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Upland Sample

15/7/2019

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By Robin Noble      Photos by Martine Noble

Back late to PO after a muddled spring in the UK, but somehow the muddle persisted, with our beloved old campervan spending two weeks in the very friendly and competent local garage. One day, we took our old Citroen up to the upland we always simply call “the Batère”, in order to get away from the phone, and had the usual lovely day up there, watching marmots and looking at the wonderful display of spring flowers.
 
We stopped regularly to photograph them, and remarked, as ever, on the incredible diversity; wherever we stopped, there were more, and different flowers in bloom. We started wondering quite how many species, throughout the spring, summer and autumn, actually flourish up here. A comprehensive survey would be an enormous task, and one which we are far too lazy and disorganised to do!
 
We halted at the col between two of the rounded hills above the road to the old tower, and enjoyed the view of Canigou and valleys to the west and north. Below the rocky area at the col, the ground slopes away quite steeply, and is moderately wooded, with a lot of smallish pines. These may be quite young, or, as likely, limited in their growth by the altitude and strong winds. Looking, however, at a small sample of the flowers blooming on the slope, it seems probable that the small trees represent regeneration from the neighbouring densely wooded and rocky slopes, over former high-level meadowland. I wandered around looking at the flowers…
 
We had seen gentians on the way up, with one of the lovely trumpet-shaped type (Gentiana acaulis); here there were lots of those with the central white spot to the flower (Gentiana verna). There was a tiny forgetmenot, possibly Myosotis alpestris, although it looked much more compact than in the illustrations I could find, and something which looked rather like a meadow saxifrage. (This may have been Saxifraga granulata.) Reminding me of the Highlands were some beautiful mountain everlasting (Antennaria dioica), tiny and complex, but the star of those immediately around us were the big yellow anemone-like Pulsatilla alpina subspecies apiifolia, which, being in the ranunculus family, is rather closer to the buttercups. Some of them, like the gentians, looked a little wilted, due no doubt to the winds we had been having.

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Gentiana acaulis
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Forgetmenot (possibly Myosotis alpestris)
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Mountain everlasting (Antennaria dioica)
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Gentiana verna
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Saxifraga granulata (possibly)
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Pulsatilla alpina - subspecies apiifolia
Apart from all the flowers, and the fun of stalking marmots, it was quite a quiet day; not many birds, really, but one made up for all the missing others; a cuckoo called for much of the time we were up there, its evocative music blending with all the bells on the sheep, cattle and horses. Two hot weeks later, all the flowers listed above were over, but in places the big yellow gentian, Gentiana lutea, apparently one of the iconic flowers of the Pyrenees, was already coming out; it seems to have enjoyed this year’s complex weather, and is growing strongly in many places.

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Gentiana lutea
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The High Pyrenees

1/3/2019

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By Bruce Hyde

Winter stayed a long time in the high Pyrenees last year. The snow lasted on the ground and all wildlife was slow to emerge into the spring sunshine.
 
