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Watching the Garden

17/11/2020

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by Robin Noble

In recent years, the contribution to overall knowledge, especially of the natural world, made by “Citizen Science”, has frequently been emphasised in magazines and books. This refers to the value of regular observations, made through time, of appearances or changes in our wildlife, collected by any of us and properly recorded. During this year, which for most of us has been notable for its disruption, we have learnt that gaps in such observations can be equally interesting...


The combination of Covid-19, and moving to, and renovating, a house elsewhere, has meant that Martine and I have been away from France for thirteen months. We managed to arrive here just in time for lockdown, so most of our observations have been in, or from, the garden; (more of a jungle after such a long absence!).

The mostly-blue skies above us have been pretty quiet, apart from the occasional mewing of a buzzard, or shrieking of a jay. The little birds around us have, however, kept on calling: the wagtails and young black redstarts on the roofs below our house are nearly always evident, as are the robins and blackbirds among all the overgrown bushes. The hedges still harbour the almost invisible warblers; the blackcap to one side, and the Sardinian to the other, although what sound like bad-tempered outbursts may indicate some arguments over these neat territories. The big pines are still visited by tits; these have included long-tails and cresties, while a tree-creeper has thoroughly investigated all the crevices in the red bark...(just as a nuthatch did while I was writing these words!).

So much, you may say, is normal; reassuringly normal in fact. But the garden itself is showing up some fundamental changes. We now have moss growing in what used to be hard bare ground or sparse, seasonal grass. Some tiny ferns, which used to grow a couple of inches and then wilt, are several times that size, and spreading. A sort of tree fern, parked in a pot which faces both south and west, is doing well, while in previous years it would certainly have died without watering. While all this just shows that this year has been wetter than normal, it reinforces the message that overall, our climates are changing; they tend to be more unstable, more humid, more given to heavy rainfall. That the River Tech has experienced at least one dramatic spate in the last year was made clear on my “regulation” walk last Sunday, when I walked to a bathing-pool upstream from where we live in Reynes. There used to be a gentle, small sand beach leading down to the calm and inviting pool, but the two are now severed by a new, massive slope of rounded boulders, which would make access for bathing significantly more difficult than it used to be.

And the garden has revealed an aspect of plant “behaviour” which I had not fully grasped.
Our garden has a sort of rather wilder fringe, below the pines and behind the tidier bushes and internal hedges. For part of the year, this has tended to be bare ground, into which various plants have seeded. Most of them are horribly thorny, but one is not. This is a cistus or rock rose, the type with soft grey-green leaves and pretty pink, calico-like flowers, which grows wild on the hills behind us; it is, I think,
Cistus albidus. There was none in our garden when we arrived some eight years ago; then it appeared in one corner of the wilder zone. It seeds prolifically and has spread westwards, but it is now dying out where it first emerged (despite the higher rainfall), failing a bit in the area it next took over, and doing well in a totally new bed where it had just arrived a year ago. Short-lived, therefore, and seeding prolifically, rapidly colonising new areas; these are, when you think about it, ideal characteristics for a plant growing in an area accustomed both to great summer heat and dryness, and to fire.


Interesting?!

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Ambitions Realised

19/9/2019

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By Robin Noble     Photos by Martine Noble

We had long thought of spending a night up at the Batere, and this September we achieved it. It must be admitted, however, that it did not all go according to plan. We had been a little worried about flies, and had chosen what was expected to be a breezy night; there were, indeed, few flies, but there was a strong, cold wind all through the hours of darkness. It so happened, too, that the cows had decided to take up residence close to the best place for parking the old campervan; their bells may be evocative during the day and in the distance, but when you are trying to sleep and they are close by, they sound rather less poetic … and one cow, standing very close to us (despite being moved on a couple of times), was into heavy breathing. So, we did not sleep that well, but it was nice to wake up and see the sun steal over Vallespir; a nice, peaceful morning ...

