Category: Mammals

Seen Along the Way

8/11/2021

By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

During our two months in France, we had some nice sightings; they started, rather unusually, on the way down through the country on the motorways. Some way south of Clermont Ferrand, a farmer was cutting hay in a small field and there were at least six storks in the cut section – were they perhaps looking for frogs or even mice? The next morning, there were vultures above the road out from Millau, and as we emerged out on to the plain well before Béziers, a flash of gorgeous colour – blues, turquoise, browns, almost a pink – must have been a roller; our first in Europe.

We made a short trip west from PO, right into the Pyrenees, revisiting one of our favourite high cols. Again, high up, was something we had never really seen, such a show of the autumn crocuses that we had to call it a wildflower meadow. We stopped to photograph, and to appreciate its beauty.

Other creatures, we could see, appreciated the scene more as a source of food. It had been ploughed (there is no other word) by wild boar – presumably they eat the crocus corms? Again, we had never seen sanglier-damage on this scale.

And while we were out of the van, photographing, there were countless swallows and martins overhead. Interesting that they would choose such a high migration route; clearly, there were hordes of insects in the lee of the summit of the col and the migrating birds were making the most of it … against a background of seemingly endless declines in the numbers of so many species, it was wonderful to see so many birds.

Over the summit, on the narrow road downhill, we had to stop to let a young fox cross; he seemed quite unworried by our vehicle and wandered over to the verge on our side. A car came up the hill and also slowed to a halt. Despite the noise of the engines, the fox cocked his ears, looked into the grass on the roadside, did a leap and emerged with a mouse, which was apparently very tasty. He then slowly strolled off the road…

The next day we took another, even narrower road, uphill to a bergerie we knew; last time we had been there, three years ago, there had been a berger and lots of sheep. Now, while it was clear that cows had come that way, the bergerie was shut up, and there were no sheep beside the road. To our surprise, however, there were marmots, right beside the narrow strip of tarmac. They moved a bit as we stopped, but one stayed in the open as sentinel, and Martine managed to photograph it from the comfort of the van.

Again, what was noticeable was that the former sheep-pasture was now a chaos of ploughed ground, once more the result of sanglier activity. It was lovely to see the marmots, but for how long they will be able to survive there, with the short grass on which they depend being effectively destroyed by the boar, is not at all clear to us…

And when we made one of our short jaunts into Spain, we were in for another surprise; we stayed a night in an attractive seaside hotel in Port Lligat, and as we drove down the steep road between stone walls into the very tidy hotel carpark, there were three sangliers, mother and two well-grown babies, rooting around in what were meant to be tidy strips of flowers and shrubs at the entrance to the building.

We were told that during the periods of lockdown in Spain, the wild boar had lost any fear of people and were wandering through the village in broad daylight. While this did provide us with some excitement, and a few photos, it is clear that the numbers of wild boar are not simply making them a pest but creating a real environmental problem which will disfigure much of the Pyrenees unless they can be brought back under control.

While we were in Spain, we visited, as ever, the wetland area we casually call ‘the Emporda’; despite recent thundery downpours it was, in fact, very short of water, and almost devoid of birds. We did, however, see two very handsome snipe and one species which was new to us, a green sandpiper. All the local storks had left, bar one which I happened to see flying about on its own as we arrived.

Green Sandpiper

Our own local Etang was pretty quiet the day we visited, but on another occasion we explored a little of the significantly larger bodies of water further north. Here there were hordes of mosquitoes, but also and rather more enjoyably, lots of flamingos, egrets and cormorants, seen from a fragrant maritime ‘heath’ which is mostly covered with wild rosemary. And we visited a migration ‘hotspot’, the Roc de Canilhac, a small eminence which rises from a mix of Etangs and marsh, and is, just like the ‘hillock’ by St Nazaire, a great location from which to see migrating birds. Thousands of storks had gone through a few weeks earlier, but while we were there, we could still see a flock of maybe fifty or sixty. We had excellent views of a marsh harrier, while kestrels and buzzards flew around. In fact, at regular intervals throughout this spell in France, brilliant views of superbly-marked buzzards brightened the sunny days – especially when they flew over the garden. We saw them at regular intervals beside the motorway all the way back to Dieppe, from where we took the ferry home.

