Category: Reptiles

Back at Als Bachous

24/3/2018

By Lesley McLaren

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

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

Looking across the eastern marsh (former quarry) to new soil heaps

More heartening was the sight of additional efforts made since my previous visit, to prevent vehicle access all round the lake. By ploughing! The wide track on the far side has been completely dug up, and earth barriers created across it in places. 4x4s, quads and scooters might still cope with it, but it should deter most people. A single car-width of track has been left down the east side of the lake, but passing and parking is now difficult owing to the ploughed 'verges'. Nevertheless one determined fisherman was installed along there beside his van when I walked past. They’ll have to keep ploughing, because rain – and more daring drivers – will gradually flatten the soil back down. But it’s a great improvement and the whole area was very quiet. Perhaps this is linked to the mounds of earth – in which case work must still be very much in progress. I was relieved that there was no activity of heavy machinery while I was there.

Down in the eastern marsh it was indeed soggy. Tadpoles were active in water-filled ruts, and insects were on the increase, including speckled wood and orange tip butterflies. There were fewer birds than I expected, but I did see one fan-tailed warbler, and heard several Cetti’s (neither of which migrate). At the foot of the GOR notice about amphibians and dragonflies, spraint on a stone looked to have bone fragments in it – possibly left by otter or mink.

At the Tech, it was good to see the river running well. Although not especially deep, it would have come to my knees at least, had I tried to wade across to the islet I stood upon in September. From my position on the bank, even with binos, it was impossible to see if there was any fresh otter spraint – my main objective for the day.

It proved equally impossible to spot any of the several Cetti’s warblers that were taunting me with their explosive song. I wondered if the old nest in this low bush on the islet was made by a Cetti’s – quite probably, I think.

At one point a small blur of brown flew into a bush only a few metres away, immediately disappearing behind leaf buds. That had to be one. I waited for some minutes, camera poised for when it would reappear, which it must eventually. Surely? Nope. Only when I gave up and moved, did it bob into sight for a nanosecond, before flying into deep cover on the opposite bank. One day I'll get a proper look at one.

That morning I had to content myself with watching a group of mating pond skaters, close to the bank. They seemed unbothered by me hovering close above them, but getting a photo in focus was near-impossible because they were constantly on the move, rowing at high speed with those super-long middle legs. I've read since that the males, which are rather shorter than the females, die after mating. Females, on the other hand, have two breeding cycles in a year. Lucky for some!

This female is multi-tasking - eating a moth while mating.

Back at the lake, the island in the middle looked starkly white with guano – which it always does before the leaves return on the trees.

At the start of my walk I'd picked out a couple of night herons on there, as well as grey herons and sunbathing cormorants, but on the way back, something black and glistening caught my eye at the water’s edge on the south side. Some kind of animal? Binos confirmed a terrapin. Three, in fact. After a few minutes two more crawled out of the water, and by the time I’d walked on a bit, there were seven. Not far above them, one of the grey herons stood motionless among bamboo canes. I hoped it would consider them too big too tackle, and certainly, at least while I was watching, it paid them no attention.

Scanning further along the water's edge, my binos picked up a biggish-looking burrow and a strip of bare earth to its right, which looked as though it led to another hole. The fresh looking soil and lack of plant debris seemed to point to these being active, not old and disused. And, presumably, whatever lives in them must be a swimmer ... with a penchant for fish perhaps?

Apologies for such an over-exposed shot - the only way to make the holes visible.

Although an island burrow should be safe - especially from human disturbance in this lake - somehow I suspect an otter holt would be better concealed. I feel it's more likely that these belong to coypu or mink - but really don't know enough about any of those species.

If I do return around dawn one day, perhaps I'll start observations at that point, before heading for the river. The clocks go forward tonight, so sometime over the next few weeks would be ideal for an expedition like that - before it gets too difficult to throw myself out of bed in the dark. In any case, I need to return soon, to see if there have been any developments with those mounds of earth.

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The Sound of Music - in the Orchards?

14/3/2018

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By Lesley McLaren

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothern boundary - river bank to right of poplars

Poplar flowers emerging

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impossible to tire of sights such as this

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May - It's Been a Wild Month!

29/5/2017

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by Lesley McLaren

This has been an extraordinary month for me in terms of wildlife observations. Most have taken place in the same small area of the Albères, which seems to be inhabited by a rich variety of creatures. This must be because habitats range from scrub, vineyards and a cherry orchard on the north side of the track, to cork oak woods with a stream and rock pool on the south side. I'm sure just as much has been happening around me in previous years - I've simply been looking harder this time. And I put that down to having a new camera, which, crucially, has a viewfinder.

