Category: Lesley McLaren

Back at Als Bachous

24/3/2018

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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The Bees' Knees in March

19/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

Click on photos to enlarge.

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

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

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

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

Honey bee

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

Carpenter Bees in March from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

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

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The Sound of Music - in the Orchards?

14/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

For some years I avoided walking too deep into the orchards, partly because of a kind of natural barrier at a line of tall poplars, but mostly because often there emanated, from somewhere beyond those trees, the sound of an electronic keyboard.

Depending on the time of day and direction of the wind, dreadful plinky-plonky noises would drift across the vineyards - a few bars of this, followed by a pause, then a few bars of that. Almost a tune, but not quite. It annoyed me because it clashed with the birds. One day last autumn, when it started up yet again, I gave in to curiosity and changed direction to track down the source. I imagined a house somewhere close by, where an enthusiastic beginner practised, with the windows open. When no house was visible, I next wondered if someone had transported their keyboard to the middle of the orchards and was playing to the trees - a variation on talking to them. There's no accounting for human behaviour, and people play the piano to elephants, after all.

The sound was getting louder; I was closing in. But what I found was, if anything, even more bizarre than I'd imagined.

A tall white pole with loudspeakers on each side of a box at the top. Solar powered. In fact there was a pole every few hundred metres, over several square kilometres. Mercifully, they weren't all belting out the same random notes at the same time, (although I would one day hear two going at once, with different “tunes”). What on earth was the intention behind them? It couldn't be to entertain the fruit pickers, because harvesting was long since over. Surely it couldn't be to encourage growth?

Quite a mystery. Although it has continued all through the winter, it's only lasted for about five minutes when I've been over that way, which has encouraged me to walk this section of the orchards more frequently than my regular patch.

My main reason for putting up with the intrusive, if spasmodic noise, is that this area is much further from the busy main road, and most of the time the only people I see are those working the land. Except for Mondays when several large groups of what I presume are U3A members crisscross the plantations at speed, arms pumping, walking poles clickety-clacking.

Most of this January was spring-like. In contrast, February was much colder, with several sharp frosts - more what you’d expect for winter. Nevertheless, while the so-called Beast from the East and Storm Emma struck much of Europe and the UK, down here, we got off lightly. Nighttime temperatures didn't seem to go below -4°C, and the lowest daytime temperature I noted was 6°C. We've been getting frequent, short-lived but violent southerlies, though - more than I remember in past winters. These have kept temperatures up but brought down several of the tall, thin poplars that border many of the fruit plantations.

The terrain in between each plot of trees also offers more variety of habitats than the side I usually explore. It’s more watery for one thing. There are several deep irrigation ditches, which sometimes run with water, and whose steep banks are covered in interesting vegetation. Last autumn there was plenty of frog activity - every few feet one or two leapt into the water as I walked along the track above them. Then there’s the narrow Canal de Palau, which I guess might have been dug by the Romans originally.

Close to the canal, several big old oaks stand like sentinels in a grassy spot between orchards (first photo in this blog). It's lovely to see they have been preserved. One is particularly huge and ancient-looking. It's lost a lot of limbs to gales over the years, but the main trunk looks solid enough still.

Further on, the River Tanyari runs roughly parallel with the canal. That too is relatively narrow. Despite having high, man-made banks either side – flood defence style – it's not deep, but deep enough to cover your boots at a ford, so I haven't ventured across it yet. In any case, I think houses and a lane lie not far beyond. Impenetrable bamboo is the dominant plant on the banks here. Great cover for all sorts of creatures, including Cetti's warblers, which are singing loudly again now. Apart from the ford, you can only see the water where animals have created tracks to it.

I've seen a fox on patrol, and I imagine badgers may also roam. Otters probably visit the river, or perhaps live on it. With the arrival of true spring weather this week, a hare has appeared three times. Yesterday it was on the track ahead, some distance away but ... haring straight for us. Diggers and I stood still (the dog doubtless unable to believe that lunch might be about to run straight into his mouth). With only a few metres to go, it finally veered off, through the nectarine trees. I expected to see something in pursuit, but nothing showed itself. Hares aren't that common in these parts, and I have a feeling we’re encountering the same one. I hope I’m wrong and that’s it’s not alone.