We had decided to make an earlyish start to our June expedition only to discover on arrival that our plans might have been better served to have waited an extra week or two. But time, tide and Pyrenean weather wait for no man, so we assembled cheerfully in St. Pierre dels Forçats, high in the mountains, and took local advice on which of the mountain paths and trails to explore.
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​​In the event we were never disappointed, as the views were stunning with high-level snow adding an elegant backdrop, mountain streams gushing with snow melt and all nature readily welcoming the arrival of warmer weather.
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​With my specialty being dragonflies, I was somewhat disappointed to see only one species. However, I know they are quite late arrivals, typically waiting for warm sunshine before emerging, and the late snows were not to their liking. This was the dragon I saw, a Broad-bodied Chaser (Libellula depressa)
​However, butterflies, also a hobby of mine, seem to be much hardier.
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I saw more Orange Tips (Anthocharis cardamines) in our few days than I would normally observe in a whole season. They are often the first to appear in the spring and will fly for only a few weeks. Early in the season they are hard to photograph as they flit around seemingly non-stop. And this was early in their season! Even so there they were, every day, enjoying the sunshine. 
In all, I photographed 22 different species, seven of which were new to me. 
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One of these – a Bright-eyed Ringlet (Erebie oeme) - is very much a high-level butterfly, inhabiting the upper levels of the Pyrenees from near Pau as far east as the Pic du Canigou.
As is always the case, there was an abundance of the little “blue” butterflies. According to the maps in the classic Tolman and Lewington guide there are roughly 30 different species of these to be found in the French Pyrenees and many are so similar that identifying them can be challenging, to say the least. I was helped by Roger Gibbons, whose website “Butterflies of France” is an excellent source of reference. I was surprised that most of the blues were on the Cerdagne plateau rather than, as I had expected, near the mountain streams. Some wet patches beside the country lane leading to the tiny village of Sauto had quite a few species puddling for mineral salts.
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​A new blue, Amanda’s Blue (Polyommatus amandus) occupies a habitat that runs along northern Spain, then the Pyrenees, and follows the Mediterranean coast as far as the Alps. It appears to be widespread in Eastern Europe.
Lots of them are not even coloured blue – for instance some species, as well as most females, have brown upper wings. This shows the startling difference between the female (on the left) and male Common Blue (Polyommatus icarus):
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I managed to photograph (easy) and identify (difficult) 6 different “blues” – which is quite satisfying given our relatively brief stay and the lateness of the season’s arrival.
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Another very pretty specimen was this Adonis Blue (Polyommatus bellargus). To be expected here, as its territory covers most of Europe from Portugal to Turkey; it is absent in all but the south of UK and, curiously, from the southern tip of Italy.
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​The Eros Blue (Polyommatus eros) was another new one. In France, this high-level insect is only found in the Pyrenees, the Alps and Cantal in the massif central. I think we were lucky to come across it as it usually doesn’t appear until July.
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The third new blue was the Mazarine Blue (Cyaniris semiargus), which copes with high altitudes, up to 2000 metres. Extinct in Britain, it has a wide distribution in mainland Europe, from near the Arctic circle down to the Mediterranean.
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​The fourth and final new one among these tiny jewels was the Turquoise Blue (Plebicula dorylas), whose range extends from northern Spain, across the centre of France and well into Eastern Europe.
​Having sorted those out, there were a couple more to add to my list of new species. 
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​This Pearl-bordered Fritillary (Boloria Euphrosyne) insisted on hanging upside down as it nectared on vetch. It has an enormous range covering most of Europe as far north as the Arctic circle.
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​Finally, there was this Wood White (Leptidea sinapis) which was rather more obliging for my camera. Terrain like the Pyrenees is a perfect habitat, and it is probable that the ones I saw would have over-wintered as pupae.
No record of those high meadows and hills would be complete without the flora. As Robin and Lesley wrote in their blogs about our séjour, the mountains were abundant with flowers, from azalea bushes, just coming into bloom, nestling by mountain streams…
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​…to fields covered with wild daffodils, gentians by the mountain tracks and dog rose, borage, pasque flowers, buttercups and so many more. I managed to identify at least three species of orchid and have photos of other flowers as yet unidentified.
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Wild Narcissus
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Dog Rose
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Fragrant Orchid
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Gentian
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Pasque Flower
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Western Marsh Orchid
​I was hoping to see some of the majestic raptors that dwell at those heights. Having previously spotted lammergiers, griffon vultures, and eagles in the mountains around Canigou, I was happy to see a short-toed eagle, as well as a golden eagle, both soaring majestically over their domain. 
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Short-toed Eagle
I am always in a quandary while out photographing wildlife. I am mainly interested in dragonflies and butterflies. Because these are all quite small, it is handy to have specialised photographic kit to capture the detail; by moving very slowly and unobtrusively one can often get quite close – sometimes within a few centimeters. Birds and mammals, though much larger, are challenging in different ways, and because one can’t get very close to those, a long lens is useful. Herein lies the quandary: it is all very well lugging a heavy telephoto lens around with you in the hope of seeing an eagle, but by the time you have taken it off and swapped it for a close-up lens, the dragonfly you have just spotted has well and truly gone!
 