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Route March around the Empordà

14/3/2019

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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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A Winter Wetland

20/2/2019

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By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

The wonderful winter weather has largely continued, broken by some high winds and occasional low cloud. We have had many frosty nights, but once the sun rises, everything warms up quickly, and we have often had morning coffee and lunch out on the sheltered terrace.

Such weather encourages us to visit favourite places (and new ones, too), but had to include a trip into Spain to the large wetland reserve we tend simply to refer to as “the Emporda"*. This latest trip was slightly more complicated than usual, in that our van was neatly broken into at a deserted parking area; very little damage was done, and very little of value taken, and so a good day was not actually ruined, despite the initial shock.

As has been made very clear (especially by Lesley!), the late autumn was very wet and, as a consequence, there was more water all around the reserve than I think we have ever seen. Initially cool and grey, the day became sunny and bright, and we were welcomed by the white horses which seem happily to live ankle-deep in water, which is also where they were foraging. Soon after, from one hide, we had good views of a kingfisher, almost exactly where Martine had photographed one, probably two years ago. We had already had one surprise; although we have watched, in the past, the storks departing on migration in the autumn, quite a number this year appear to have decided to over-winter, or had returned very early. They were very much in evidence, and the ritual beak-rattling was audible all around us.

Because it was all so wet, it seemed that there were, pretty well, birds wherever we looked, and while I have no doubt that we missed some (and a number, like the inevitable, noisy Cetti’s warbler, were unseen in the bushes), the final list seemed quite impressive:

Greylag goose, Egyptian goose, shelduck, (looking spectacular in the clear light), umpteen mallard of course, shoveler, garganey, teal, dabchick, great crested grebe, white stork, grey heron, great egret, little egret, cormorant, coot, lapwing, common snipe, redshank, curlew sandpiper, various gulls (sorry, did not pay them much attention!), kingfisher, chiffchaff, starling, robin, black redstart, white wagtail…….and flamingos, doing the shuffle which Martine has also photographed in the past. And, for variety, three coypu, swimming and feeding very close to us.

Dabchick (Little grebe)

Coot

Shoveler

Teal

Greylag

Mallard

All in all, a pretty good day; we do hope that anyone who reads this will make the easy trip over the border into Spain, and enjoy this special place. There are very good paths and hides, so access for everyone is pretty easy ... but do remember to park only at the main visitor centre, where the parking area is under video surveillance. We had rather ignored, before, the little patches of broken glass in the other car park; but they tell a rather obvious story!

*Aiguamolls de l'Empordà

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Winter Wanderings

13/2/2019

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By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

In some years, we seem not to have had real winter weather until we were into the “official” Spring, but this year, albeit in fits and starts, quite a few days have been convincingly cold and dank. On the plus side, there have been a number of brilliantly sunny days – some of them very windy, which makes them more suitable for touring than longer walks. We have, accordingly, made a few rather pleasant jaunts on days when we have not been working outside in the garden.

One of these was to the coast; we spend so much time on, and in, the Mediterranean that it always seems strange to walk along its shores and know that it is totally impossible to swim in it! One day, we went first to Argeles-Plage (where we often launch the boat) and to Racou, quiet in its winter sleep. The profile of the beach has changed quite a lot during the winter; at one end, the wind has driven the sea to remove a significant amount of sand, and at the other, people have created banks of sand as some sort of defence for the chalets and cottages which are so close to the water’s edge. On rocks at the end of the beach, a few gulls and cormorants were resting above the splashing sea.

