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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.

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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.

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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.
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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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A Difficult Parting

16/7/2018

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

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

Because of my dog, and the convenience of such quiet tracks so close to the chalet, I'd strolled here several times each day after that - often early morning and evening; rarely meeting anyone. Thoughts of my father often surfaced; he would have been in his element. By the last day, it now felt like home and, for some reason, those rocks drew my eye every time I passed them. Bathed in sunshine, they, the flowers, grasses, butterflies, birdsong, and resident families of whinchats, kestrels and choughs, combined to lend this place an ambiance of serenity I haven't encountered elsewhere.
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Pink clover like fat, juicy raspberries, mixed with ragged robin and buttercups
Partly to give Digby a decent walk before the long car journey, and partly to delay the moment of departure for as long as possible, when Robin and Martine headed back, I continued beyond the meadows into the welcome cool and contrast of pine forest. And instead of immediately circling round to the chalet again, which I'd done on the first day, we followed a snow-shoe trail towards the neighbouring Eyne Valley. On a par with everywhere else I'd been - meadows excepted, perhaps - there weren't many birds in here. Several mistle thrushes, jays, a crested tit and a greater spotted woodpecker were just about all. I was expecting crossbills, and my hopes rose at one point at the sound of an unfamiliar call, but whatever was making it refused to appear.

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

(Mystery orchid on the right. Click to enlarge.)
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After a while, with heavy heart, I turned and regained the circular walk, coming out at our now-deserted chalet and my loaded car. I could have stayed for weeks - there was so much left to explore; raptors to track down (where were they all?); new plants and butterflies to discover ...
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Already I was promising myself to return, though not necessarily to the same base; I was aware that a future visit at a different time of year could well affect me differently. At the end of this trip, I drove away with a strong sense of leaving something important behind.
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Between Bouillouses and Carlit

13/7/2018

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By Robin Noble           Photos by Martine Noble
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Last month, during our first full day in the Cerdagne, we had driven up the valley that reaches from close behind Mont Louis to the Lac des Bouillouses, which is impounded by a significant dam. The valley is lovely, and something of a honeypot, which has led to it being closed to general traffic in the summer, all those wishing to enjoy it being “ferried” in “navettes”. We had arrived before this happened, and so could stop at will along the way, and take any number of photographs. What we all noticed, I think, is that this valley has a very distinct appearance; it reminded me, immediately, of Canada, (although I have never been there). Martine has, and confirmed my impression

The next day, we set out to do a fairly short walk from the road end, parking below the dam, and passing the less-than-subtle building of the big auberge. I was not feeling that great, and toiled rather on the path. It is, initially, rough and stony, much eroded by the considerable number of feet that use it, and, probably, the heavy rains of spring. But after an initial heave, we were in effect wandering around on a wooded plateau, studded with small lakes. As mentioned before, the mountains held the perfect amount of snow to add shape to their rather stony masses, and the weather was ideal. All the views were, therefore, perfectly reflected in the small lakes. It was very picturesque, and we could easily understand why it is regarded as one of the best walks in the area.
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We took it gently, stopping to look at the scenery, the flowers, and the various étangs that we encountered, some small, some larger, and all rather brimming with water. We actually walked over a few patches of snow, and the signs of recent snow-cover were all around. We soon were seeing one or two species of gentian in brilliant bloom, and one water-and-tussock area, (presumably normally simply a bog), was perfectly studded with the white Pyrenean buttercup; this we found all over during the rest of the walk. Close by here, too, were single, wild daffodils
 (quite different from the narcissi we had seen in the glorious meadows) and, in some damp places, the pink-flowered alpine primrose, Primula integrifolia.
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We sat on some wonderful rocks, enjoying our lunch and a splendid view, while occasionally tossing crumbs from our sandwiches to the tiny fish (trout?) at our feet. We heard a few chaffinches, but little else, and despite all the patches of shallow water we had seen, not a single damsel- or dragonfly, perhaps the result of the very late snow.