And, in just that scenario, lies my memory of forgetfulness. Armed with my camera over my shoulder, and knapsack containing telephoto lens, bottles of water, sandwiches and other stuff, I was enjoying a steep walk up the surfaced footpath of the Sègre Gorge walk. After an hour or so I turned to head back, whereupon, to my surprise, I met Ann and Isobel. 
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We stopped, I put down my sac à dos, we chatted, drank some water and then carried on down towards our cars. We were not far from the bottom when I realised I had left the knapsack behind! Quelle horreur! Not only did it contain my lens, but it was also borrowed from Lesley! I immediately charged off back up the hill. My big fear was that it would have been picked up by someone else!
 
I passed a few people coming down and asked each if they had seen the bag. Yes, they said it was beside the path. It took a good 45 minutes of strenuous uphill power-walking before I rounded a bend and saw it – exactly where I had left it. I sent thanks to the gods of the mountains! Then back down again – which seemed to take forever. Ann was walking up to meet me; we heaved a collective sigh of relief and decided that a cold beer was very much the order of the day. And so it was – and particularly delicious too!
 
Our home for those few days was a traditional timber chalet at the edge of the village where we enjoyed the rural life.
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​As a final reminder, I shan’t forget the sun breaking through the clouds as it set over the mountains. Who could possibly ignore the lure of the high Pyrenees?
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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!
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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!
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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!
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And, finally, we have found another attractive place where the marmots live, and Martine thinks she managed her best photograph – so far!
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This is a young one
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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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.
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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?
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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.
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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)
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Bank after bank of rhodies - Pyrenean alpenrose or Rusty-leaved alpenrose (Rhododendron ferrugineum). Azalea-sized leaves and flowers.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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The Bad Mountain of Err had certainly delivered, in many unexpected and delightful ways.
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Les Gorges du Sègre

14/7/2018

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By Lesley McLaren
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20th June, day two of our "Warblers" Cerdagne trip, most of us headed in different directions again. My plan was to walk Les gorges du Sègre. Even the drive there was spectacular, via the back road from our base in Saint-Pierre-dels-Forcats, through Eyne, across the meadowy tops with broom-scented air, wheatears on fence posts and Andorra mountains beyond.

The only blot on this awe-inspiring landscape came suddenly, shortly before the road dropped into the hamlet of Llo: a huge array of industrial-sized mirrors and pipes over the grassland.* But that was soon forgotten when the dramatic crags of the Sègre Valley came into view. I couldn't wait to get going. Despite Bruce's somewhat disappointing trip (from a fauna point of view) in the neighbouring Eyne Valley the day before, I was hoping for butterflies and raptors galore, and planned to spend the day here. Me and my dog in the rugged mountains. Perfect.

The map shows a circular walk, and friends had warned that to avoid a cardiac-arresting uphill slog, it's best to begin at the thermal baths end, just south of Llo (at about 1400m). Great advice, not least because, from the outset, this would take me alongside the loud, fast-flowing River Sègre. Where there's water there should be butterflies.

Shod in my sturdiest boots; bearing walking pole, heavy-ish rucksack (all-weather gear, first aid kit, map, water for two, sandwiches, energy snack bars aka mini Kit Kats), camera slung diagonally across my body, binos on a harness (to protect my neck) and dog on a lead (to protect everything), I was surprised to find myself on an asphalt road. In pristine condition yet prohibited to motor vehicles, it wound gently uphill through lush, mixed woodland, around and between the crags. Easy walking. Although on one hand tarmac diminishes the wildness (and can be hot underfoot in summer), on the other, it makes this place accessible for handicapped and less-than-nimble people. I was messaging Isobel immediately, to say that her electric scooter should cope with it. (It's not often she can get to the places the rest of us explore, but the next day she was to immerse herself here.)
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After noting several orchids like those around our chalet, the next thing I came across was a group of young people (twenties) swishing butterfly nets and scrutinising leaves. They didn't appear to be hunting butterflies in particular. Biology students perhaps, carrying out an insect survey? Even though I was taking photos every few metres, we soon left them behind. There were one or two other walkers and some mountain bikers - even a couple of cars, which I assumed must be from a farm up ahead - but relatively few people otherwise. Which helped make this a special place for me.