On a different day, he or she was well camouflaged among the fruit trees

Lizards have been making an appearance for some weeks - the sun is really warming up - and I often hear or catch sight of one scurrying through leaf litter along the northernmost border. Protected by tall poplars and that high river bank, it's the most sheltered stretch. If I haven't already had to take off a layer of clothing by the time I reach it, I'll get down to a T-shirt here. This morning, shorts would have been a good idea.

Nothern boundary - river bank to right of poplars

Poplar flowers emerging

On another warm, sunny morning a few days ago, I heard significant rustling a few feet in front. My first thought was mouse, and I automatically shortened the dog's lead, in case Diggers lunged. When I homed in on the sound, I was surprised to see a small snake writhing in a knot, at the foot of a tree. Was it injured? After a few seconds it unwound itself and seemed to split in two - the bigger part sliding away fast, up the bank; the smaller part wriggling down towards my feet - whereupon it froze. Not part of the snake, I realised, but a lizard with a very long tail. It didn't look wounded, but only when I touched one of its legs did it race off. Fascinating to have seen the reptilian food chain in action - and the first time I've ever seen a snake with prey. I think it must have been a common grass snake (natrix natrix). Lucky day for the lizard. Unlucky day for its captor, which had probably sensed our approach and decided to sacrifice a meal in order to save itself.

A different predator has also been at work in the same spot. Diggers has sniffed out the decapitated body of a song thrush. I would have expected a sparrowhawk to have eaten its kill, so I suspect the culprit in this case may have been a magpie, or possibly a jay - there's a big, rowdy gang of jays hanging around, and both species seem to enjoy killing for kicks. I was so sad to see this, not least because it was probably the bird I'd been listening to for about a week. I'd wondered why it had stopped singing, and assumed it had moved on to declare a better territory. Its death won't be wasted if something - one of the buzzards perhaps - benefits from the carrion, but as at today its body lies untouched.

All birds are tuning up now of course. Each time I walk here I'm hearing all three kinds of woodpeckers. Often I'll see the green and great spotted, but the lesser spotted remains elusive (living up to an alternative interpretation of its name, perhaps?). There's quite a lot of drumming going on too - plenty of dead trees for them to raise young in. It would be lovely to locate a green woodpecker's nest hole this year.

A different nest I have noticed is close to the top of an oak tree in the copse I've often visited on the south-eastern edge of this area. The big, twiggy construction is visible only because new leaves haven't quite opened yet. I think it's an old one, but its size - though difficult to judge precisely - makes me wonder if it was perhaps made by buzzards. I've often wondered where the resident pair rears its young - and I know they've been successful at least once. But that really is wishful thinking on my part. There are a few corvids around here too, and it may have belonged to crows for all I know.

Two herons are regulars - often flying overhead between the pond, near the main road where I park the car, and the River Tanyari. Once I was surprised to hear what I thought was one of them calling continuously while perched (invisibly) in a tree. Curious behaviour for a heron. I should have guessed - it turned out to be a jay, imitating.

As for those plinky-plonky sounds imitating organ music, I have now solved the mystery, thanks to one of the guys who works for the Villeclare estate. He is rounder and balder than many of the others workers, so I recognise him easily at a distance, and we've often waved at each other. One morning he was taking a breather from ploughing and, seeing me approach, pulled out his ear plugs and walked over for a chat.

This was the first time we'd spoken, and his Catalan accent was so strong that for the first ten minutes I only recognised about three words per sentence; all I could do was nod and laugh at what I hoped were appropriate moments. There was mention of a bad back and retirement in a couple of years, and an awful lot about something else. Gradually I got my ear in and gleaned that the Villeclare estate owns 75 hectares of vineyards and orchards. The land with the loudspeakers belongs to someone else.

He explained, with all seriousness, that a certain tiny insect attacks and kills the fruit trees, and that the music is supposed to deter it. "Mozart and the like," he said, "mais ça ne sert à rien." I'm not surprised it's useless - if that's Mozart, I'm Schubert. Besides, I’d love to know what scientific studies have shown that any kind of music will keep away any insects, never mind this species exclusively. And surely it would have to play continuously from spring to autumn - not just for half an hour a day, which seems to be the current schedule.

