Category: Isobel Mackintosh

The unwelome arrival of the Asian Hornet in our area

24/10/2016

by Isobel Mackintosh

Although we had seen the odd individual before, this year a nest appeared high in an old oak tree, clearly visible from my home. But it grew dramatically as the summer progressed, a sure sign that the frelon asiatique is now established here.

This video tells the story:

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The End of Summer?

19/8/2015

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by Isobel Mackintosh

Realising that the resident swifts have left us each year is a reminder that summer is now on the wane in the Mediterranean Pyrenees. Sadly we won't hear that marvellous screeching as squadrons of swifts race in formation around the rooftops again this year. But recently I've noticed the odd group of swifts cruising along at a much higher altitude in the skies above our village in the Alberes. Presumably these are migrating birds from more northerly latitudes passing through. I like to think that this area, being largely unspoiled and forested, must make for a rich source of flying insects - a handy pit stop for migrating birds to refuel en route. I don't know how many small insects there are flying at such heights, but what I can vouch for, painfully, is that there are plenty of the biting kind around at ground level this year.

A bee eater in flight against a classic summer sky

The charming sound of bee eaters gently chirruping away at this time of year is also a sign that the annual migration south of these beautiful, colourful birds is beginning. Happily, however, as I write this, the spectacular and much loved golden orioles are still with us. A glimpse of a bright yellow flash among the green leaves always seems to lift the spirits, and at this time of year each day that I can still hear or see one feels like a bonus – a sign that summer is still clinging on, just.

Ripe green figs on our tree early in August 2015

This year the green fig tree in our garden seems to be fruiting earlier than usual. Gardening books tell me to expect two crops of figs each year this far south: one in June and one in September. This year we had virtually none in June, but since then a huge number have appeared, and before the end of the first week of August many of them were already ripe and ready to eat. They are absolutely delicious, but not only to humans. Tree sparrows and blue tits are constantly flitting around the fig tree, and a pair of jays and a magpie are frequently seen helping themselves there as well. I have never seen a golden oriole that close to the house before, but their occasional presence in the tree is an indication that the figs are fully ripe and sugary enough to attract insects for them to eat. I imagine that at the moment they are taking on as much energy as they can before the long flight ahead. Some it seems have left already. But a few nights ago we were delighted to be surprised by a far more exciting and unusual nocturnal visitor.

A tree sparrow in our fig tree - behind is a half-eaten fig bearing the tell-tale signs of a small perching bird's quest for the sugary fruit inside. Is it looking slightly guilty?

Just after dark, at around 9pm, we were clearing our supper from the terrace, when I heard a rustling in the bushes at the far end of our small garden. It sounded like something quite substantial was moving around there, but I assumed it must be one of the many feral cats living around the village. The rustling, which continued, implied that this was probably larger though. So we both stopped moving around and waited silently, in the hope of glimpsing something. We were certainly rewarded for our patience!

The small floodlight above our garden was turned on that night, so we knew that as long as the creature hadn't been frightened away by it, we would be able to see it quite clearly were it to find something of interest in our garden. And sure enough we could sense something coming closer and closer, until we saw what was clearly quite a substantial mammal walking along a low garden wall. At this point we could see very little, so waited stock still, and wondered if perhaps it was a fox. We soon saw a long bushy tail, and brown coloured fur on the trunk of this animal. Shape-wise it looked a bit like a large ferret. By this stage we had become aware that there were TWO of these creatures moving around in our garden, and that both were heading for the heavy laden fig tree.

They then jumped up, climbed different branches, and started reaching through the leaves for "our" figs, which they munched happily... without so much as a by-your-leave! By this stage, thanks to the floodlight, we were able to see that these creatures were in fact a pair of martens. The distinctive head shape, the small ears and their almost white-looking chin and bib were very clear now. When they looked up towards us and the light, reflective retinas made their eyes glow back at us brightly (just as dogs' and cats' eyes do when you take a flash photograph at home)

I knew that trying to take a worthwhile photograph was out of the question, however I had managed to get my binoculars, so I could be absolutely sure of what I was looking at. And I am very happy to report my first ever sighting of a beech or stone marten (Martes foina, Fouine in French, positively identified almost immediately thanks to the wonderful L'Albera book (which has suddenly and very sadly become more elusive than some of the creatures in its pages, by the way!)

