Category: Robin Noble - Mediterranean Pyrenees

A Winter Wetland

20/2/2019

By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

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

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

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

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

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

Dabchick (Little grebe)

Coot

Shoveler

Teal

Greylag

Mallard

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

*Aiguamolls de l'Empordà

Winter Wanderings

13/2/2019

By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fleeing the Heat

26/9/2018

By Robin Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Early Summer on the Batere Uplands

31/8/2018

By Robin Noble (Photos by Robin and Martine Noble)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a young one

Between Bouillouses and Carlit

13/7/2018

By Robin Noble Photos by Martine Noble

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

Snow patches, brimming bogs, and the rough path took us back to the van-at last!

A New Seabird

7/7/2018

By Robin Noble

The 2018 boating season is underway, but the changeable weather has rather limited the days we have had out on the water, so far. Anyone who reads these blogs will know that I am constantly wondering why there are so many fish in the water, and so few birds looking for them. We have, if anything, seen fewer cormorants this year, for instance, but are certainly seeing as many fish ... so the appearance of a totally new seabird gives us a lot of excitement.

It happened rather quickly; we were heading quite briskly along on a nice bouncy sea, when I noticed the white dots of a group of gulls on the water-in itself, not a very common sight. There were some greyish, brownish birds beside them, which I assumed to be young gulls - until they lifted quickly into the air, and set off with a low gliding which we instantly recognised; these had to be shearwaters. They were perhaps twenty in number, definitely more brown than the blue-black and white of the Manx shearwater with which we are both familiar (from Scottish coasts), and I read that they are also slightly larger. (But they were definitely smaller than the three Greater shearwaters we had seen on a previous occasion). As they departed quickly, we had to wait for further elucidation till we were back home and got the books out.

There seems to be no room for doubt; these were, if you like, our "local" shearwaters, the Balearic, which breed in the Western Mediterranean, and particularly on those islands. One account says that they are among the rarest seabirds in the world, and relatively little known.

As it happens, I had just been reading a really wonderful book about seabirds: "The Seabird’s Cry", by Adam Nicolson, and from it I had learnt a great deal of information which was new to me, despite an almost-lifelong interest, particularly in the petrel family of seabirds, which includes the shearwaters and fulmars. That they are long-lived (fulmars may live up to sixty years), and are unlikely to breed until they are eight or nine, I knew. During those early years, all species range over the oceans of the world; they are, it seems, so perfectly "designed", that, given a bit of wind, they use as little energy in flight, as they would when sitting on what they consider to be a nest. Hundreds, even thousands of miles are nothing to these extraordinary birds, so the ones we saw might well head back to the Balearic Isles with food for their young. And, perhaps most fascinating of all, these birds find their way across the trackless oceans, and find food, by smell...

More I will not say; anyone who is really interested in what is now known about these amazing creatures, should definitely buy the book! It is published by William Collins.

Nostalgia in the Cerdagne

7/7/2018

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...

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.

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.

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?

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

15/4/2018

By Robin Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wildlife management is never simple!

Iconic Blog!

13/4/2018

By Robin Noble

As a writer, I tend very much to avoid that word “iconic“; it is over-used, and I feel it should be reserved for something that is truly special. But when I get good views of an osprey, then I feel I can use it...

There is something impressive about most raptors, it is true, and the osprey is pretty big and splendid even among raptors, being, I think, larger than a common buzzard, and magnificent in its white and darkest brown plumage. What makes it so special for me, is that just as I was becoming truly conscious of the wildlife of the Scottish Highlands, (when I was about ten), the osprey hide at Loch Garten in Speyside was opened by the RSPB, in order to let the general public see these, then very rare, birds. They had been persecuted into extinction in Britain, but, despite continuing threats, particularly by then from egg-collectors, they had returned on migration and started breeding. Once the hide was open, my family started making an annual visit there, and I was well and truly hooked (perhaps an appropriate metaphor, as these birds have occasionally also been called “ fishing eagles “?!).

Accordingly, when Lesley told me recently that she had had a quick view of an osprey over the motorway, I felt rather envious, not having had a decent sighting of my favourite birds, for several years. And so, one fine day (believe it or not, before this recent return to distinctly wintry conditions, we did have some!), I did my usual coastal round trip, which I have described before. One of its main destinations is the Etang, and it was when I was strolling around its eastern shore, looking over the expanse of water, that I saw a very large bird heading straight for me. I recognised it immediately; it was an osprey, and it was flying back and forth over the shallow water, close to the Fishermen’s Huts. It did hover several times, but the water was, as ever, slightly murky in the usual breezy conditions, and sadly, I never saw it dive or catch a fish. I did, however, watch it for perhaps twenty minutes, before it departed to the other side of the Etang, where maybe it had more luck.

There were other birds in view, close by, at the same time. Prominent among them were some great crested grebes, parading back and forth, quite close to the shore. They are also wonderful creatures, and were in full summer plumage, complete with bizarre neck-ruffs and ear-tufts. But, significantly further out, there were other, smaller grebes, and, to make identification even more difficult, they were only just emerging from their winter plumage. It was clear to me that they did have a golden patch behind the eye, which both the lovely Slavonian and almost equally attractive black-necked grebes possess when in full summer plumage, that of the first being even more prominent than in the second. The black-necked are better-known this far south, although, this being the migration season, it is hard to be definitive about which will turn up where!

The unusual amount of rain threatens to turn the gravel of our “ drive “ into a meadow, and I was out one day, on my knees, trying to weed it, when I heard a call which, like that of the osprey, seems to be embedded deep in my brain. It was some kind of eagle, and when I looked up, there were two, heading north across the valley, and high in the grey sky. It was impossible to tell what they were, but they certainly seemed intent on going somewhere, like so many other birds at this season. Very recently, when the cold rain of the morning had ceased, and the temperature had risen as the wind dropped, there must have been a hatch of insects around one of our pines, as the air around it was suddenly full of martins. I am not sure what type they were, and as I was on the phone, I did not drop everything to rush out and make an identification. In any case, they did not hang around long - but it does show that, maddening as our current weather may be, it is still a very exciting season!

Midwinter Travel

26/1/2018

By Robin Noble

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

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

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

Lesley McLaren, Bruce Hyde, Isobel Mackintosh, Robin Noble, Martine Howard, mediterraneanpyrenees.com associates and affiliates do not warrant or assume any legal liability or responsibility for the accuracy, completeness or usefulness of any information, product or process disclosed. Lesley McLaren, Bruce Hyde, Isobel Mackintosh, Robin Noble, Martine Howard, mediterraneanpyrenees.com and affiliates do not endorse or recommend any commercial products, processes or services and cannot be held liable for any result of the use of such information, products, processes or services discussed on this website.

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