As the man said, it certainly doesn't seem to be effective, considering the number of diseased trees that were dug up last autumn; work has been ongoing all winter to replace them.

While I have to award points for tackling one problem in an environmentally friendly (other than noise polluting) way, I'm disappointed to see that the same principle isn't applied to other materials used in plantation maintenance. I'm sure I recently read that environmentally friendly tree protectors exist - but I expect they're harder to come by and more expensive than the usual type. Hundreds of plastic cylinders have just been put round young trees in this musical sector of the orchards. I'm not sure if they'll be removed and disposed of properly once the trees are older, but if not, they will simply turn brittle in the fierce summer heat, break up and be dispersed by the wind. To be fair, I haven't yet seen a lot of evidence of this type of litter from past plantings, but much of it might now be too small to notice with the naked eye, or ploughed into the soil.

There’s very little general litter – no surprise considering the lack of people – so yesterday, an empty chocolate wrapper beside the track really stood out. I did my bit: picked it up, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it in a pocket. Only at that point did my fingers register that the paper was slightly wet. The ground, however, was quite dry. Uh-oh. My best hope was that a dog had peed on the wrapper, but my worst fear was realised when a sniff test on my hand revealed the distinctive, pungent pong of fox. So much for good deeds. I managed to extract the wrapper from my pocket and pop it into a dog poo bag. Shame I hadn't thought to pick it up with that! As anticipated, even rinsing my hands in the river made little difference, so that turned into a very smelly walk. Usually, though, despite unmusical interruptions every so often, the varied habitats and views of Canigou and the Albères massif make this a lovely, peaceful place to wander.

Impossible to tire of sights such as this

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A Favourite Old Haunt Revisited

21/9/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

I stopped going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It did. Neither camera nor binoculars got baptised.

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

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

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

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Blowing Hot and Cold in August

15/8/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click on photos for larger image.

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

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

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

East side, looking south, towards pic Néoulous

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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In Search of Butterflies at Le Col des Auzines

30/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren Photos by Bruce Hyde

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Click on photos for larger image

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

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

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

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

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

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Crab Spider (Part 2) - A Month In Her Life

25/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

I've been frightened of spiders since childhood. When I was six, during a family picnic, one of those tiny-bodied, long-legged ones ran across my hand and onto the strawberry I was about to bite into. Such traumas can mark you for life. Yet here I am now, blogging about arachnids. Crab spiders have especially captured my interest. In June I wrote about a female that proved to be an efficient and formidable bee killer. After she gorged on three in one day, if she was representative of her species I began to worry for the local bee population. However, this was nature at work; intervention on my part, by either destroying or moving her, was out of the question. Instead, I found myself monitoring her behaviour. She intrigued me and, by happy coincidence, had settled on a salvia flower spike that was easy to observe and photograph. Over the coming weeks I would witness far more action than anticipated.

It started slowly, though. The day after her beefest of June 21st, she ate nothing. This was hardly surprising - she must have felt quite bloated. Over the next four days she only caught a small fly and one bee. Then nothing again. I put this down to bad luck and, relieved for the bees, turned my attention to the rest of the garden, where I felt sure I'd find more of her kind.

There was one on the marjoram - a much smaller individual, quite the wrong colour. It must have recently moved from a yellow flower and not yet morphed to pink. Two more turned up in the front garden - a male and female on the same flower. She was quite a bit smaller than the one in the salvia, and he was tiny in comparison with both. Only once did I see one of them (the female) with a kill: a butterfly like the one whose lucky escape I recorded in my June blog.

Click photos for larger image.

On the morning of June 27th, back with the female still lurking on the same salvia spike, I noticed she had stuck several petals together, forming them into a kind of shallow bowl, in which she was sitting. The next day she was in exactly the same place, but had spun herself a thick mattress of silk, and added dead flower and seed head padding around the sides and base. It was, of course, a nest.

I had to find out more. According to the internet, she would have laid eggs on a petal. After having folded and sealed the petal, she would guard the eggs for the next three weeks until they hatched. During this time she would stop eating. Then she would die.