It's not only the wildlife that's provided a spectacular show this August - frequent storms have drenched the Alberes and made them greener than I can ever remember

In the excitement of this wonderful, if brief sighting, I almost forgot to mention that the night before, at dusk, I had also been incredibly lucky to witness the most amazing aerobatic display from a pair of hobbies (Falco subbuteo) that I have ever seen. The birds swooped around expertly, diving back and forth among the trees in the little valley beyond our garden for several minutes – maybe even a quarter of an hour. I had my binoculars to hand, but following their wildly spectacular flight was quite a challenge, especially as the light was fading fast. No doubt they were "hawking" for swallows, house martins or bats, and at one point I saw one of them apparently eating something, whilst in flight, from its claws. Their flying skills are quite extraordinary and their vision must be incredible to be strong and precise enough to spot and then hunt small, fast-moving targets in such low light. They are handsome beasts too - I could see the black moustache-like markings on on their cheeks very clearly, and the death-dark blue-black of their upper body parts was simply stunning. Again I didn't want to risk missing a moment trying to get my camera set up, so I'm sorry to say that I have no illustrations to help you share in the excitement.

Instead though, I have two amazing memories that I will always cherish, and which I am sure will stay with me for life.

So whilst it is sad to be bidding the very hot weather goodbye for 2015, subsequent reports this week prove that such amazing sightings are not freak occurences, or once-in-a-lifetime encounters. Lesley spotted a beech marten at very close quarters in a tree whilst walking under cloudy skies in the Alberes with a friend a few days later. I'm hoping she will write that dramatic encounter up as a blog soon. And another friend was thrilled to see a Genette crossing a track in front of her car at very close quarters in the woods above Chateau Valmy, also in broad daylight! Which confirms that although the nights are drawing in, and the sunshine getting weaker, this really is an excellent time of year to watch wildlife. So keep your eyes peeled - it's all out there!

Isobel Mackintosh, August 2015
All photographs © Isobel Mackintosh

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Nocturnal drama in the Alberes

6/8/2015

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by Isobel Mackintosh

The hot summer nights have most definitely arrived in the Mediterranean Pyrenees now, together with the many tourists who flock to the area’s beaches and campsites. As well as hearing the sounds of people outside enjoying themselves on their holidays, with live music and other entertainments carrying on until late, come the inevitable mosquitos and other, more welcome forms of wildlife - bats, owls, moths and so on. This year we seem to have been battered by a lot of thunderstorms, some of which have been very dramatic, with the occasional drenching keeping our gardens in good shape, and providing everyone here with a welcome short burst of slightly fresher temperatures.

This short video is of an approaching storm in the Alberes, with the flashes of lightning that light up the clouds, and the rumblings of thunder interspersed with the insistent, repetitive calls of a tawny owl (Strix aluco) in the woodland just outside our village. Having consulted with Lesley, we are convinced that this is most likely one or more juvenile(s) who, having left the nest, are still relying on their parents to feed them. A couple of nights ago I actually saw one of them, perched on a fence post, calling loudly, before it flew right in front of me, still calling as it headed for a nearby tall magnolia tree. In the gloom I couldn’t positively identify that particular owl as a juvenile, but the call and the persistence of it makes me pretty certain that that is what we have been witnessing.

Version Française: L'approche d'un orage dans les Albères, avec jeune chouette hulotte

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Right under our noses...

