Category: Lesley McLaren

Route March around the Empordà

14/3/2019

By Lesley McLaren

Inspired by Robin and Martine's visit to the Aiguamolls de l'Empordà wetlands in February, I was keen to witness the abundant birdlife for myself, and an opportunity came two days ago. With my husband minding the dog at home, I could make a full day of it, and intended to explore the southern end of the reserve further than previously.

Laden as always with camera, binoculars and rucksack, plus the added weight and challenge of a newly purchased spotting scope, I set off from the main car park at about 11.30. On emerging from the information centre with a map of the whole reserve, I was passed by a raucous, swift-flying flock of parakeets. (The book lists two species in the reserve, but I couldn't say which they were.) Even more raucous, was a much larger flock of Spanish primary schoolchildren on a day trip. Happily for me, they were heading for the north end. For now.

I'd asked the man at the information centre if there was anything of special interest around, given that migration is now underway. I was hoping for ospreys but he said it was too early for those. As expected, there were marsh harriers, though. And cranes were in the area. That perked me up, until he told me that they spent the daytime in fields near to - but not in - the reserve, and at night would fly into the wettest part of the reserve - the area nearest the sea and least accessible to birdwatchers like me.

No cranes, then, but I did see a lot of other things - most of the species recorded by Robin and Martine, although notably no geese or lapwing. I undoubtedly missed some too, but my tally came to 43 nevertheless, and included at least two new ones. There were some surprises too.

Once before, Robin and I thought we might have heard a water rail, but I rather despaired of ever seeing one. It was wonderful, therefore, to glimpse one this time, quietly poking around a marshy area of dead grasses and reeds, not far from the track to the first hide. Later in the year I would never have seen him or her through all the foliage.

After the Observatori de las Daines (Fallow doe hide), which overlooks a field beloved by storks and - of course - deer, I continued for about another fifteen minutes, alongside the narrow canal (huge carp splashing about, spawning, in there), stopping next at a big hide on stilts (Observatori Pallejà), looking east towards the sea. This is in the section we've previously driven on to from the main car park.

I spent a very peaceful twenty minutes or so here, with the hide to myself most of the time, watching a few ducks, coot and little grebe on the water, as well as storks on the grassland and marsh harriers drifting south to north over the marshes beyond. A pale form booted eagle came close several times and was mobbed briefly by a kestrel. Then another falcon appeared, which at first glance I expected to be the kestrel again, only to realise it was giving chase to small birds flying over the water. Kestrels don't hunt this way and, when it later circled round, a flash of its dark face confirmed: peregrine falcon - the first I've seen in the region, either side of the border!

Booted eagle

With the day shaping up nicely, it was time for a spot of lunch.

I was just finishing my sandwich, when the hide was besieged by schoolchildren. As they claimed every bit of space on the benches around me, it was all I could do to stash my lunchbox, gather all my gear, sling it across my shoulders and stand up before getting trampled. The teachers looked mildly apologetic as they vainly called for hush, and I escaped.

Round the corner, heading for the Camargue horses, I met a handful of British birders with telescopes trained on a wet field full of shelduck. The leader pointed out water pipits not far from us. I have never knowingly seen one of these before and probably wouldn't recognise one again unless in its ideal watery habitat. Like most pipits, they were unremarkable - dunnock-like - even through binoculars or scope. The sun was much too bright on the water to see much colour in anything, however, and I didn't linger there either.

The horses were close to the fence, having an afternoon kip, when I passed them, and a few minutes further on, after three more hides, it was a short stroll to the sea.

Penultimate hide before beach - looking towards the old grain silos converted into observation towers

Little to see from these last hides that day - all the birds were further inland, where they were more sheltered from the wind

Last hide before the beach

On the beach, a sand dune regeneration project is underway, and a line of wooden poles marches north, marking the eastern perimeter of the reserve, for as far as the eye or binoculars can see. Signs warn against walking on the inland side of these posts, so as not to disturb ground-nesting birds in the breeding season, as well as plants. This means you can't avoid the sand.

After consulting my map, I was interested in getting to a hide about halfway up the beach, because it was on the edge of where I'd been told the cranes spend the night. While I had no expectation of seeing any (it was still much too early), I thought there might be other stuff about. Plus, according to the map, at another hide some distance beyond that, a dotted line showed an "alternative route" which would eventually bring me full circle to the visitors centre. Marked as "closed from 1st April to 30th June" (breeding season), it should be OK now. Except that it appeared to cross quite an expanse of water. Perhaps there was a boardwalk?

It turned out that I had about a mile's hike ahead of me, on very soft sand, into the gale. Even at the water's edge the going was no easier, and I needed my fleece and hat now. I dismissed the idea of giving up; if I didn't explore this area now, I probably never would but would wonder what I'd missed.

Apart from driftwood, there was little obvious plastic or other rubbish, which was gratifying. It was close to pristine - and completely deserted apart from me.