We went northwards through the quiet resorts, as far as the Etang and the Fishermen’s Huts, to which I have often made reference. Here, as so often, it was very windy, but we got out of the van to walk around, and are so glad that we did! Almost immediately, we discovered that there were no fewer than five hoopoes feeding industriously in the sandy grass; they were comparatively tame, and we had amazing views of these wonderful birds – I don’t think I will ever be able to get used to seeing them around, they are so exotic to look at. Things were quiet on our side of the wind-blasted water, but there were cormorants, gulls, great-crested grebes and a few flamingos in the distance. As we arrived, we had had distant views of a marsh harrier flying low in the wind.

It transpired that lots of birds were seeking shelter that day; we took a different route home, returning via the much smaller pond which is close to the Golf de St-Cyprien, and was obviously once part of a larger Etang. In a relatively sheltered corner, there is a small island, and it was crowded with birds, like the nearby bank. We could see both types of egret, dozens of cormorants, and on the water, a lot of the cinammon-headed pochard, a handsome duck we have not seen there that often.

Other trips have been up our own valley of Vallespir, dominated by a moderately snowy Canigou. On the first trip, we went over the Col d’Ares, into Spain; down to Camprodon, then up a beautiful side valley which we only discovered during the past autumn. It leads, to all intents and purposes, to Canada; of course, this seems crazy, but the upper valley is dominated by hugely steep and craggy mountains, their rough lower slopes covered by tall conifers, and the result looks just like the Rocky Mountains. There is a skiing area at its head; in the autumn, it was totally deserted, apart from several lively marmots, and there were still gentians blooming on the short grass of the pistes.

On this recent visit, which was on a Saturday with blazing sun, we decided that the whole of Spanish Catalonia was out for the day, most with numerous happy (or screaming) children, enjoying a real winter wonderland.

During one other such trip, up to the high village of Serralongue, we had paused again to photograph the snowy ridges of Canigou, when I caught site of a raptor flying high above us. I grabbed the binoculars hastily, and it obligingly circled back into full view. There was no doubt that it was neither eagle nor buzzard, as its tail was too long for a start, and it was no kind of falcon, as the wings were comparatively rounded. It had to belong to the family called the “accipiters”, either sparrowhawk or goshawk, and as it was a considerable distance from us, and high up, I have concluded that it had to be a female goshawk, often regarded as one of the “ultimate” birds of prey. This was a great thrill for me, as it is a bird that has eluded me for decades, and here it was flying against the magnificent backdrop of the snowy massif of Canigou.

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Fleeing the Heat

26/9/2018

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By Robin Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

31/8/2018

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By Robin Noble (Photos by Robin and Martine Noble)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a young one

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A Walk on the Wild Side

24/8/2018

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By Bruce Hyde

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

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

A distinctive cricket with a white flash

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

Lesser Purple Emperor with the sheen showing on one wing

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

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

Lesser Purple Emperor's plain underside.

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

The striking Broad Scarlet male .....

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

..... and female.

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

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

The showy male sky-blue Scarab Beetle

Chestnut brown Monkey Beetle

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

Mining Bees waiting to mate with females

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

Female Blue-eyed Hawker

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

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

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

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

Brilliant camouflage

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

Cleopatra

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

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

An Iberian Marbled White posing for its photo.

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

Swallowtail

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

Large Pincertail

The formidable graspers of a male Pincertail

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

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

A typical Tech riverside scene which makes the point.

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

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

Orange-spotted Emerald

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

Egyptian Grasshopper

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

Tracks in the sand

Probable spraints

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

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

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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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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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It's Not as Simple as Folk Make Out...

15/4/2018

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By Robin Noble

If I am on my own for a while, I have a tendency to eat too fast, and in order to avoid that I read, and re-read, magazines at meal times. Recently I went back to an issue of that beautifully presented and illustrated one, PYRENEES Magazine; this was the issue from November/December 2017. There was, as ever, a lot in it of interest, including the information that the Corbières and Fenouillèdes (areas we explore quite a lot) will, in 2019, become a new Parc Naturel Régional. There was also an article entitled: OURS: les enjeux du conflit. (BEAR: what is at stake in the conflict). If anyone is seriously interested in the topic, I do recommend, of course, that they refer to the magazine, as I do not propose to precis it here, merely to pick up a couple of points.