Passing another lake, we wandered up on to a broad ridge with smaller pines, and, eventually, an attractive small alp, which, we could see clearly, was regularly grazed. The result was an extremely close sward, full of tiny flowers, many of which could have come from a Highland hillside. Here we could have spent an idyllic half-hour or more, looking at the tiny flowers and the high summits, but for the intrusive racket from a large helicopter, which flew around and around for at least an hour; what it was doing, we could not work out. Martine took some pictures of the flowers; a favourite is the minute mountain everlasting, Antennaria dioica.

(That evening I borrowed Lesley’s flowerbook to look some of these plants up, and saw a handwritten note at the very end of the index; it had been written by Lesley’s father, and said “mountain everlasting” – a strange little coincidence.)

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Next came a beautiful little lake; I would have loved a swim, but its waters were glacial, true snow-melt. At its head, a lovely rushing stream issued from yet another, and we again sat on a rock to look at the view.
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There were flowers all around, especially the pale buttercup and the purple of the Pyrenean gentian. This we had seen for the very first time the day before; I have no idea how it has eluded us up till now, considering how much time we have spent in the Pyrenees. There may be some sort of geological connection, with resulting differences in the soils. The rock around Carlit looks somewhat granitic, rather different, for instance, from that of the Batère area, where we regularly visit.
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Snow patches, brimming bogs, and the rough path took us back to the van-at last!
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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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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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Midwinter Travel

26/1/2018

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By Robin Noble

One of the almost-inevitable aspects of the ex-pat life is that we sometimes travel back to Britain. We each have our favoured, or most convenient, way of doing it. If I am travelling alone, I get the wonderful one-euro bus from close to home, to Perpignan, and one of the smooth, spacious trains to Montpellier, from where I take a plane to Gatwick.

The train journey can be wonderful, and it was so, when I went that way before Christmas. It was a brilliantly sunny and windy day, quite blinding at times as the blazing light was reflected off the waves on all the étangs through which the railway wends its way. And all the way along, there were the usual birds, but in greater numbers than I had seen before. Many of them were quite close to the low embankment on which the train runs, enjoying its shelter, which meant that I saw them closer than I usually do. The train goes at quite a speed along this section, so I had fleeting views of an endless procession of flamingos, the pink showing clearly if they flew as the train approached, and the clean white of an equal number of egrets. Depending on exactly where we were, at times the background was a fairy-tale view of a lofty, snowy Canigou. In places, particularly in front of the bridge at Béziers, there were lots of gulls, equally vivid in the sun. On this day, the birds lit up the complex landscape of the étangs, marshes and old salt pans through which the line passes.

As world sea-levels rise, so, inevitably, must that of the Mediterranean, and the rich agricultural land, the vineyards and orchards that lie further west are fortunate in having this extensive and watery area as a barrier between them and the rising sea. In Britain, there are several places where farmland has been recently sacrificed to the sea, as marshes and pools dissipate the power of the rising seas and oceans much more effectively than solid barriers. (As British winters seem to be getting increasingly stormy, this will become more necessary with the passing of time:) And, as my recent journey proved, such areas are very beneficial to wildlife, too. My only worry is that one day the railway might get washed away!

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Biodiversity

7/7/2017

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By Robin Noble (photos by Martine Howard)

What used to be called nature conservation is as prone to fads, fashions and buzzwords as anything else, and "biodiversity" may well seem to some folk to be just another example. As a concept, it is at least easy to understand, as it simply means the diversity of "life-forms", really of life itself, and understanding its importance begins with the recognition that somehow, through time, our home planet has ended up endowed with a myriad of living organisms. These range in size from microscopic bacteria to elephants and whales, and they all are, somehow, more interconnected and interdependent than one can easily comprehend. We are slowly learning the nature and scope of this web of life, whether it is an understanding of the importance of mycorrhizal fungi in the root systems of trees, or the significance of the colonies of bacteria to which our own bodies are, whether we like it or not, the constant hosts.