Short, plodding steps got me to the first hide. But there was nothing to see here today.

Accessible from the beach (after a 20 minute walk), this hide looks across the area where cranes spend the night. Allegedly.

Grim determination had got me close to the next hide, when I came upon a few tiny waders standing facing into the wind, near the wooden posts. Brilliantly camouflaged against the sand, they were relatively tame, running a few feet ahead of me as I approached, before stopping and again facing the wind - and flying sand. Presumably they face this way so their feathers aren't blown about.

I'm out of practice as far as waders are concerned, not having watched them much since my teens at the Northumberland coast, but I'm fairly sure two were sanderling and the others, Kentish plovers. The latter was another first for me. So it was worth the slog - just about - to see those.

Sanderling

Kentish plover (winter plumage)

At this last hide, although I wasn't surprised, my heart sank to find the whole area well under water. No sign of a boardwalk, track or dotted line of an alternative route anywhere inland. If I wanted to attempt a short cut to the visitors centre, I would have to get my feet wet. If not swim. There was nothing for it but to plod back the way I had come.

It took half an hour but felt like forever, and the only other birds I saw were a migrating kestrel (skirting the coast northwards, perilously low over the sea as it battled the wind), one yellow-legged gull, one marsh harrier and a male stonechat. I don't think I'll soon repeat that walk, beautiful though the views are.

The depressingly long walk back, retracing my footprints, which were disappearing fast in the wind.

It was 4pm by the time I regained firm ground and, not far from the horses again, I found myself walking through huge swarms of mosquito-like flies. Apart from a few butterflies and a single dragonfly, these were the only insects I'd noticed all day.

By now there were few people around. The children had long gone, the sun was much lower and there was a pervading sense of calm. It's in quiet moments like these when you tend to feel less like an observer and more like a participant in the natural world.

Close to the information centre once more, I couldn't resist checking out the first hide again before leaving. The skies showed no sign of cranes, but some birds seemed to be gathering for the evening. Among egrets great and little, at least twenty grey herons now occupied the area where I'd seen fallow deer earlier. The deer themselves were further round; a lone coypu was enjoying high tea in the water, and two terrapins were taking advantage of the fading sun on a half-submerged tree trunk.

Late afternoon serenity

Despite the earlier relentless and relatively unrewarding beach walk, a feeling of peace descended as I hobbled - weary but happy - to the car. The day had held a number of surprising highlights, and perhaps the cerise sur le gâteau came during the morning: an albino buck among the deer.

Here he is in a short clip - after a pair of beak-clacking storks. I gather he's quite famous among regular visitors to the reserve.

Aiguamolls de l'Empordà from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Bird list:
Little grebe, great crested grebe, cormorant, great egret, little egret, grey heron, white stork, glossy ibis, flamingo, shelduck, mallard, shoveler, garganay, teal, water rail, moorhen, coot, booted eagle, marsh harrier, buzzard, peregrine falcon, kestrel, ringed plover, Kentish plover, snipe, sanderling, yellow-legged gull, wood pigeon, parakeet, lesser spotted woodpecker (heard), sand martin, water pipit, white wagtail, stonechat, black redstart, robin, chiffchaff, Sardinian warbler, fan-tailed warbler, Cetti's warbler (heard), starling, cirl bunting, Spanish sparrow.

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An Eight-legged Consequence of Indolence

14/8/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

I would like to claim that weather conditions and various activities have prevented me from doing much in the garden so far this year, but laziness is really to blame. And I'm now seeing many consequences of this, not the least of which is that once the current heatwave ends, Extreme Gardening will be required - probably for several weeks - to wrestle hedges and borders into submission. On the flipside, neglect is attracting new species.

In the front garden there's a small patch of earth near the garage, where I used to have an almond tree. The tree never exactly flourished just there, and since its demise nothing else has really worked or looked good either, despite irrigation. More recently, quite a few plants have self-seeded, including eleagnus, figwort and mint, so this spring, after digging out some very tough grass, I left it to its own devices. In other words, I was too lazy to sort it out properly.

The other day - yet another sizzler - I went to pick a few mint leaves to flavour a glass of iced water, but the sight of how the mint had spread, that it was in flower and attracting lots of different bees and wasps, had me scurrying back indoors for my camera. After photographing digger and ruby-tailed wasps for a few minutes, I suddenly spotted a yellow and black body lower down in the grass. What I first took to be an enormous hornet turned out to be an enormous (appropriately named) wasp spider spreadeagled in a rather tatty web.

Its French names are either araignée tigre or argiope frelon (tiger or hornet spider) and scientific name is Argiope bruennichi. This is the only time I've seen one since Bruce and I found our first ever, in 2012, while exploring an area on the Spanish side of the Albères. That time the spider was feasting on a dragonfly. I've read that their main prey are grasshoppers and crickets but, in this spot in my garden, it looked as though the menu du jour would be wasp.