The photos and video clips I've shot, whilst not high quality, have provided far more detail than I could pick up with the naked eye or would have remembered from fleeting glimpses through binoculars. Since that first sighting of the lesser spotted woodpeckers (blog, 13th May), I've taken the camera (in preference to binoculars) on each morning walk. If I hadn't, I might never have confirmed the identity of those little woodpeckers or the fire salamander larvae.

Then there were two different warblers I kept hearing but couldn't identify from their songs. On successive mornings the one bird chattered and warbled its heart out, hidden from view behind leaves, while the other skulked low in shady bushes. They were less than fifty feet from each other. From sound recordings, I pinned the songs down and, some days after that, finally caught sight of the birds. The yellow Melodious Warbler was superbly camouflaged and never budged from his position. I have seen him only once. The skulking Subalpine, on the other hand, turned very obliging, suddenly taking to singing in full view from a pine tree. Neither was very close for good shots - but close enough to help identification.

More familiar to me - and less reclusive - is the treecreeper. It's one of my favourite woodland birds, but I recently discovered that they are rare in this region. Instead, we have short-toed treecreepers. Unless I saw the two species side by side, I doubt I'd be able to tell the difference. Both are quick movers, darting up this tree, flying to that one, busily working their way up and up, poking at the bark for insects and grubs. But serendipity struck again when I photographed one that flew onto the stump of a dead cork and stayed still, wings spread, for a good minute. Behaviour I've never witnessed before, whose purpose mystified me. Because the bird was in full sun, it surely can't have been cooling off. Perhaps I was close to its nest and it was pretending to be injured, to lure me away. But birds that play wounded usually flap about as if they have a broken wing and can't fly. This one neither moved nor called an alarm. For now the mystery remains - but I'm grateful to be able to look at the wonderful patterning on its wings, as often as I want.

Here's a more classic pose.

One of the most exciting sightings came mid-month at about 9.30am. My dog and I were walking down the edge of an abandoned vineyard, which is gradually being reclaimed by the forest. Scrub to our right, and the start of a copse to our left. A rustling sound in dead leaves at ground level on our left made us both pause. Neither of us could see anything through the mass of brambles and oak suckers. My first thought was Blackbird. But my dog doesn't usually pay any attention to those. He knows their smell. He was "pointing", visibly interested and trying to identify the scent. Whatever it was seemed to move away. A few feet ahead, there was a way through, into the copse, so I decided we would take a look, even though I expected any animal to have disappeared by the time we showed up. My dog was extremely helpful, nose to ground, and dragged me to a tree. By now I was thinking red squirrel or domestic cat. I peered up, into all the trees immediately around us. And there was something. Quite high. Peering down at us. It was either a pine or beech marten.

Photos confirm it's a beech marten. (Necks and chests of pine martens are more apricot coloured)

He seemed as curious about us as I was about him. My dog couldn't see him, lost interest and waited patiently while I took photos. I was astonished when, after a few minutes, the marten turned around (revealing quite clearly that he was indeed a male!), disappeared behind the main trunk and slowly, ever so quietly, began to descend. I watched his shadow on the leaves as he came down. Finally he reappeared on a lower branch. But now my dog spotted him, barked, dragged on the lead, desperate to give chase, and that was the end of photo opportunities.

I don't often see mammals here, so this was a real treat - especially as beech martens are more often creatures of the night or dusk. Robin, who is familiar with their pine marten cousins in Scotland, told me that it probably has young at the moment; those extra, hungry mouths might necessitate more activity during daytime.

Certainly a lot seem to be about generally; I'm noticing their distinctive droppings everywhere - including outside our front gate. At the moment they appear to be gorging on cherries - wild ones as well as those in our gardens and orchards, I expect.

With only a few days of the month left, and birdsong already beginning to diminish, the chances of seeing anything different on my regular walk were low, I thought. But I was forgetting about reptiles. May is Snake Month of course. I sometimes hear a prolonged rustle in the verge as something slithers away. They usually move far too fast to spot. So it was a delight, a couple of days ago, to come across a ladder snake in the middle of the lane. Also something of a surprise at 7.45 in the morning, when the temperature was relatively cool. The snake was lying completely still, but didn't look injured. I wondered if, having sensed our approach, it was playing dead. The road was shaded just there too, so the snake, if chilly, might be sluggish?