Although the valley seemed quite sheltered, clearly the flowers were as late here as on the plateau. Pink-red azaleas, clinging to crevices in the rock, were only just coming out. At ground level some plants looked tantalisingly close to blooming, but I only know the most common by their leaves alone, so had no idea what most were. Of those that were flowering, blue aquilegia studded shady areas of dense vegetation by the river. And another water-loving plant was prolific, with big heads of fuzzy pink. I felt I should know what this was and, after consulting my dad's alpine flower book, decided it might be Pyrenean valerian. I really could have done with Robin for this, but he and Martine were across the other side of the plateau, exploring the lakes around Mt Carlit.

Click photos to enlarge image.
Alas, scant flowers meant scant butterflies. I shouldn't have been surprised after Bruce's experience. But as the temperature slowly rose, more did appear. This was was the third week of June, yet orange-tips (which fly in spring) were still abundant. Lots of whites, including green-veined. There were numerous fritillaries but all the same species - Glanville, I think - and several Camberwell beauties. (I last saw one of these years ago, in the Albères.) They proved frustrating. First impressions are of something big and very dark except for white edging on the wings. That day, this was my last impression too, because they refused to settle wings-open and reveal the inner line of purple spots, which earn them "beauty" in their name.
Click photos to enlarge image.
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Wood tiger moth, sleeping on a plant beside the lane
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Early on, from the other side of a fence, this chap was keeping an eye on Digby.
The only birds I could hear over the noise of the river were robins, but I never saw them. Once, I glimpsed a grey wagtail flying along the river. No dippers. The crags constantly drew my eyes upwards in search of peregrines, vultures and eagles. All I spotted were crag martins. Perspective fooled me from time to time. A distant, perched raptor - at least buzzard-sized - raised my heart rate, until I got the binoculars on it and discovered it was a kestrel! One lone griffon vulture flew high overhead. This was most unexpected. Where was everything?

After about an hour of slow, mindful walking, with many stops for photos, the tarmac ended at a crossroads. I had a choice. To my left, a track led up and back towards Llo (the second half of the circular walk), which I guessed would be the most popular route. To my right, another, less obvious, track led quite steeply up as well. Straight on, a gentler-looking wide, stony path continued up the valley - as far as the Coll de Finestrelles on the Spanish border, according to the map. Unlikely I'd get quite that far (2064m), because I wasn't too keen on any steep uphill work, but I might make halfway or more. The map also promised open views across the hills to the left of the river. More chance of seeing those elusive eagles and vultures? That was the route for me. First though, time for a sit down in the shade of a tree. Water for the dog, water for me and ... how about one of those mini Kit Kats?

Depending on which order one has put on one's binocular harness, camera and rucksack, it can be quite a performance getting to one's Kit Kats. And it was only once Digby was tied to a tree and my equipment lay scattered around my feet that I discovered I had plenty of water and dog biscuits, but my sandwiches and vital chocolate rations were languishing on the kitchen worktop back at the chalet.

Plan B?

Cursing my stupidity, I decided to head towards the coll nevertheless. But as that direction would continue steadily uphill, I'd be foolish to go too far without food other than dog biscuits.

Watered and loaded with clobber once more, we set off. Although still following the river, we were soon much higher above it. The trees changed from deciduous to pine, but - as per the map - they began to thin out on our left. And there was no one here but us. Glorious.

For a moment I nearly inhaled white butterflies. Green-veined again, but other species too - I'm not sure which - were congregating around a wet patch of mud. Every time a white flew past me I was hoping it might be an Apollo, but I think they were late or the habitat wasn't right. There were blues as well by now - and the occasional scarce swallowtail.