I was right. Not long after training my camera on it, a small wasp flew into the web. With lightning speed, the spider grabbed it and wrapped it in sheets of silk. This is to prevent the wasp from stinging, apparently; the likes of grasshoppers and dragonflies don't need wrapping, unless for storage perhaps.

It was interesting, if rather upsetting, that the cocooned wasp continued to struggle for some time. So different from my observations of the crab spider last year, whose ambushed prey quickly succumbed to its paralysing, if not deadly, bite.

The following morning I set up tripod and camera early. In exactly the same spot, the spider - a female, I believe; they're bigger and more brightly coloured than males - was waiting patiently in the centre of a newly-spun web. These usually have a distinctive zigzag pattern near the middle. There wasn't one that day, but Bruce's photo (below right) shows it very clearly. I've been reading up on the purpose of this stabilimentum, and experts seem to be undecided. Two theories are that because it reflects UV light, it may play a role in attracting prey to the web and possibly in preventing its destruction by large animals.

I sat and watched the sunshine creep over the garage roof and across the mint, closer and closer to where She lurked. More insects were arriving every minute, including a couple of Asian hornets at one point. Clearly in search of prey themselves, they quartered the area for a while, often flying low through the grass not far from my spider. Would they be strong enough to extricate themselves from her web? I wasn't to get an answer to that question, but very soon another small wasp did get itself tangled up.

Click photos to enlarge image.

Wasp Spider from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Several days on, the heatwave seems to have passed but the spider is still there - giving me the perfect excuse to delay weeding around her. But who knows what new arrivals I could disturb elsewhere? I think I'd better wait a bit longer before doing anything.

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Bachelor Bats Hanging Out

9/8/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

I know very little about bats; they are, after all, very difficult to identify on the wing, and I'm not inclined to catch them in nets just to satisfy my own curiosity. I enjoy seeing them, though, and feel privileged whenever they hang out at my place during the summer.

Their favourite spot is outside our kitchen, in a bat-sized gap behind one of the wooden beams supporting a short section of roof over the terrace. There's often one, occasionally two, sometimes none, but recently there were four. It was the record-breaking number of droppings on the patio that made me look more closely.

I've gleaned that it's not unusual in some species for small bachelor groups to share temporary summer roosts. Three of my four were dark brown, but one was much lighter - almost gingery. I've seen him before (or one just like him). Perhaps he'd invited his mates for a sleepover.

From their droppings, and close comparison of photos with internet images and descriptions, I'm pretty sure they are common pipistrelles. There are other species around, though. I sometimes find a few much larger droppings on the outside sill of our garage window, but there's nowhere to roost above that, so it must simply be a stop-off point during the night. There are biggish droppings in our pool-house too. I can't work out how any even get in there, never mind where they might spend the day - but I suppose they only need the tiniest of cracks to squeeze through. I do see bigger bats flying from time to time as well, and would love to know what they are.

Ginger, fast asleep. He's really the other way up - I've turned the photo so you can tell what you're looking at.

Outside the kitchen, my four little bundles of leather and fur were bunched up together, all in a row, and surprisingly fidgety; scratching, grooming and clambering over one another for a better position. Squabbling too, perhaps, if the occasional irritated-sounding chittering was anything to go by. Perhaps squabbles also explain why l've sometimes seen one fly out in the midday sun, and not return.

At dusk the other evening, I opened the kitchen door to watch the welcome rain, and saw one flying every which way, at eye-level, a few feet beyond the terrace. Feeling it must be one of "mine" and had probably just left the roost, I stood in the doorway, mesmerised. Then it flew to within an inch or two of the roosting beam, touched the wall, and took off again. More tight loops in the rain - back to the wall - touch - away. Loops - back - touch - away. On the fourth or fifth return, it landed on the wall again, and this time quickly crawled up behind the beam. I know for sure that it didn't come back out, and less than a minute later, another bat did exactly the same thing - making several split-second visits to touch the wall before finally landing flat against it and crawling into the roost. After a few more seconds, a third followed suit, once again only joining his friends after several approaches. I waited to see if any would re-emerge, but they stayed put - clearly unappreciative of the rain.

I wonder if this is typical behaviour when returning to a roost, and what the purpose is behind those repeated circuits and bumps. Is it some kind of check, to make sure they're in the right place and/or that it's safe?

Here's a short clip of the boys trying to get a good day's sleep. With apologies for the quality - I had to handhold the camera and it couldn't always decide what to focus on.

Bats Wingcleaning from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Today there are five! And I've decided that some must look more gingery because of the light. Either that or more gingers have turned up and kicked the others out.

I have to include this clip as well. It's even shorter and rather sweet. Well, up to a point. Seems I have a knack for catching them at the wrong moment.

5 Bats from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

The one on the left got me on the arm that time. And seemed pretty pleased with himself.