1/6/2015

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by Isobel Mackintosh

Was it Z Cars? Or Softly Softly? For some reason one episode of a 1970s police TV show has burned its black and white story deep into my memory. It was to do with a missing person, and hinged around a decision that the policeman in charge of the search had to make. Of course we as the viewer, with our twenty twenty vision of the whole story, knew that the woman – it's always a woman – was being held captive behind a wooden door on a little alleyway, very close to where she had last been seen. The first police search of the immediate area proved fruitless, nothing was found. But we had seen a policeman look down that very alleyway, and try that very door. When it didn't open, he shrugged his shoulders and moved on. The fool! The team returned to HQ saying they had searched the area and found nothing. Where should they look next? Broaden the search area? After all, by now the kidnap victim could have been taken much further away. Everything hinged on this next decision. We all expected the big chief to decide to look further afield, but against expectations, and in the way that only a clever TV detective could, he said "no" and instead ordered another, far more thorough search of the same area. And of course as a result the poor victim was found unharmed. There was no particular logic or reasoning to this decision, or at least none that was shared with us, but I like to think that this police chief realised, perhaps, as a diligent student of the human psyche, that the most likely explanation of their lack of initial success was to do with our perception of what surrounds us. Often the thing we are looking for is right under our noses, it's just that most of the time we look so hard for it that we don't actually see it.

I don't know why that police drama of all the many I must have watched has stayed with me. But it often comes to mind, and now that my horizons are somewhat restricted for other reasons, I find it particularly relevant.

Because restricted horizons can, incredibly, make for broader vistas. If you live your life at speed, following a human, 21st Century, digital, "Western" work-eat-sleep timetable, almost to the avoidance of the natural rhythm of the seasons, then although you may be able to do many amazing things, and travel to extraordinary places, you will also miss more. Speeding along a motorway or on a train you may reach your destination more quickly, but you would hardly register passing a particular forest, let alone understand the amazing things that are going on within it - the complex interrelations and interdependences of so much: flowers, fungi, moss and lichens, to say nothing of the trees themselves. Then there are the many insects, animals and birds that may live there. Each one will be growing and changing its appearance constantly with the time of day, the weather, the seasons and in relation to the other living things around it. No day will ever be the same in nature. It's just that most of the time we fail to notice…

And so it is for our small and perhaps rather over-studied garden here in the Alberes! We planted fruit trees – the garden can only be a maximum of 6m wide, and all of 15m long, but we have found room for a mandarine, an olive, a green fig, a bitter cherry and a large old bay tree at the far end, which we have allowed to become overgrown and bushy with ivy and jasmine. In this spot we find ourselves in the very happy situation of being part of a verdant "frontier" between forest and buildings. On one side of our house there's a street, with village houses on either side. These buildings' overhanging terracotta roofs have sheltered generations of swifts, swallows and house martins, laying eggs and rearing their young in nests under the eaves, rebuilt each summer. Some of these houses also form a habitat, in their usefully ramshackle way, that shelters bats, pigeons, redstarts, starlings, small mammals, lizards and geckos.

On the other side of our house we overlook the wild forests of the Alberes, stretching as far as the eye can see. I say "verdant", because this land between man and mountain has been cultivated on a small scale for hundreds of years, possibly thousands, as there is strong evidence of an ancient Roman settlement under the current village. Our garden may be small, but with the addition of a few feeders, it becomes a big draw for the varied birds living all around, be they urban or rural - sparrows, robins, blue & great tits, black redstarts, Sardinian warblers, goldfinches, greenfinches, serins, nuthatches, kestrels, magpies, jays, blackbirds and more. And then there are the many migrating birds that pass through our area each spring and autumn, to say nothing of the summer visitors we hear, even if we see them only rarely: bee eaters, hoopoes and golden orioles.

At the grander end of the scale come the large raptors that patrol the mountains behind us, soaring on thermals, often maddeningly elusive, as they fly way beyond the reach of binoculars and long lenses, and always against an unhelpfully bright sky. Lesley and I often send each other texts when we see them flying above our houses "large raptor at 11 o'clock towards Roc du Midi" sometimes works, but usually by the time it's been tapped out and sent, the bird is long gone!

Occasionally these magnificent predators come tantalisingly close - a week or so ago I glimpsed a short-toed eagle actually carrying a snake as it flew by, and a few years back I saw a hobby flying low over the trees beyond our garden at dusk, re-emerging from its foray among the houses of the village with a bat clearly visible in its talons. I didn't even have to be in the garden - to see these amazing things from my own home, I just had to be alert, watching what was happening outside, being as sensitive as possible to my surroundings, always observing, always listening and knowing, with certainty, that being patient brings its rewards.