To me this helped explain the beefest: she'd been fattening herself up. Just as female mosquitoes need to suck blood for egg production, so my spider might have had to take in extra food to help her eggs develop. She might also have been building energy reserves to sustain her through the long wait. I suddenly had more respect - as well as some sympathy - for my spider.

On closer inspection she appeared shrunken and much more wrinkled than before. Initially I assumed this was because she was dehydrated, and that she would steadily decline. I've since learned that the weight loss was mainly due to her having offloaded all those eggs. The following photos show her before and after laying.

Click photos for larger image.

Two days on she added a lot more dead plant matter to the nest, covering most of the silk. I never saw her do this, so suspect all construction work took place at night. By now those eggs were well insulated against the fierce heat. Well protected from predators too; if anything flew near, she would lash out - not to kill but to warn off. The bees could feed safely, all around her.

The trouble was, although the plant (bog sage - Salvia uliginosa, I think) was perfect for ambushing pollinating insects, it turned out to be a lousy nest site. The thin flower spike she'd chosen, on the outside edge of the plant, had been relatively short when she made her nest close to the tip; within a couple of weeks it had grown to nearly 1.5m and was totally at the mercy of the wind.

Where we live, at the foot of Mt. Neoulous, southerlies can be fiercer than the prevailing north westerly. For several consecutive days they lashed the garden, with the result that the nest came adrift from most of its moorings. What used to be the top was now the side.

I know webs are strong but these silk tethers were being severely tested. How much longer could they last? To my surprise, mother spider never carried out any repairs but clung on, in an increasingly precarious position, until the nest hung almost upside down.

I was even more surprised when, over two days, she caught a couple of bees that must have flown just too close. So she wasn't on complete hunger strike. This served as a useful reminder that the internet can't always be trusted. Could that also mean she might not die when her young hatched? It didn't seem logical to me that she would suddenly start eating again if she knew she was dying.

One kill was a big bumblebee with a huge pollen load. It had worked so hard to gather that.

As she feeds on the bumblebee, it's getting crowded at the nest.

Around this time I made my one and only small intervention: I lifted a trailing string of seed heads - bound together with silk - and stuck them back on the stem. This righted the nest a little, so the top was closer to where it should be. Short of using superglue, there wasn't much else I could do.

Then one morning I found the nest deserted. I wondered if the spider had herself been predated. Or perhaps the eggs should have hatched by now but were sterile. Had she abandoned them?

None of the above.

She'd been there all the time, superbly camouflaged under a nearby flower. In classic ambush posture - front legs outstretched - she was hungry. After an hour or so, she returned to the nest, still hungry.

On the evening of July 19th, the wind rose again; another fierce southerly whipped itself into a full-blown gale. The nest, hanging by what looked like a single rope of silk, was smacked back and forth, round and round like a swingball on a flower stem post. I found my eyes continually drawn from book or television to living room window. From my chair, I could just make out the nest. At times the whole plant was nearly flattened by a vicious gust, only to bounce back and be swept in the opposite direction.

It was around three weeks since my spider created that bowl of petals. She was so close to success. If she could just get through tonight...

By my bedtime the wind had died. It was dark now, but I had to check. I grabbed a torch and padded across the lawn.

No nest.

Was I looking at the right spike? Of course I was. The nest had gone. Vanished. Obliterated.

Or not.

Presumably Mum would have flown with it, spinning a safety line to save them all. Where could it have ended up? Oh no, I might already have trodden on it - on her - as I crossed the lawn.

I swept the torch across the grass. No flattened nest.

Come the following afternoon, despite feeling rather foolish on my knees, parting blades of grass, peering into and under plants, and lifting leaves blown off the vine, I finally found it. It was close to the ground in the middle of a lavender bush next to the salvia. There was no obvious sign of Mum, so I carefully reached down with a twig, and gently lifted the thin end. She was underneath. In my head, I punched the air. Although she might be more vulnerable to predators at that height (at least two lizards share that border), she would be much more sheltered. I just had to remember not to deluge the bush with water from above.

Like an anxious grandmother-in-waiting, I checked progress each morning for the next three days. Mum was still underneath the nest. Still alive, not eating. Any minute now, surely?