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A Difficult Parting

16/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

22nd June, we Warblers cleared up and packed our cars, preparing to vacate our chalet in St-Pierre-dels-Forcats. Everyone had plans to stop off somewhere on the way home but, as Robin has described in Nostalgia in the Cerdagne, he, Martine and I also had to visit the wildflower meadows one last time.

For me, though, it wasn't just the flowers that made this place so special. On a small mound in the first meadow you get to, there's a cluster of rocks. They cry out to be sat upon, which is exactly what I'd done the first time I saw them, Day 1. After arriving at the chalet early, to do a quick recce of the locale, I'd mused over who else, over the centuries, might have sat in this same spot, listening to skylarks, breathing in the fresh mountain air and soaking up the views.

Because of my dog, and the convenience of such quiet tracks so close to the chalet, I'd strolled here several times each day after that - often early morning and evening; rarely meeting anyone. Thoughts of my father often surfaced; he would have been in his element. By the last day, it now felt like home and, for some reason, those rocks drew my eye every time I passed them. Bathed in sunshine, they, the flowers, grasses, butterflies, birdsong, and resident families of whinchats, kestrels and choughs, combined to lend this place an ambiance of serenity I haven't encountered elsewhere.

Pink clover like fat, juicy raspberries, mixed with ragged robin and buttercups

Partly to give Digby a decent walk before the long car journey, and partly to delay the moment of departure for as long as possible, when Robin and Martine headed back, I continued beyond the meadows into the welcome cool and contrast of pine forest. And instead of immediately circling round to the chalet again, which I'd done on the first day, we followed a snow-shoe trail towards the neighbouring Eyne Valley. On a par with everywhere else I'd been - meadows excepted, perhaps - there weren't many birds in here. Several mistle thrushes, jays, a crested tit and a greater spotted woodpecker were just about all. I was expecting crossbills, and my hopes rose at one point at the sound of an unfamiliar call, but whatever was making it refused to appear.

Here and there in the dappled shade, rhododendrons were beginning to open; I was sorry not to see them at their best, but if they had been out the spring flowers would have gone over. You can't have everything. In one glade, I came across an interesting, single orchid, which looked different from the purples and pinks in the meadows and verges further back. (Subsequent attempts to identify it from my photo have been unsuccessful; none of us can decide if it's a common spotted, heath spotted, or a hybrid; our books and the internet don't agree!)

(Mystery orchid on the right. Click to enlarge.)

After a while, with heavy heart, I turned and regained the circular walk, coming out at our now-deserted chalet and my loaded car. I could have stayed for weeks - there was so much left to explore; raptors to track down (where were they all?); new plants and butterflies to discover ...

Already I was promising myself to return, though not necessarily to the same base; I was aware that a future visit at a different time of year could well affect me differently. At the end of this trip, I drove away with a strong sense of leaving something important behind.

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Bad Mountain

15/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

June 21st. Our last full day exploring the Cerdagne and Capcir. My destination was Mt. Puigmal d'Err, which I hoped might be the high point of the whole trip for me. Figuratively as well as literally. If there weren't eagles here, where would they be?

After my recce the previous afternoon, I drove the fast route, turning off the Andorra road beyond Saillagouse and Err. As you'd expect, the road winds steadily upwards, but it's wonderfully wide as well as scenic. In winter, snow ploughs could be three-abreast. In early summer, with little or no other traffic (just the occasional cow), it was a joy.

The Err valley is steep-sided and wooded for most of the way. After about 25 minutes you pass the ski station, after which the road narrows and, a little further on, parking is obligatory - even though the road continues, according to the map. I was already slowing down when something bounded along the left-hand verge, a few yards ahead. A small dog? Briefly, I caught sight of it again before it darted sharp left and disappeared (over the edge?). A marmot.

If you start seeing creatures before you're even out of the car, it has to be a good sign, and that immediately whet my appetite for what the day could have in store. Where there's prey, there will be predators.

Even if you venture no further than the car park, the views on three sides make this a lovely spot and well worth the drive. Slopes on the opposite side of the valley have interesting rock formations, streams and waterfalls.

Copper-coloured rocks appeared wet, with reddish soil at the top. Colouring due to mineral content?

To the left, you look back down the Err valley and across the Cerdagne plateau to the Carlit mountains and lakes of the Capcir, where Martine and Robin were the day before.

I would be heading the other way, due south. The forecast warned of thunderstorms later, which meant I would have to keep an eye on the sky, but right then, there were just a few light clouds. After packing my rucksack with all-weather clothing - and treble-checking food supplies - I set off with Digby.

Like the rest of the Pyrenees, the summit of Mt Puigmal d'Err straddles France and Spain. At 2910m, It's 11m shorter than Mt Carlit and 126m higher than our own Mt Canigou. You don't get nearly such an impression of height as with our local mountain, however. I suppose this is because the approach is from a plateau that's already around 1500m, and you park at the 2000m point. Nevertheless, close-to, the glacial basin has a desolate kind of beauty above the treeline.