Just as it is now authoritatively believed that after heavy treatment with serious antibiotics, our bodily systems may suffer seriously in a number of ways, so too do many of us feel that the maintenance of as much as possible of the overall "web-of-life", (that complex natural system which was in place across the entire surface of the planet before our species began to destroy it), is crucial to the continued function of the life support systems with which Earth provides us. Living in an area with quite a significant population, with expanding towns and villages, all of which eat into the natural environment of PO, it is at least comforting to realise what a reservoir of biodiversity this part of France is.

There are two crucial aspects of biodiversity; one is precisely that diversity, the great variety of life forms - like the fascinating insects which Lesley has been photographing and writing about lately. The idea here is that each type, for instance, of insect plays its part in the crucial processes of the world, whether it is recycling decaying matter or in pollinating flowers, aspects which we readily accept are crucial to our own lives. What we tend to call  "Nature", (and James Lovelock refers to as "Gaia"), does not believe in single solutions to problems, or in supplying only one carrier-out-of-tasks, but goes in for a multitude of versions of the required organisms; quite simply, "safety in numbers". Keeping this complex web of organisms in balance requires in itself yet more organisms, species who appear to function as regulators of the entire system.

But the other crucial aspect of biodiversity is that its component parts must be widespread, active over as large an area as possible. An obvious example, of great relevance to PO and its lovely, and important orchards, is that we need to have a lot of bees; a few tucked away in the equivalent of a small insect zoo will simply not manage the necessary task on the required scale- and we all would suffer greatly.

One recent day spent in one of our very favourite places, the high foothills of Canigou, illustrated this word, "biodiversity", in the most wonderful and life-affirming of ways. As it happened, there was rather less activity among the birds than usual, and the marmots disdained to offer many photographic opportunities, so you might have thought that we would be rather disappointed. But it did not matter.

From the moment we stopped the van and got out, it was apparent that the wildflowers were in wonderful profusion. The regular episodes of heavy rain which have characterised the spring and summer so far have resulted in more than simply a perceptible increase in the number of biting insects; there was a carpet of wildflowers, more than we have ever known before. Much of it was yellow, like the broom, brilliant against the fresh green, and the small cistus or rock-rose, which spread everywhere.
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Often I am quite happy simply to recognise the botanical family to which the flowers belong: scattered throughout was the crisp white of a small mouse-ear, and the vivid blue of a speedwell. But there were small groups of special flowers as well, including two beautiful orchids, which were new to us, illustrated below.
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The uniform, dark orchid, with packed small flowers, is one of the fragrant orchids - not, as far as I can find, endowed with an English name, and, perhaps surprisingly, the iconic flower of the Province of Jamtland In Sweden. Its Latin name is Gymnadenia nigra. The second, very beautiful species is burnt, (or burnt-tip) orchid, Neotinea ustulata. And finally, I found one lovely, single flower of the alpine aster, which has become a popular garden flower.
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And with this botanical profusion went the butterflies - mostly tiny, jewel-like, dancing over the flowers, or settled on damp sand at the side of the track. I was not conscious of a great number of species (although, in any case, I find it hard to keep track of individual butterflies when hosts are flitting distractingly around me), simply of their fragile, flickering abundance. Many of them were blue, and we show some examples below:
Click on photos for larger image.
Perhaps the most spectacular of these photographs (all by Martine) shows a common flower, the valerian, and a moth: sometimes in Scotland we see one member of this brilliant family, the burnet moths, in areas where the wild mountain thyme flourishes (it was blooming here, too!). The Scottish examples are six-spot burnet moths, and I think that these Catalan examples are the same.
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To provide any accurate, scientifically-valid account of the biodiversity experienced in this wonderful place on this glorious day, we should, of course, have done a meticulous survey, counting species in grid squares, or on specified transects, but of course, we did nothing of the kind. We stopped and marvelled, took some photos, and strolled on, our hearts delighted by the beauty of the occasion.