Although there is little traffic on that lane, there was still a risk it would be run over by a vehicle or bike if it stayed there. Most snakes I see are dead ones. Another walker passed, had a look, gave it a helpful poke with her stick, and decided it was dead or ill. I wasn't nearly so sure and, once she left us, I noticed slight movement. After capturing the snake on film, I gently touched the tip of its tail with a twig. No response. With the twig, I lifted its tail a little. Nothing. Was I going to have to pick it up? Not knowing if ladder snakes are the kind that squirt noxious liquid from their anal glands, I decided against that. Gradually, I teased it into movement, and it slowly slid away off the road and down the bank.

Bruce subsequently told me ladder snakes, though not venomous, do bite if handled. I'm so glad I made the right decision.

The 'rungs' of the ladder are more prominent in younger snakes - markings fade considerably with age.

It looks longer than it was - which must have been about a foot and a half. (Beech marten droppings by its head - note a couple of cherry stones!)

Here it is, on the move, scenting the air (to the accompaniment of several birds, including that melodious warbler, whose tree is nearby).

Ladder Snake from Lesley McLaren on Vimeo.

Sometimes it can be a bind, juggling camera and dog lead, but each day the effort has paid off, leaving me with a fine collection of memories - of insects, birds, mammals, amphibians and reptiles. A wild month indeed.

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Wildlife On The House!

22/10/2016

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by Lesley McLaren

Since finding the Scarce Swallowtail pupa on our garage wall last winter, I'm more alert to creatures that use our house as a shelter. However, it was still a surprise the other day, to find that what I first thought was bird dirt stuck to the outside of a couple of windows, are, in fact more cocoons.

Each is about 2cm long, and what's so intriguing is that they're made from bits of plant material. What I believe is metamorphosing as it sleeps inside, isn't nearly as magnificent as the swallowtail, though. I think the (curious) common name is: Bagworm Moth (psychidae family). If so, the emerging moths will be small, plain brown and not terribly welcome if their caterpillars infest certain plants next year. Nevertheless, I'm disinclined to get rid of them - not least because they give me the perfect excuse not to clean those windows for months!

Moving further up the food chain as well as the house, after rescuing a small (baby?) gekko from our swimming pool and putting him in the front garden, where he'd be at less risk of drowning, or predation by my dog, today he, or another one exactly the same size, is snoozing right outside my study window - a couple of feet above the second cocoon. The temperature has dropped considerably over the last twenty-four hours and rain is forecast, so he has picked a good spot.

It's surprising what you see without leaving your desk.

Update 23/10/2016: This afternoon there was no sign of the gekko, but what did I see when I looked up from the laptop?

Not much sleeping going on in there! Not an emerging moth either, but a grub on the move, taking his house with him; that cocoon doubles up as a mobile home.

I decided to take the opportunity to move him off the window and onto the window ledge, thinking that if he wanted to climb higher he would get a much better grip on brickwork than glass. I'd be doing him a favour.

At the approach of my hand the caterpillar jerked back indoors and froze, hoping to fool me that he was just another unremarkable scrap of leaf litter. The tiny bits of plant felt paper thin between my fingers. Too much pressure and I'd squash both house and inhabitant. Carefully, I laid it down against the wall, and stood back to watch.

But he didn't want to climb the wall.

That mucky window frame provided more than adequate purchase. Progress was tortoise-slow.

About an hour and a half later, he had got to the top of the window. A journey that would have been so much quicker without my helping hand!

The last time I looked, he was still moving.

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End of Summer Sights and Sounds

31/8/2016

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by Lesley McLaren

Although grateful for more refreshing temperatures at the start and end of the day now, I can't believe we're already at the end of August and it's la rentrée for school children, holidaymakers, and a lot of bird species.

To be accurate, swifts left a while ago. I've also been hearing small flocks of bee eaters almost daily for the last week or so, but most have been too high to see well. The local bird group (GOR) reports that raptors are also on the move. The autumn migration is monitored at a spot near Eyne in the Cerdagne, and of particular interest each year is le rush (as they describe it) of honey buzzards. 2,500 were counted only yesterday, bringing the total to 6,000 for that species alone since 7th August. (Numbers of all species counted are updated daily here.)