But the scenery stole the show. This stretch turned into one of those walks where you just have to see what's round the next bend. Every few metres the view seemed to improve yet again, leading me on and up. We stopped for another water break, looking down at a little wooden bridge over the river. Strangely, there was no visible track leading to or from it on either bank.
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Further on, a man who had overtaken us much earlier on the road now passed us again, from the opposite direction. So far, he was the only other person we'd come across on this section. I wondered how far he'd got and whether the track ahead became more difficult. Would I need my stick at some point? Thinking of which, where was my stick?

I thought I'd tied it onto my rucksack, but must have left it at the last water stop. What was the matter with me today? Altitude ditziness? I have other sticks, but that was an expensive Manfrotto. I wasn't about to go back for it, though, so ground my teeth and carried on, hoping the man would do the decent thing and leave it where it was.

We'd probably been going for another hour or so when I decided to head back. The track was getting steeper and, although the return trip would be all downhill, I would soon need food. With great reluctance, therefore, after scanning a distant peak for the last time (no raptors) and promising to return one day, I turned round.
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Soon I started to encounter more walkers, and decided the chances of my stick not being picked up were now slim-to-remote. A couple of women hove into view. As we crossed paths and I narrowed my eyes at the poles they carried, one of them asked if I'd lost mine. Why yes, I replied. "La voilà," she said with a warm smile, pointing behind her. And there it was, a few metres ahead of me, resting against a bush, where I couldn't miss it.

With my faith in human nature restored, I fair bounded down the track after that - often in a kind of mad zigzag, trying to catch up with another Camberwell beauty.

At the crossroads, on regaining the asphalt road, I once again met the students hunting insects. Several of them were sitting down, scribbling notes and peering intensely into specimen jars. I hoped the scarce swallowtail I'd just spied wouldn't end up in one of those. I really wanted to quiz them on their mission, but failed to catch the eye of any, and when my jovial bonjours were studiously ignored, I walked on, none the wiser.

Back at the chalet I stoked up on calories, feeling high from the scenery, but disappointed that my day had been cut short. However, my ditzy moment proved to be a blessing. After studying the map again, I drove a pretty but at times hair-raising route forestière along the next valley south of Llo, and ended up at 2,000m by the ski station of Err-Puigmal. As soon as I stepped out of the car and looked around at this wild place, I had my plan for the next day.



*I've since read that construction of the centrale solaire thermodynamique (roughly 153,000sqm of mirrors) began in 2016. Dubbed "eLLO", it's scheduled to begin converting sunlight into into electricity for the EDF from this year. More info here.
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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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Nostalgia in the Cerdagne

7/7/2018

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By Robin Noble     (Photos by Martine Noble)

Martine and I had travelled through the Cerdagne before, but never really stopped. It has always appeared as a very attractive area to us, so when our little group decided to spend a few days there, we were very happy, and it certainly did not disappoint.

The Cerdagne is a high, wide, open, undulating valley, backed by the big summits of the Pyrenees; these retained the perfect amount of snow when we arrived, so that ridges and peaks were outlined beautifully. From the point-of-view of landforms and, indeed, emotion, you enter the Cerdagne as you reach Mont Louis (although the administrative boundary is a little further west). We were staying for a few days in one of a group of Alpine-style chalets, outside a small village, close to the ramparts and turrets of the Vauban-fortified Mont Louis.

Shortly after we got there, we met up with Lesley, and as she was taking Dog Digby for a short walk, we went with her, but we actually did not get far before we were stuck, almost transfixed, you might say, photographing a meadow beside the track. The backdrop to the whole scene is a big, handsome mountain, endowed at some stage with the rather mysterious name of “Cambra d’Ase”; there are a few variations on this spelling. Although the name is clearly more Spanish or Catalan than French, the mountain, in its general appearance, (if you ignore the difference in height), could easily be Scottish. It is massive, relatively flat-topped, appearing like a big plateau-mountain, one of the Cairngorms, perhaps. And in the middle of the view we had, are the fine rocky buttresses and gullies of a big, glacial bowl or corrie, with bright patches of snow at the base of the crags.