The other day, camera set up on a tripod beside me, I was watching the many birds that visit the coconut shell feeders I have put up in the garden. In the good old bad old days I suppose I would have looked at the feeder for a short while, identified each bird that visited it, and maybe photographed it, which would have then scared the bird away. Pretty soon after that, realising that a “trophy bird” like the golden oriole was unlikely to visit, I would probably have got bored and moved on to the next thing. But now that's not possible, so as I was hidden from view and the camera was set up, I observed all those visitors equally, and with a new wonder, letting the camera do the recording work for me and leaving any difficult identifications for later on screen. Which left me free to observe. Really observe. There are at least four blue tits that come to feed, two pairs that look and behave very differently. One pair are absolutely stunning, with bright coloured, very smart plumage. They look young, beautiful and very much “together.” Until recently they've been bonding by feeding each other in the olive tree, but now I suspect they are both parents, as they take most food away with them from their visits. I call them Mr & Mrs Waitrose, because I suspect that that's where they would shop!

Meantime the other pair could not look more different. Their plumage is rather ragged looking, as if they haven't quite had time to fix their make-up before heading outside, and their visits to the feeder are very brief. They rarely pause to eat themselves, instead they rush away, looking hassled, with beaks full of dried mealworms and suet. They could be about to moult, but then again surely one pair of birds would be unlikely to be so out of step with the other...? As most moults are seasonal, and timed to coincide with periods of less strenuous activity (after nesting and before migration) this seems a very unlikely explanation, so what then is causing this difference? Perhaps the smarter pair are ahead of the others, having moulted much earlier into their new plumage, they are now well on their way to raising their first brood. This question was partly answered whilst observing the feeder a few days back, when I realised that Mr or Mrs Waitrose was feeding another blue tit perched on the branch above the feeder. It was only later when I looked at the photographs that I found this – a fully fledged young blue tit demanding food from a now slightly more hassled looking parent. So perhaps the pair I'd seen with the more ragged plumage were actually ahead of the game, having to cope with the demands of parenthood before that lifestage hit the Waitroses. Mind you, this youngster got his or her comeuppance a few days later, when s/he spotted to her horror that the bird on the feeder from whom s/he was demanding food was a very smart, and much larger great tit, which I also managed to catch!*

"You're not my mum!"

* Postscript: Great news! Today (30th May) I have just seen two fledgling blue tits on the feeder together (showing me more than a hint of encouraging sibling rivalry) and feeding in the cherry tree as well.

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April Blog

20/4/2015

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by Robin Noble (photos by Isobel Mackintosh)

Well, we are into the fourth week of April, and it is definitely spring, despite the unusually variable weather. The warmth and the extra rain have meant a real explosion of growth, trees and bushes bursting into bloom, and an amazing array of greens, from the softest to the most vivid. It also means a lot of birdsong, sometimes, as in the case of my local blackbirds, almost deafening, at other times very frustrating as I look to find who is responsible for this new song which I do not know.

In the garden of the house across the road and below ours, there is a tall thin conifer which the birds like to perch on, and there at least I can often get a good view. Having lived so far north, in the Highlands of Scotland, I missed out on quite a number of birds which you may see elsewhere in Britain, like the nuthatch, and it is fun for me to catch up slowly with others, now that I am living so much further south. Recently, one such bird used the conifer in question precisely while I was having a coffee in the sun, and I was able to study it at leisure. In fact, its song was very dull, described as "monotonous" in my favourite book- and quite accurately! But the male cirl bunting, who was responsible for the "repetition of a single sharp note" is rather handsome, with varied, rich brown plumage on his back, a black-and-yellow-striped face, with a good deal of yellow on the breast and underparts. Females and juveniles are far less distinct, and I think I may often have seen them without knowing it.

The most frustrating thing about this time of year is, however, hearing bee-eaters flying overhead, but seeing nothing at all! I have always been obsessed by them, and, of course, only ever had the chance to see them on occasional holidays - during which I quickly learnt that while hearing them is one thing, actually seeing them is quite another, generally a real stroke of luck!