I've been keeping out of the searing heat as much as possible during the high season, as do many other creatures, but my dog has still needed walking and it's always worth keeping eyes peeled and ears pricked. Apart from those bee eaters, there is little birdsong now. But on our regular circuit there is a very talkative buzzard. He (or she) has a favourite area in the orchards, and a particularly favourite telegraph pole. I'm more used to hearing them call when soaring rather than than perched, but this one just never shuts up, no matter where it is or what it's doing. I wonder how much success it has when hunting, because it's always advertising its presence! I'm sure it's the same bird too, because the call doesn't sound quite right (it definitely is a buzzard though). Which makes me wonder: do some birds have speech impediments? Or could it be a juvenile and hasn't quite got the hang of its voice yet? I have no idea how long it takes for young birds to perfect their songs and calls (it may be immediate). Plumage markings do vary according to age though, so perhaps I shall return with my binoculars and book and try to at least establish if it's an adult or not.*

In the same general area the other day - close to where I met my first crayfish earlier in the year - I spotted something that at first looked like a narrow tube of plastic netting (perhaps about a foot and a half long), which turned out to be the cast skin of a snake. All the more remarkable because it was complete; unbroken except for the back of the head, from where I assume the (bigger) snake had slithered out. Perhaps we only just missed the event.

Close up, I could even see where the eye had been.

From reptiles to insects: Today's find was a big moth. It's definitely a member of the noctuid family but I'm less sure which. Either the Red Underwing (Catocala nupta) or the Dark Crimson Underwing (Catocala sponsa). My bet is on the Dark Crimson. Had it not been fluttering around when I saw it, I'm sure I'd have walked straight past. Unfortunately those pretty red and black hind wings were almost tucked out of sight by the time I took the photo, but the brown-grey patterning is itself beautiful - and provides extraordinary camouflage.

Isobel has also been photographing the extraordinary, from her balcony. Somewhat pumpkin-like, near the top of a huge old cork oak:

It's an Asian hornet's nest - and very active. Accidentally introduced into Europe, these are spreading and, sadly, they are devastating to bees: wiping out whole hives. Unfortunately the only current way to destroy them is by chemical pesticides, which can result in the deaths of other, harmless insects, as well as creatures higher up the food chain, like birds. We hear that a new, ecologically friendly method is under development, but funding is a problem. Donations welcome! More information on the project can be found here.

For reference, the Asian hornet has an orange head and legs, and looks quite different from our endemic European species (which does not attack bees).

I imagine the hornets in this nest will start to die off soon, leaving only their queen to over-winter and start a new colony next year. It's all change, as another summer draws to a close, days shorten and autumn approaches!

* Buzzard puzzle solved:
Robin, who has much more experience of buzzards, says: "I'm sure your buzzard is a young one; that sort of constant complaining voice is absolutely typical! I imagine the parents are trying to encourage it to fly and forage for itself, and it can't be bothered - very like the average teenager!" It does sound as though it's whining, and its 'spot' is where I often see a pair, so this fits perfectly. Thanks, Robin!

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Saving a Snake

11/8/2015

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by Robin Noble

I have mentioned before that in our garden we have a small and annoying little pond; incidentally, we have decided that we must cover it up soon. It has occasionally given us proof of the existence of some local wildlife which we otherwise tend not to see, such as a sadly drowned mouse. Very recently, I thought I had found another disaster in its murky depths, but as I approached its edge, the creature I was concerned about because of its total immobility, proved very much alive. It dived fast and swam away to the other side.

It was a snake, obviously quite at home in the water but unable, having got in, to get any purchase on the smooth sides of the pond.

Realising that it would clearly starve if left there, I had to work out some way of getting it out. I had nothing to catch it with, and it was so alert that it seemed an unlikely solution to the problem anyway. I decided that first of all I had to let it calm down, so for what seemed ages I sat quietly by the pond until it had been at the surface for some considerable time. Then, infinitely slowly, I introduced one end of a narrow plank into the water and edged it incredibly gently towards the strongly marked head of the snake, leaving the other on the pool margin. Then I withdrew from the scene, inch by inch...

I found a corner behind some bushes from where I had a partial view of the plank, and so after a while, I took a very quiet look; the snake was actually out of the water and on the plank, which enabled me to take a quick, distant photo or two. When I looked again, later, the snake had disappeared, presumably into the nearby hedge, and has not been seen since.

Living in the far north of Scotland, I had never seen a grass snake, and always thought they were greenish in colour, but this, presumably youngish, was a sort of shiny beige, with beautiful, very regular and precise spots along its length. The collar, though, was very clear and helped with its ID. This has to be the couleuvre à collier, natrix natrix, the grass snake. The Albera book says: "diurne, parfois tres aquatique, elle peut se trouver loin de l'eau, dans les broussailles" - which says it all really!

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Points of View

26/8/2014

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by Robin Noble

Most locals I meet have been complaining about the weather in August, and in very strong terms, too! It has certainly been rather a strange month, often overcast, but having just had another first- hand report of the effect of the tail-end of Hurricane Bertha on the North of Scotland, I can only say that I am very glad I was here!