The topic of the bear within the Pyrenees is, of course, of general interest; it is of some particular interest to Martine and me, as we make regular sorties further west in the Pyrenees, and it is precisely that area, the Ariege, which is the focus of the said conflict. But, interestingly, one bear has apparently been located in our area, that of the PO. The population of Slovenian bears, introduced in 1996/7 and 2006, now officially numbers 39, although some of those are on the Spanish side of the mountains.

According to my reading of the article, the brown bear is, in Europe, a protected species, and where it has been made extinct (I have no idea within what period of time), there is an obligation to reintroduce it, hence the programme of releases referred to above. Nobody denies, I think, that those bears do, and will, take sheep in particular, although I presume that goats, foals and calves must also be at risk. There is in place a system of compensation, and I do not read that there are any particular problems with it, either in the scale, or the rapidity (so often a problem with such schemes) of payment. The trouble last year seems to have begun after 209 sheep died after jumping over a cliff, panicked by a bear. And the fundamental question seems to be: to what level will this population of brown bears be allowed to grow, and what effect will this have?

In all honesty, these are pretty fair questions, of the sort that, in Britain, we should be asking the proponents of the introductions of the lynx or wolf. There is no doubt, to someone interested in the natural world, that there is a great, if simple, attraction in the idea of restoring missing species to the landscapes they once inhabited. In Britain, the ospreys did it themselves, but we have successfully reintroduced the red kite and sea eagle, among the predators, and there are projects to do the same with bustards and cranes. It all sounds very attractive; but, for instance, the reintroduction of the sea eagle has not been without similar problems of compensation required when lambs have been taken. Those introductions are, obviously, of birds; the problems become significantly greater when you are talking of mammalian predators that are capable of taking larger prey.

And at this point, there is a compelling need, I think, to ask three questions: why exactly are you reintroducing these creatures? How many of them should there be? And what will the impact of those numbers be on the likely prey species (which always include farm animals)? While it may seem quite simple to answer the first, the rest are far more tricky, and, to be honest, often ignored by their proponents. If the answer to the first is that you are reintroducing bear, or lynx, or wolf because they are currently “missing", then there has to be an answer to the other questions - and that you can rarely get. The normal justification for reintroducing lynx (apart from the fact that they are simply "no longer there") is that they would help control the number of deer in Britain. I have succeeded once in asking: How many lynx do you think there need to be in order to have any such impact? The answer was: About three thousand. And the man who gave that answer had really no interest in the question about the other impacts that would arise from such a population of lynx.

An area like the Pyrenees, or the Highlands of Scotland, has been populated for thousands of years and, until very recently, that population did really have to live off the land, whether by cultivating small fertile patches, or herding stock elsewhere. That history created its own diversity of scenery, and its own biodiversity within that scenery - such as hay-meadows. The stock - sheep, cattle, horses and goats - which we still see in the Pyrenees but far less in the Highlands, play their own part in shaping that landscape. I have written often enough about their contribution at the Batère to keep the foothills of Canigou clear of encroaching dense woodland, and allowing the wildflowers to flourish in the grazed grasslands, along with their attendant butterflies and birds (to say nothing of the marmots!). Actually, it could be argued that such an area, which a serious environmentalist might describe as merely “semi-natural", contains far greater biodiversity than would a purely natural woodland, even with bears.

Of course it would be wonderful if in Scotland you could train wolves only to chase deer, and in the Pyrenees the bears only to take wild boar, but the reality is that in both cases sheep make much easier targets, and farmers have as much right to earn a living as anyone else.

Wildlife management is never simple!

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Seen Along the Way

Route March around the Empordà

A Winter Wetland

Winter Wanderings

Fleeing the Heat

Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

A Walk on the Wild Side

By Bruce Hyde

Bachelor Bats Hanging Out

Bad Mountain

It's Not as Simple as Folk Make Out...

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