On the fourth day after the gale, I couldn't see so much as an eye or tip of a leg sticking out from under the nest. Carefully, I lifted one end again. Mum had gone. The nest itself looked even more fragile than before - empty, even. Were we a grandmother? I knew the babies would only emerge after their first moult, leaving skin casts behind. Those might be visible. I gently picked the nest up, only to realise it was crawling - with tiny spiderlings.

Now I saw lots of them, everywhere - like white money spiders - running over the nest, my hand, up and down lavender stems and leaves; trampling one another; leaping into the void, trailing a safety line; investigating my camera... Such an exciting new world to explore. And no training required. When stationary, they instinctively adopted ambush position: front legs wide, to fasten on ... a mite?

I must have arrived at just the right moment because they were quickly dispersing; some already running a line to the salvia.

While watching them - probably with a silly grin on my face - I caught sight of their mother a couple of feet away in the gazania. Very much not dead.

She spent the rest of the afternoon there, finally settling in the bullseye of a sunny flower. I wondered if she'd catch anything because her whiteness starkly contrasted with the petals; it would take her a few days to change. As it turned out, while I was getting my lunch, she caught a small bee. By then I couldn't begrudge another bee death - not after all she'd been through.

I've no idea how many spiderlings emerged, nor how many would have made it through their first day. Not all, I'm sure. That night they experienced their first thunderstorm.

Torrential rain wasn't a problem for Mum. The very next morning she was on another salvia spike. Again she had chosen one on the outermost edge of the plant and, as usual, had set up ambush under a flower facing outwards, towards the lawn. Was this significant? Perhaps she believed that bees might visit the outer flowers first. That would make sense, though I'm not sure it's always the case. I get the impression (probably wrongly) that they tend to head for the tallest stems first - or those with the most open flowers. She was also facing north, north-west - theoretically the shady side of the plant. But the sun is so high for most of the day, I'm not sure this made much difference. Enough of one, perhaps, for a crab spider.

If my eyes didn't deceive me she was now tinged yellow. Her body was still catching up with her day in the gazania. Over the next few hours, while this remarkable creature silently did her thing, the bin lorry screamed past our garden, followed by a hissing street sweeper; a helicopter thundered low overhead; a distant hedge trimmer droned, and kids on holiday squealed and splashed in the neighbours' swimming pool...

Worlds apart. Oblivious of each other, it seemed, except for me standing in between.

I was once again preparing my lunch when the spider grabbed hers. A ginger bumblebee this time - same as the first day I saw her, just over a month ago. Of all the bees that visit my garden, the gingers are my favourites. However, although I mourned the poor thing, strangely, I found myself still rooting for Mother Spider.

Another day on, and she has turned pale green. She's not shrivelled, she's plump and spry. Today, though, due to another high wind, there have been few bees about. No kill.

What of the spiderlings? Forty-eight hours since their appearance, I've seen one, on a dandelion. Already yellowish, it seems to be feeding on minuscule, wingless blackfly. A reminder that although these spiders prey on bees, they also help control garden pests.

The film below is a compilation of video clips and stills, following the highs and lows of recent weeks. (Best viewed full screen.)

A Month in the Life of a Crab Spider from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

If there's an epilogue to this drama it's that I suspect this female is in the family way again. Further research has turned up a paper by American naturalist and crab spider authority Douglass H. Morse. His studies show that females do sometimes make opportunistic kills while on the nest; that eggs usually hatch in just under four weeks, at which point the mothers don't necessarily die. Some live for two years, and the main threat to life - apart from predators - is cold winter weather.

My latest theory is that the subject of my study left the nest to try and catch prey because she was already pregnant again, and the imperative to feed herself up had been triggered. It's possible that she's now a few days away from producing another brood. If so, has she learned not to nest in salvia? Somehow I doubt it. Absurdly, I can't wait to find out. I also can't wait for delivery of Douglass H. Morse's 392-page book, which should answer more questions than I can possibly dream up about the species.

It's over fifty years since that family picnic, and I'm thinking this crab spider might have cured me of my phobia.

Epilogue: She did go on to successfully raise a second brood (which, according to Morse's book is unusual) after which she disappeared.