I had no intention of hiking to the top, but to follow my nose, as it were. And at the first hairpin in the road, my nose led me off the tarmac, straight on, up a track alongside the river. Somewhere up there, was the River Err's source. More stream than river at this height, it was fast flowing but benign that day. All around me there were signs of a more violent nature, however.

At the hairpin, next to a small building whose purpose I couldn't guess, it passed under the road. Uprooted conifers (many still green) were piled in and around the river on the north side of the man-made "bridge". The hairpin itself was strewn with bits of tree, rocks and rubble. It also looked as though the top layer of the building's roof had been ripped off, part of which lay yards away, up the road. Ahead, here and there on the left-hand flanks of the mountain, teardrop slashes of shale broke up the vegetation. Flattened conifers still rested on some. Perhaps a combination of violent storms, avalanches and land slips had uprooted the trees and brought many to the valley floor. After that, floods from snow melt and torrential rain swept them to the bridge, where they dammed the river until a huge surge carried them over the top and dumped most on the other side. It was sobering to picture the ferocious, churning mass of water right where we were standing now. A glance at the clouds drifting over Puigmal's summit from Spain added a small frisson. Already denser and greyer, but not really dark. Not yet.

Later I would learn that "Puigmal" is Catalan for "bad mountain". "Puig" is pronounced "pootch" (phonetically: putʃ)

We carried on. So far the skies were empty of raptors whenever I looked up, but it was early days. And I could hear something calling: the whistle alarms of marmots from a grassy area on the other side of the stream, plus a bird I didn't recognise, from somewhere lowdown and nearby. At last I spotted it. Fairly small and dark, flying from broom bush to broom bush not far ahead. Binoculars trained, I gasped at the sight of a broad white collar under its throat. It was my first ever ring ouzel - a bird I'd long wanted to see. I shouldn't have been surprised at all, of course, because this was the perfect habitat for the "mountain blackbird". Quickly, I steered Digby off the track to a pile of boulders nearer the stream, where I could hunker down and quietly observe. And how lucky was I that it stayed fairly close - doubtless aware of me, but unconcerned.

After a few minutes a man and woman appeared from round the corner beyond it, heading towards me. Painfully slowly. The man carried binoculars so I expected him to see the ouzel, but he strolled within feet of it, apparently oblivious. Perhaps he'd seen hundreds before. I met them back on the path and we had quite a chat. Husband and wife - in their late sixties at a guess - on holiday from Bordeaux. Unfortunately I couldn't remember the French name for ring ouzel, and a rather fruitless discussion followed, with me describing it and Monsieur suggesting names, few of which I recognised. If he knew his birds, I was sure he would work out what I was on about, but he simply looked bemused. Maybe it was my bad French. Maybe he wasn't a bird watcher at all. They were very pleasant, anyway, and told me how shocked they were to find the rhododendrons still only in bud. This time last year the mountain was blanketed in red. Also this time last year, they'd been able to walk much further alongside the stream. "Don't bother going round the corner," Madame said. "The track is now the river."

I decided to continue for a bit anyway - always keen to look round the next bend. But before I got there, the ouzel appeared again, even closer, and suddenly I realised why. There was a nest here somewhere. I stood still, waited, and watched as it swooped to the ground between bushes only a few feet from me. And, oh my goodness, it hadn't flown to a nest but to a fledgling, which it promptly fed!

They must be very hardy birds. Our chalet host had told us that only three weeks before our arrival, there was heavy snow on the plateau. It would have been much worse up here, yet at least one young ouzel had survived. My book says they have two broods (5 or 6 eggs in each) April to June. And they like nesting in "steep banks, rock cavities or fallen stone walls". My observation post among the boulders might have been the perfect spot!

After pausing to take a couple of photos, I turned round and headed back before I disturbed them any more or there was a tragedy. Siblings might be around too, and if they were like normal blackbird fledglings they would be running rather than flying. It was quite possible that one would run straight into Digby's path at any moment; he can snatch things up horribly quickly, even when he's on a short lead.

Click pictures to enlarge image

I passed the couple again, roughly where I'd left them, and showed them a photo of the parent bird, on my camera. But Monsieur was none the wiser and clearly couldn't understand my excitement.

After leaving them again, I was a bit disappointed to have to regain the road, but it did mean that progress uphill was swift and easy. The tarmac was more broken up by now, with a lot of shale on the edges, studded with flowers. Mini rockeries. A few butterflies visited them, but nothing out of the ordinary.

After the next hairpin, we were heading south again, roughly parallel with the river but much higher above it. Below, the Bordeaux couple hadn't made much progress at all. I'd noticed them standing still for some time, facing our direction, so I waved but they didn't respond. Perhaps they weren't looking at me, but something lower down. My dog had certainly caught sight or scent of something and was pulling me towards the edge. Marmots, directly below us! This was a whole new potential snack for him, and he sat down, ears forward, mightily curious.