The sun seems, anyway, to have come back for a little while at least, and on Sunday I was dozing in the shade after lunch – well, actually obviously not really dozing as a quick movement caught my eye. I was looking straight up at the underside of the eaves above the French windows that give on to the terrace; that is if you still call them eaves if they are made of brick? Anyway, there hanging vertically above me, upside down, was one of our geckos. It was quite still for a while, then suddenly scooted forward at speed, till again it stopped dead, and waited, motionless again. I have no real idea what enables them to hang, apparently effortlessly, upside down, but whatever it is, I find it remarkable that they can suddenly "switch it off" for split-seconds as they run forward. A hugely impressive feat, if you think of it in human terms.

Earlier that day, I had paused beside our annoying little pond; (I have mentioned this before!) With the greater rain this August and lower temperatures it has not dried out this year, so I have not managed to give it a good clean, and I was standing beside it wondering for the thousandth time what we should actually do with it. Again, something caught my eye; this was, perhaps a bit of wood, where there is not normally one – but this bit of wood had several conspicuous white dots. And then it moved – so it was not a piece of wood!

I got out the inevitable, invaluable book, and have decided that it can only be the young of the "lézard ocellé", which has noticeably white spots. According to the same authority, the adult can grow up to 60 centimetres in length! Mine was lurking at the foot of a rockery-cum-shrubbery, and I can only suppose that perhaps its parents lurk there too – veritable monsters at the bottom of the garden! One of my dictionaries indicates that "ocellé " means "spotted", which seems eminently satisfactory – at least as far as the young are concerned.

About three weeks ago, I spent a few days at a lovely campsite in the hills. There are some nice walks around the site, but they are rough and steep, and as the weather was warm, I got pretty hot while following them, and cooled down in the two streams which flow through the valley. They are real mountain streams, and the water is cold, so you have to be fairly hot to want to get in. One pool is quite small and totally natural, with only room to swim a couple of strokes, but it is very pretty in its setting of rock and bushes, and on its margins I had noticed at least one of my favourite insects – loved even beyond the butterflies which I have written about before!

This one is very like a damselfly – (shame Bruce has not written about them yet!), but it flies more slowly, more obviously beating its four wings than the rapid dart and hover of the dragon – or damselflies ever allows you to see. It is the colour which is remarkable, as it is a deep, almost electric blue, and the wings, which you see clearly in flight, are black, shot with the same blue. This, I think, may be the male, I saw greener individuals which I believe may be the females. Both sexes, if this is the case, are territorial, as a little way downstream from the pool where I had my quick, cold dip, I sat for ages on a rock and watched one quietly. It rested on a waterside plant or twig, making sorties out over the amber-coloured shallow water. I presume it is carnivorous, and was catching small flies, but I never really managed to see the prey before it was caught! Once or twice it dipped down to the gently-rippling surface of the stream. If another of its own species ventured over the same small pool, it was immediately escorted back upstream, but when the big, noisy dragonflies flew past, they were left alone. Discretion, it seems, is the better part of valour when they pass by!

I have decided, partly on the basis that these lovely insects have very definitely coloured wings, that they must be the demoiselle agrions (calopteryx virgo), but am happy to be corrected! Later that afternoon, I swam in the much bigger, man- made pool beneath a fine waterfall. The back of the pool was set into the hillside and was very well-vegetated, and it was here that the pond-skaters tended to congregate. I swam repeatedly, very slowly and as low in the water as I could, and watched from the surface, the closely-crowded pond-skaters and the agrions, as these beautiful creatures made their brilliant, fluttering sorties out over my head – and the dragonflies, like helicopter gun-ships, zoomed by. What a wonderful way to spend a hot afternoon.

I have mentioned our kitchen sink before; it is quite a good viewpoint over the front garden, although its bars, practical enough in this warm climate, make you adopt some odd angles if you are following a bird as I was yesterday. This was a young redstart, still with fluff between its growing feathers, and as "the book" says that young black redstarts are distinctly sooty, and this was not, I have to conclude that it was the "ordinary" redstart, of the same species which had killed itself, some readers may recall, against the glass of the French windows. This is presumably the product of at least a second, maybe a third brood of the summer.

But as far as some of the birds are concerned, we are rapidly heading into autumn. For at least a couple of weeks now, the migration of the bee-eaters has been in full flight over our garden. This is another creature with whose beauty I am somewhat obsessed, and I am constantly grabbing my binoculars, in the hope of getting a really good view. The perfect vision of a bee-eater is another example of the dazzling beauty of the natural world which surrounds us, and I am anxious to see it again. So far it has eluded me, but I will see it yet!

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