Part one of this story can be found here

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Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

22/7/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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June - An Explosion of Insects

22/6/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

While we usually experience odd days of very high temperatures in June, I don't remember quite so many consecutive days over 30 degrees in previous years. It's been like this now for a good two weeks. Even the super noisy cicadas have started up, thinking it's July. Along with the normal abundance of flowers that I would expect, the heat seems to have sparked an explosion of insects. And one of the best places to see them is my garden.

It's stocked with plumbago, agapanthus, marjoram, French and English lavender, and several types of salvia - all beloved of butterflies and bees in summertime. However, the plant that wins the prize for attracting the greatest variety and number of insects is a euonymus. I wonder if it exudes a scent of death undetectable by the human nose, because most of its visitors are flies, hoverflies, wasps and beetles - none of the usual bees and only one butterfly.

Just as well, perhaps, that it's in the front garden and not near where we sit, out at the back. Having said that, the insects seem totally fixated on the flowers and pay not the slightest attention to me standing less than two feet away. There are so many - all sizes, from minute to relatively giant - in a continual dancing display over the whole shrub, that it's hard for me to know which to focus on. The best way to give you an impression of this is with a short clip.

Summer Insects on Euonymus from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

They deserve a closer look but often don't settle for long or stay still enough to be photographed. I managed to capture some of the more obliging subjects; they are but a fraction of the total number (click on pics for larger image and some tentative IDs):

Few flies are as appealing as bees, but there is one I'm rather fond of. It's very small, innocuous, and masquerades as a bumblebee in both appearance and behaviour (spurning the euonymus), but those super long legs and lack of pollen 'baskets' give its species away. I usually hear the rather whiny, high-pitched buzz before I spot it darting about. Photos, revealing what the naked eye can't pick up, make me laugh.

The way those back legs are flung out makes it look as though it's skipping through the air!

Insects insects everywhere. Even in the swimming pool - though not intentionally! One morning I rescued a rhinoceros beetle, which would otherwise have drowned.

It's as big as it looks, but harmless. A shield bug and flying ant must have mistaken it for an island when they also got stuck in the water.

Another type of shield bug

Red and blue-flowered salvia are favourites of hummingbird hawkmoths, bees and butterflies. But they have other visitors too, like the shield bug above. Yesterday I spied a tiny cricket, only a few leaves away from the crab spider of my last blog.

The whole leaf is only 6cm long

Since I've mentioned crab spiders again... Earlier today I was trying to get a better shot of a little Geranium Bronze butterfly on a late flowering osteospermum, when the butterfly flew off. At the time, I huffed, but as soon as I checked photos already taken, I was relieved, because now I could see something nasty lurking behind a petal. (Click pics for larger image.)

There are arachnids that destroy insects, insects such as spider-hunting wasps that destroy arachnids, and plant-destroying insects like palm moths, whose grubs are steadily wiping out palms trees. The moths themselves are pretty, albeit noisy and rather clumsy fliers - doubtless on account of their size. This one was on our eleagnus hedge.

Crab spiders notwithstanding, there are still a lot of lovely bees in my garden; I'm keeping a separate photographic record of the different species visiting this year (see my gallery).

Arguably most beautiful of all are the butterflies. In the last few days alone, in addition to Geranium Bronzes, I've seen a Lang's Short-tailed Blue, possibly two different Hairstreaks, a Marbled White, Swallowtail, Small Heath, Speckled Wood, and ever so many Cleopatras. The latter particularly adore the lavender - as many as eight at a time have been on one plant. In flight, males are orange-blushed sunshine, females elegantly understated. As you can see, I struggle to stop photographing them! (Click on pics for larger image)

It's wonderful to witness this eruption of insect life. Spiders, some reptiles and amphibians, many birds and plants, bats and a few other mammals must be appreciating it even more than I am.

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Back at Als Bachous

Winter's Back!

The Bees' Knees in March

The Sound of Music - in the Orchards?

A Favourite Old Haunt Revisited

Blowing Hot and Cold in August

In Search of Butterflies at Le Col des Auzines

Crab Spider (Part 2) - A Month In Her Life

Summer Fledglings Learn to Hunt and Fly

June - An Explosion of Insects

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