Several of them were lounging around and grooming, but two had a wonderful game, chasing and leaping on each other; rolling on their backs and having mini boxing matches. I last saw them doing that at the Batère when I was with Robin, several years ago. This time I managed to film them - albeit from a long way off.

Marmotwatch

Marmots At Play from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Despite frequent checks of the skyline, I only saw one griffon vulture passing by, high and distant. By now the clouds were thickening up, and a few spots of rain had me packing away the camera, but they came to nothing. On we went.

At the third hairpin I left the road once more, and struck diagonally across a patch of short grass and rocks - to a track that led to the river and continued the other side, into the bowl of the mountain. Another bend beckoned. But the water would have come well over my boots and was too wide to step over. I would have to take a running jump to clear it, and wasn't sure that was a good idea with a dog on a leash. What if Digby didn't jump with me?

Reluctantly, I accepted this was as far as I would get today, so did another about-turn and found a good, ant-free spot for lunch. The slopes around us were covered in rhododendrons - such a pity none were in flower, but I could imagine the spectacle and it gave me an incentive to return another year. Mixed in among them and the broom, especially on the far side of the river, were lots of Great yellow gentian plants. In the gorge the previous day, some of these had been on the point of blooming, but here, there was not even a flower stalk in sight. As the name suggests, they're big plants - leaves reminiscent of hostas - and must be fabulous in flower. Assuming they usually come out at the same time as the rhodies, the colour combination must be stunning. Is it any coincidence that the Catalan flag comprises yellow and red stripes? There are several theories about the origin of the "Senyera", but none connected to the natural landscape; perhaps it would be too fanciful to suggest that, centuries ago, much more of Catalonia was covered in great yellow gentians and red rhododendrons.

My sandwiches went down a treat and we were slowly retracing our steps towards the road, when two young women appeared from nowhere. With an enviable lightness of step, they crossed our path and struck off, at impressive speed, up a steep, narrow track through the rhododendrons. Rather them than me, if they were heading for the summit. If our presence was remarked at all, we would have been tagged "the snail-paced Anglaise and her dog."

I'd just creaked upright after taking photos of some blue gentians and a tiny pink flower almost hidden in the grass, when a pair of grey wagtails caught my eye. I'm used to seeing them flit from rock to rock, but these put on a beautiful display, flashing bright yellow as they spiraled up and down, intertwined, in an elegant dance. They were the first birds I'd seen since the vulture. All the eagles, I decided, were over at the gorges du Sègre.

Great yellow gentians (Gentiana lutea) - whose roots are apparently used for medicinal purposes and for flavouring alcoholic drinks! (Source: "Mountain Flowers - Pyrenees & Picos" by Cliff Booker & David Charlton)

Bank after bank of rhodies - Pyrenean alpenrose or Rusty-leaved alpenrose (Rhododendron ferrugineum). Azalea-sized leaves and flowers.

Click photos to enlarge image

It really does pay to stand still every so often. Had I not stopped to watch the wagtails, I might never have noticed the isard (Pyrenean chamois), who was wonderfully camouflaged against the hillside a couple of hundred yards ahead and slightly above us. Isards are smaller than their Alpine cousins, apparently, and I'd never seen one of these before either. For some time he seemed unaware of us as we sat and watched him graze. Even after he did finally turn and look directly at us, he didn't rush away as I expected.

Seeing large mammal species like this was one of my wishes come true for the trip - and perfect compensation for the lack of raptors.

Eddie the Isard

Back on the road again, we began a slow descent, often stopping for me to scan the mountainsides, in search of movement. I kept being drawn to a couple of caves on the other side of the valley. Caves fascinate me for some reason, and I always have to check them out with the binoculars, even though I know I won't see anything. That day I imagined what might have lived or taken shelter in them over the centuries, before humans overran everywhere. Bears, wolves and lynx, I bet. There are bears and lynx today in remote parts of the Spanish Pyrenees, but wild though the Puigmal d'Err is, it isn't wild enough for those species.

To my surprise, when I scanned a smaller, more distant cave, I realised an animal was lying in it. No bear or lynx, obviously, but something quite big. A deer? By happy coincidence, the cave turned out to be directly opposite where I'd parked the car, so, about half an hour later, I confirmed my suspicion.

I found Robin and Martine at the parking spot too, having a snooze in their van. I knew they'd planned to come here at some point in the day, and guessed they'd already had a walk. Not wanting to disturb them, I sat and kept watch on the cave for some time. Hard to see anything with the naked eye, but the doe was quite clear through binoculars. When an isard ambled past her, she didn't move other than to lift her head for a few seconds. She was still there when my friends emerged, and Robin remarked on how unusual it was to see a red deer all on its own, when you can hardly move for them in the Scottish Highlands. Eventually, perhaps because evening approached and it was cooler, she got up. With no need for haste, she gradually picked her way through the rocks, stopping here and there to nibble at something, before slipping out of sight in the scrub.