As an important foot-note, I should add, as I have before, one significant point. The wonderful diversity of this area is enhanced, part-created, by the inter-action between man - or in this case, his animals, the grazing flocks of sheep, cattle and horses which frequent these high pastures - and Nature. Without the grazing, the hillside would clearly revert to scrub woodland and bracken, which would be very different, and significantly less varied. Many bio-diverse habitats, like traditional hay-meadows or coppice woodlands, owe their richness to this interaction. However often we may feel the opposite, our species certainly had, in the past, the ability to work with nature, not to destroy it as now so often happens right across the planet.
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Crab Spider - An Efficient Predator

21/6/2017

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By Lesley McLaren

Recently, I noticed two bees dangling motionless from flowers in our garden, and thought they might have got stuck. This occasionally happens to hummingbird hawkmoths, whose long tongues somehow seem to get trapped; unable to free themselves, the moths eventually die from exhaustion if not rescued. On peering more closely at the dead bees, however, I discovered they were being held in place by a small white spider.
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It's a type of crab spider (Thomisus onustus).

What immediately fascinated me was that the bees didn't appear to have been caught in a web. Two days ago, as the spider seemed to have set up ambush in a salvia (bog sage), I decided to set up tripod and camera to catch it on film over a period of time.

Its colouring was such great camouflage against the blue and white flower as it lay in wait, often just underneath the bigger, bottom petal, to grab from below any bee that landed there. The petal doubled up as a handy sunshade. Whenever bees buzzed nearby, the spider would sense them (by sight and/or sound?), and stretch out each pair of extra long front legs in readiness for a welcoming embrace.

I witnessed several near misses and lucky escapes.
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Over the last three days it has been successful early each morning, and today I managed to record a kill.

Crab Spider Ambush from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

I think it must first paralyze its prey, as the bee in this video stops moving quite quickly (although in bee terms a few minutes might count as a long time, I suppose). Once it has manoeuvred the bee so it can bite into the back of its neck, the spider stays in that position for several hours. Presumably it extracts nutritious juices this way? After this it turns the bee around and seems to do something similar to the back end. Finally it releases its catch. A small collection of bodies is building at the foot of this plant now. Contrary to what I expected, the ants don't seem interested in the remains and haven't carried them away. Could this be because the bees were poisoned and remain toxic?

Talking of ants, It's interesting that the spider doesn't attack them when they run over the flower - and it! Perhaps they are too small to bother with, or their exoskeleton is too hard to break through?
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I examined the bumblebee once dropped, but with the naked eye couldn't see where the torso had been pierced. There did appear to be a hole in the neck, and possibly an empty cavity in the head, however. Perhaps these spiders can't manage whole bees and just feed on their brains?

They can't need much to sustain them. Male crab spiders are only about 2-4mm long, females 7-10mm. (I think the one in my garden must therefore be a female.) But their prey is often bigger than they are, and apparently they catch all sorts of pollinators - including butterflies. It's a pity they don't seem to go for less attractive insects, like mosquitoes.

The bee in the video was caught at around 7am; by midday it had already been released. I hoped the spider was sated and wouldn't catch another of my favourite garden visitors before tomorrow at least, but only an hour later, a honey bee was in her jaws. At 6.30pm she snared another bumblebee - a big one that had had a narrow escape only moments earlier. This time she attacked from above. Examination of this one after the spider had finished with it, revealed no head at all, and a small cavity in its rear end.
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Five kills in three days and three in one day - that's what I call efficient.


For part 2 of this story, go here.
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Walking Off-Piste in the Albères

30/4/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

A couple of weeks ago I decided to explore an area of Albères woodland off the main piste,  in the hopes of seeing one of the wrynecks that were calling all around but staying frustratingly out of view.

It can also be frustrating trying to find a route through the trees unless you're following a yellow waymarked path. Many tracks, made by boar or cows, lead you in circles or tempt you up this rise and round that corner only to abruptly disappear through an impenetrable mass of gorse.