If the background to our many pictures could have been Scottish, the foreground could not have been. It was, simply, a bit of meadow – awash with flowers, yellow and white, with patches of an almost-blue geranium. The yellow was provided in part by some hawkweeds and buttercups, but these were outnumbered by masses of the glorious globeflower, Trollius europaeus. (This is a flower known to me from a few richer places within the acid rocks of the Highlands, mostly now eaten to nothing by the hordes of red deer). The white, pure and lovely, was given by great numbers of a narcissus, just like a smaller version of the garden flower, which is sometimes called “pheasants’ eye”, Narcissus poeticus – and incredibly beautiful it was too. (It turned out that we were very lucky to see them; within a few days, they were completely over).
 
The whole effect was of the wonderful richness and glory of the natural world...
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A couple of days later, my slightly nostalgic mood, (engendered, I think, by the constant presence of that almost-Scottish mountain), was increased when I found a plant I remembered vividly from my childhood. I had seen it only once in my life, since the time I was climbing Ben Lawers (a genuinely Scottish mountain, this time, and one renowned for its alpine flowers) with my father, who was a keen botanist. We were traversing a broad ledge across a rock face (slightly to my trepidation, I must confess), when, amongst other small, exquisite plants, we found what looked to me rather like a pink daisy. This, it turned out, was quite a rarity: Erigeron borealis (alpinus now, possibly), known in English as alpine fleabane. This must have been almost sixty years ago, but I vividly remember that single little flower. The specimen growing in the Cerdagne was recognisably the same, but significantly more vigorous.
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And on the morning we left the chalet-beneath-the-mountain, we once again walked with Lesley and Digby, along the same track, but slightly rather further ... here, again, we were constantly stopping to photograph. Here I found another meadow, one that again struck a nostalgic chord. Just like the small hay-meadows of the remote Highland glen where I spent such important time in my childhood, its beauty was not made up of rarities, just of common flowers in glorious profusion. There were white oxeye daisies, yellow hawkweeds and buttercups, big red clovers and feathered grasses, and many smaller flowers. As a foreground to the still snow-patched mountains, it was perfect.
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The rich landscape of the Cerdagne did not merely leave me with a real sense of fecundity and beauty, nor with this happy, rather nostalgic mood, but also provoked a significant question. I have been reading many environmental books lately, mostly about Britain and the loss there of farmland meadow-flowers, and the butterflies, bees and birds they sustain; nearly all the books blame “intensification of agriculture” during the years of the Common Agricultural Policy. Surely, though, these glorious meadows and rich pastures of the Cerdagne have been funded by precisely the same conditions of the CAP? Why does farming in the Cerdagne still give us such beauty, in great contrast to the sterility of much of the UK’s farmland?
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Preparing for Winter

26/9/2017

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By Robin Noble         Photos by Martine Howard

September is fading fast, and as we both have to return to Britain for a while, there is a distinct end-of-the-holidays feeling about what we do. We had friends from Scotland staying, and we wanted to show them a few of our favourite places so, of course, went up to the Batere Highlands. Actually, it was reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands in one way: an expanse of bracken (an invasive plant I detest) was golden-to-russet in the autumn sun and, I hate to admit it, looked lovely.
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There were few birds and only two plants that we found in flower: one, a perfect autumn crocus, and the other, quite a fine houseleek. Otherwise, grazed and bleached grass...
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Autumn crocus
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Houseleek
It was the marmots that provided the highlight of the day; altogether we had sightings of nine. One or two looked rather elderly, and had clearly been feeding up for the winter – they were taking the sun outside their burrows, or pottering about gently. A couple of youngsters were much more lively but, naturally, rather more difficult to photograph. Some of them inhabit a slightly elevated mound, which gives them a good, all-round view; in the past, Martine has spent frustrating minutes trying to approach them unseen, but on this occasion she had more luck. I was watching from a distance, through the binoculars, and it looked as though she could have reached out and touched that rather solid figure on the grass.
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Another place, an old quarry that has evolved into a rather enchanting little amphitheatre, gave us views of quite a few; one posed against an attractive background. Although this is quite a popular area for folk to walk in (and some that day were rather noisy!), it does look as if this population is faring reasonably well.
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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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