By then Robin had spotted some more marmots further down the valley, and I found a burrow right by the roadside - which probably explained the disappearance of the one I saw on arrival. A mystery bird we heard but couldn't see might have been another ring ouzel (already I'd forgotten the call of the one I'd seen earlier). In the shelter of the valley below us, rhododendrons were just beginning to show some colour among the broom, and Robin pointed out lots of blue flowers by the river. Even through binoculars we couldn't tell what they were, but none of us had either the energy or enthusiasm to tackle the steep hillside for a closer look. It was time to go - back to the chalet for our last evening in this magnificent region.

The day wasn't quite over, though. On the way back down to the main road, I had to pull over twice. Once to check that two vultures soaring low overhead were griffons (they were - great views!), and once to photograph a roadside bank of lupins.

The Bad Mountain of Err had certainly delivered, in many unexpected and delightful ways.

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Les Gorges du Sègre

14/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

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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Birding & Ticking in May

19/5/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

May is a month that never disappoints when it comes to nature, and this year is no exception. After quite a wet spring, the wildflowers seem more abundant than ever (not to mention weeds in the garden). Insect numbers are increasing - including unwelcome tiger mosquitoes and ticks. Rock pools are full of tadpoles and young fire salamanders. I've seen one mouse and two foxes. But the stars of the show are, as usual, the birds. Singing their hearts out, building nests, feeding young...

An unusually cold couple of weeks at the beginning of the month delayed many migrants, but this week there was a tremendous "rush" as the GOR would describe it. They reported the 16th as remarkable on the hillock at St. Nazaire, when a "safe estimate" of 100,000 (five zeros is correct!) birds passed through. "Streams" of swifts, swallows and house martins for the most part, but 4,000 honey buzzards and 2,000 bee eaters were among them. And I thought I was lucky to spot about 60 honey buzzards over two days. Wave after wave of small flocks passed over the house - visible only because cloud and high winds forced them to fly low - and also the orchards.

At this time of year I usually avoid the vineyards and orchards, because they are literally crawling with ticks. But for various reasons I've ventured down there several times this last week, and boy has it been been worthwhile.

The areas of rough ground between and edging the plantations are a mass of grasses, thistles and other wildflowers. A superb haven for many creatures. I'm enjoying seeing it so lush, before it gets frazzled or cut back.

In terms of birdsong, nightingales are outdoing just about every other species for volume and length of song. In some stretches of trees and hedgerow, there seems to be a nightingale every few metres. And for some reason I've clapped eyes on more than in any previous year. One or two have even sung for some minutes in full view. That's a first.

Out among the vines and fruit trees themselves, it's woodlarks, serins, goldfinches and linnets that I hear and see most, with some corn and cirl buntings mixed in. Yesterday a smart male stonechat was chatting from the scrubbiest fringes of the southernmost vineyard. In April I also saw one or two whinchat on the opposite side. I need to establish if the latter are still around, though, because they might have been migrants; I've never noticed them here before.

One of the reasons for braving the ticks is that I wanted to see if the woodchat shrikes were back. Although I can't confirm if the same pair as last year has set up residence, I've so far seen three or four shrikes in different parts of the whole area, and one bird exactly where the female was feeding fledglings last year. Some might still be migrating through, I suppose, but I'd have thought most would have found territories by now. Today I saw two, in different sections of the walk. A few seconds after one flew out of a tree across the vines, I then realised a small-sounding bird was singing in an oak tree right next to me. I didn't recognise the song at all. If you could even call it a song. It was an extremely varied, unmusical jumble of squeaks, clicks, chats, rattles and sizzles, with snippets of nightingale, wryneck and several other birds mixed in. It stayed hidden, so I recorded it. On listening back home, I wonder if it is indeed imitating other species. It's definitely not a starling. I've read that great grey shrikes mimic small prey birds, hoping to attract them. We don't get the greys here but I wonder if my bird is the mate of the woodchat shrike that flew out of the tree. I need to listen again and compare with recordings on the internet - an activity which isn't always as easy as you'd think, depending on the song in question. It requires great patience and stamina.

I also wanted to check out something in one of the copses. Back in March, before the oaks came into leaf, I spotted a very big, twiggy nest, and wondered if it belonged to buzzards. There's a resident pair here, which I know has successfully reared at least one youngster, and I've always wondered where they nest. I've never seen a buzzard's nest before - and size is hard to judge when the construction is close to the treetop - so for all I knew this could belong to crows or magpies. And it might be old. After reading that buzzards do re-use old nests, I checked it periodically through that month and early April, but it seemed unchanged and unoccupied. Brambles and thorny climbers were too thick around the base for me to get close enough to look for droppings or other evidence of recent or past occupancy.

