and don't click on these photos to enlarge!

On a lighter note, here I am during filming, in my PEE (Protective Ear Equipment). The things we do for the love of nature!

Sorry this phone video appears so enormous compared with camera video of cricket. Can't reduce myself!

The Making of Cricketwatch from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

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Butterfly Day in the Garden

15/8/2019

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By Lesley McLaren

A light north-westerly breeze has cleared the humidity this week, with the result that I have enjoyed not only being able to breathe more freely but also spending time in the full sun with my camera - if no further afield than the garden.

Following some new planting in the spring, some borders have stayed colourful for longer this summer. Lantana have done particularly well and yesterday were proving more attractive than buddleia and plumbago to butterflies. At one point mid-morning I realised there was an unusual amount of activity in the garden at the same time, so decided to check what they all were and to see how many different species visited during the day overall.

I was hoping for a two-tailed Pasha and a chance to photograph the spectacular patterning and colours of the underside to their wings - impossible to see, never mind appreciate, with the naked eye. After reading recently that these never take nectar from flowers, but feed exclusively on fruit, I understood why my garden wouldn't interest them but thought there was a chance a female might be tempted to lay eggs on my neighbour's Strawberry Tree. It wasn't to be; they were probably all round at Isobel's, whose garden currently offers an abundance of juicy figs.

The Cleopatras, Brimstones and Great Banded Graylings of recent weeks seemed to have disappeared, and a White Admiral I spotted a few days ago didn't put in an appearance either. However, my tally still came to eight, which I felt was respectably high.

Roughly in size order: Cardinal, Silver-washed Fritillary, Painted Lady, Queen of Spain Fritillary (a first for my garden), Meadow Brown, Green-veined White (I think - 2nd brood?), Lang's Short-tailed Blue and Geranium Bronze.

I'm ashamed to say I tend to pay little attention to Painted Ladies because they're so common, here and in the UK. But my photos revealed just how beautiful they are, wings closed as well as open. In a different way, the Queen of Spain frit's underside is also striking - a kind of crazy paving design. Of course for some species - especially the blues - patterning under the wing is often the only way to identify them. Even so, it's not always easy. I'm fairly confident that yesterday's blue is a Lang's short-tailed and not a Long-tailed. The tail is in fact long in both, so that doesn't help at all!

Click images to enlarge

What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours on, it's still breezy, but overcast - with not a butterfly in sight!

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The High Pyrenees

1/3/2019

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By Bruce Hyde

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wild Narcissus

Dog Rose

Fragrant Orchid

Gentian

Pasque Flower

Western Marsh Orchid

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

Short-toed Eagle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fleeing the Heat

26/9/2018

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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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An Evolving Land- and Seascape

The Wasp & the Spider

Mole Cricket Serenade

Butterfly Day in the Garden

The High Pyrenees

Fleeing the Heat

Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

A Walk on the Wild Side

By Bruce Hyde

Les Gorges du Sègre

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