On this particular day, however, I was fairly optimistic when I went through a makeshift gate in a fence and began a gentle climb up a grassy track that was clearly once designed for use by a vehicle. At a guess, the only people who usually came here were hunters, cowherds and cork harvesters. I was intrigued to see where it might lead.
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The start of the track, looking up to the Roc du Midi
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And looking back. Faint sounds of human activity occasionally drifted up from the Roussillon plain, to mingle with the songs of blackcaps, subalpine and Sardinian warblers, chiffchaff, goldfinches, serins and the first nightingales of the year. Not to mention the constant strident call of wrynecks.
Beyond the strimmed fire break immediately above the piste, it was immediately obvious how much the cows keep down the undergrowth, leaving only occasional patches of sweet smelling broom, French lavender and 'fried egg' rock rose plants in some of the more open, sunny areas. These were attracting insects, including one or two Orange-tips and Speckled Wood butterflies, and tiny beetles with extraordinarily long, spinning antennae.
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Aptly named: Speckled Wood
After only a few yards I came upon a boar wallow that looked to be very popular. Here, while a jay tried to trick me with its imitations of heron and buzzard calls, I watched a pied flycatcher for a moment or two. Warblers - chiffchaffs I think - flitted in and out of the cork oaks, and wrynecks continued to shout near and far, but remained hidden.
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Wallow, with scratching posts on the two nearest trees beyond.
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Easy to see where the mud has been rubbed off on the trunk of this one!
Further into the woods, tree heathers and gorse had been significantly thinned out by the cows, creating a somewhat sterile environment in places. It did, however, make walking and visibility easier. One or two Subalpine Warblers called from and skulked in clumps of surviving heathers. The cows themselves weren't in evidence. It's usually wise to avoid them if possible and at about this time of year they are usually herded up to the cooler, higher slopes.

I was interested to discover that most dead cork oaks had at least one hole, drilled out by a woodpecker.
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Most holes appeared to be experimental, and had been abandoned. The back and base are clearly visible in this one, and it doesn't look like a work in progress. A lot of effort has gone into it, nevertheless, before giving up!
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Portal to a parallel world? The inside of this cork trunk is rotten, and the spongy bark has bent round and flopped
After about half a kilometre the track narrowed, to pass between stands of dead sweet chestnuts and through patches of newly uncurling, fresh smelling fronds of bracken. Normally unwelcome because it's so invasive, here bracken seems to be kept at bay by the cows.
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Gales are gradually bringing down these dead chestnuts.
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Goes without saying, perhaps, that the further in you are, the more you're likely to hear and see
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Now the track becomes more of an obstacle course.
After negotiating tree trunks and brambles, I reached a glade - again created by cows I imagine. Woodpeckers were drumming close by and, after a few minutes, a pair of Great Spotted flew overhead. About 100m in front of me, two long-tailed tits looked to be collecting nesting material, and then a nuthatch appeared in the same tree. Through binoculars I watched it work its way down a trunk towards a hole whose entrance looked worn smooth. Wondering if this was its nest, I hung back and waited.
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The nuthatch is close to the top of the picture, facing down the trunk.
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Closer and closer it got, until it finally popped inside. After several minutes, when it still hadn't reappeared, I left it to its privacy.
Now the track led away and steeply up. I would have needed a stick to follow, but couldn't have juggled one of those along with binos, camera and dog-on-a-lead. So, leaving further exploration for another day when less lumbered down, I turned back.

Not far from the boar wallow again, I stopped and stood quietly. If I couldn't get to a wryneck, perhaps one would come to me? After about fifteen minutes my patience was rewarded when one flew into a big old cork oak not far away and stood still, in full view, for all of five seconds. A record, I reckon, for these woodpeckers.

This might not have been much of a walk in terms of distance, but it wasn't without highlights, and proved that it's worth striking off the beaten track from time to time.
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