Recently, I took Isobel and Ann up to the Tour de Batere, on an incredibly beautiful day. There was enough snow left on Canigou for the near peaks to be rearing impressively above us, and distant views were clear and sharp. You may often get such days with a really cool or cold breeze, but the air was warm and soft and the day delightful. We did not see any really big birds, there just seemed to be ravens and, far in the distance, a flock of the alpine choughs, but when I went for a stroll along the track and briefly followed a small burn (which normally hardly flows), I saw another bird for the first time in my life - although most of you reading this will know it well! This was a yellow wagtail, far more subtle in colouring than the grossly misnamed "grey" wagtail, which is so smart in its black , dove grey, white and vivid yellow. This was a male, but far more delicate in colour than the grey, with a soft yellow-to-pink on its chest. It was very much aware of me, but fairly tame, and I had excellent views of it, in this very typical waterside habitat. Nicely, too, there were some early marsh marigolds, and some type of primula, like a small, delicate oxlip, very much the same colour as an "ordinary" primrose; I have not succeeded in identifying this one yet. Meantime, Isobel was fascinated by the amazing "stemless" thistles, large composite flowers flush with the ground ("carline acaule" in the Alberes book) and with the wonderful lichens growing on the tough metamorphic rocks of this wonderful high country.

More of Isobel's photos from that day below - and in her gallery.

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Springing to life

15/4/2014

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By Isobel Mackintosh

I love spring in this area. After the long, dark, cold winter, when everything in the garden hunkers down against the inhospitable temperatures and the bitterly cold Tramontane, spring is the time for a new start, and to see wonderful, new things. What better time to return to the Mediterranean Pyrenees?

Our tiny garden beneath the Alberes has been shut-down, bare-earth-brown until now, with the only colour coming from an olive tree's slender blue green leaves holding on against the wind, and a Mandarine tree providing a small oasis of deep, rich green. For a time there are some shiny bright orange splodges there too, but only briefly, because the mandarines are always so deliciously more-ish that they rarely last beyond January.

Now the garden is coming alive again with the sights and sounds of a new year of growth. The bare cherry tree is suddenly transformed, covered in fluffy, white blossom within a matter of days. Bees are buzzing around it in the sun, and butterflies appear, as if by magic, all flitting busily from flower to flower. Those tiny winter buds on the fig tree suddenly grow and small bright yellow-green leaves burst out, together with the tiniest green globes, which, all being well, will become sweet syrupy figs by June.

The bird feeders we put up bring in many old friends: it's good to see that the (almost tame) robins that have staked out our little garden as their own are busily fluttering around, and it's lovely to hear the nuthatch's whistling call again. There is a definite hierarchy among them: blue tits are the bravest, and are first onto the feeders after a disturbance, closely followed by the robins and the great tits. Only then will a shy Sardinian warbler, or blackcap appear quietly, and surreptitiously eat a few beak-fulls before darting away into the safe haven of our bay tree, which is currently in flower. But those birds all instinctively back away when the nuthatch flies in, aggressively pecking away whilst occasionally checking out the immediate area for threats. The magpie's nest in a neighbouring pine tree is uncharacteristically quiet at the moment, but the birds are around, causing the songbirds to scatter in seconds, I assume to return to guarding their nests.

A couple of days ago I was in the garden, quietly sorting a few things out (tea leaves make excellent rose fertiliser, I've been told, so we are putting that to the test this year). I took my camera with me, and to my surprise (I was wearing a bright pink t-shirt) found that birds were visiting the feeders as if I wasn't there. Often I heard the flutter of their wings before seeing them darting to or from the feeders. Sometimes they were even too close to photograph - I couldn't believe my luck! I also spotted a large, but surprisingly well-camouflaged butterfly flying around the cherry tree. It was a scarce swallowtail (Iphiclides podalirius) that had clearly already been in the wars, as one half of its "swallowtail" had disappeared. The photos from these encounters can be found here.

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The unwelome arrival of the Asian Hornet in our area

The End of Summer?

Nocturnal drama in the Alberes

Right under our noses...

April Blog

Springing to life

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