But things were different this week. On three days, as I entered the wood a good hundred metres from the nest, a buzzard slipped silently down through the trees and away. It either came from the nest itself or a tree very nearby. This seemed promising but I didn't want to disturb them by hanging around. Today I unexpectedly found a much clearer view of the nest from outside the copse, along a side I rarely walk.

No sign of any activity on it, but when I'd walked a little further on, I heard buzzards calling. Two - one much darker than the other - were flying together. At first I thought they were playing or displaying, but then realised the paler of the two was chasing off the darker one. Through the winter there was a very dark phase buzzard here and perhaps it's now overstayed its welcome? Minutes later, the pale buzzard's pale mate joined it and they circled each other, much more relaxed. I stood as still as possible, half hidden behind a nectarine tree (though I bet they had their eyes on me), waiting to see if one of them would return to the nest. After a minute or two, the lower bird turned towards the copse, settled into a steady, descending glide and disappeared into the trees - on a direct line with the nest.

From photos it looks as though this bird is carrying prey. There's a trailing "line" from her feet - the tail of a mammal perhaps? I've often asked myself how these birds find enough to eat in the orchards, but clearly there's a lot more around than I imagine, or they wouldn't stay.*

Today's most exciting highlight came right at the beginning of the walk, however. Near where I'd parked by the pond, I was watching swifts scythe past at eye level, when a large raptor caught my eye beyond them. Very low and close. My immediate thought was "not buzzard". The shape was wrong, as was the flight. Robin is spot on with his description of buzzards' flight as a kind of "flap-flap glide". This was more "flap-flap-flap-flap-flap-flap circle, circle, flap-flap-flap-flap...". With each change of direction I got flashes of white underparts, which made me think short-toed eagle, but that didn't seem right either. Osprey? Too small, wing shape all wrong.

Luckily for me, it came towards us, and my camera proved a good substitute for binos. Underwings white along the front, black along the back. All-white body. Booted eagle - pale form!

These are classed as relatively rare in the region. I've only seen about four in the past, and never this close. It was so low, flapping and circling, that I also got clear views of the beautiful patterning on its back and the light V across its tail. Photos have picked up the identifying "headlights" on its shoulders, either side of its neck - markings I've never managed to see before.

I was astonished to come across a booted eagle at such low altitude, but on studying the photos more closely, I see it's feet are also holding prey. Something far more substantial than the mouthful carried by the buzzard. A partridge? Had I been looking in the right direction a moment or two earlier, I might have witnessed the spectacular "stoop" of which these eagles are capable when making a kill. Perhaps the heavy load meant it had to work hard to gain height, hence all that flapping and somewhat erratic flight path. Eventually it disappeared north-westwards - towards Buzzard Copse.

I was inclined to think this was one of those very late migrants - I would never expect to see one here normally - so asked the GOR for their opinion. They tell me it could well be nesting locally!

Cropped to the point at which focus is lost - just to show "headlights" catching the sun

All these wonderful discoveries make up for also finding at least one tick on either the dog or me each time, even though we stick to stony paths wherever possible. I keep checking us on the way round, so most don't get the chance to latch on. For any that do, I'm armed with my trusty tick-pick. Just as well, because I now have an eagle challenge for the summer!

* Update 20/05/2018: Adult buzzard seen on the nest.

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In Search of Otters

28/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

Click on photos below for larger image

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

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

Any feelings of schadenfreude were short-lived, however.

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

It was an otter.

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

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

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

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

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

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Back at Als Bachous

24/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

Despite best intentions last September, the first time I returned to Als Bachous since then was a week ago. As soon as I got out of the car, it was evident that there has been a lot of human activity. And some, at least, is welcome.

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

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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Winter's Back!

20/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

After writing about bees yesterday morning, by the evening an orange weather warning had been issued for overnight snow in the Mediterranean Pyrenees. If the forecast was to be believed, even our village might get blanketed. Without a care for the bees and other poor creatures that have been fooled into thinking it's spring, I was stupidly excited; we haven't had snow this low down since 8th March 2010, when about 50 - 60cm fell in a day.

I got the spade from the shed, ready to dig out the car if necessary. Promised the dog that he was in for a treat; he has never experienced snow, so his reaction would be entertaining. It started raining at 7pm, bang on forecast, and the temperature was due to drop to zero.

At 2am I woke up and poked my head out of the back door. Still raining. Still 5 degrees. And when I got up properly at about 7 o'clock, it was such an anti-climax to find not a flake in our garden.

Higher ground further inland has been affected, I believe - certainly in the Corbières - and there is more on the Albères than we saw all winter. Today's strong, cold wind may well prevent a fast melt - and it's certainly keeping the bees away.

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Route March around the Empordà

An Eight-legged Consequence of Indolence

Bachelor Bats Hanging Out

A Difficult Parting

Bad Mountain

Les Gorges du Sègre

Birding & Ticking in May

In Search of Otters

Back at Als Bachous

Winter's Back!

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