For a short while. Fortunately, we were up and dressed before les chasseurs arrived. We had not thought of them, but it was, after all, mid-September and a Sunday morning. They were quite pleasant and indicated that if we aimed to go higher up the gentle hills, we could come to no harm; they were going to be in the dense wood and shrubland below the road. That indeed turned out to be true, and I have to say we were most impressed by the safety measures they put in place. Notices were placed, orange vests worn by everyone, and observers with walkie-talkies posted at regular intervals along the track to the tower, which is where most visitors would venture. There were a few higher up, too, as we discovered, as we walked up our usual route towards the col between the rounded summits.

Once round the corner, into what we think of as “marmot-land”, there was no noise, and we began to relax. There were some marmots to be seen, one presumably rather old, with a white muzzle, but they were generally wary and offered no great photo-opportunities. We did wonder what exactly they were getting to eat, as all the grass was brown and dead, cropped short. The whole place was drier than we had ever seen it, and, in addition, there were far more sheep. Given how readily sheep die, it was a surprise only to see one vulture during the entire day.


Realising the other ambition was a matter of pure luck. Neither of us was feeling that great, but when the forecast was for another hot day with calm seas, we summoned up the energy to get out in the boat. We are so glad we did. There were countless fish on the Marine Reserve; around the rocks, curtains of bream hanging almost motionless, and the densest masses of salema (rather as you imagine shoals of herring used to be) we have ever seen.
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Later in the day we headed down to our lovely Spanish beach, and in its shallow lagoon, Martine found a group of a bream we had not seen before. These were striped bream.
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On land, when I ventured ashore, the last of the ethereal sea daffodils was still in bloom.

After a while, the sun largely disappeared in high cloud, and we decided that if we aimed to head back northwards, a bit out from the coast, then we might stay in its gentle light. This we did, and while still in Spanish waters, we noticed something moving, occasionally splashing well ahead of us. So we speeded up, and headed in that direction, to find that we had met a small group, (maybe eight or nine individuals), of dolphins. They were, very firmly, heading south, not in a greatly playful mood, so only very occasionally and quickly breaching. Mostly, we just saw part of the back, and the fin, but had good views of these, and eventually, one or two passable photographs.

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Our estimate is that they were maybe six to eight feet in length, perhaps more, and we never saw any colour – just a dark, wet, grey.

We only have a couple of books from which to judge, by the shape of the fin, which species they might be, and it is not easy to decide, but, on balance, we think they were bottle-nosed dolphins. There was certainly no apparent light colouring on their sides, which characterises the common or striped, which are the other likely candidates. But, in a way, it was not the ID that mattered.

Here, in the Mediterranean sunshine, off our wonderful coast, we had met a group of fellow inhabitants of this planet. They were strong, sturdy, aware of us and unworried, intent on their own lives and requirements, deserving of respect … how better could you end a day at sea?

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Revised Impressions and a "new" flower

17/9/2019

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By Robin Noble     Photos by Martine Noble

Back for September, and back to the usual routine; taking to the sea when it is hot and humid, and we get tired of applying insect repellent!

With a coast where you can really only head north or south, and where we usually launch in one of two places, there inevitably comes a feeling of routine – you head this way or that – but the weather and the water conditions change constantly, so each day is different. And we are still finding new, tiny, rocky coves where you can land if the sea is right, and explore the small, stony beaches under the great cliffs. There seem to be more boats on the water, so we don’t always get to anchor in our favourite locations, but this season we succeeded in landing in one such place, behind a small rocky islet, under the huge black cliffs towards Port Bou.

We had passed this way in July and felt that the cliffs were significantly quieter than previously, but this latest time it was very different. We anchored in our usual spot, and as I swam slowly out past the little islet, rising on the gentle swell, enjoying the silken coolness of the sea, in the air above me all was hectic, noise and rush, as groups of swifts volleyed out from the high rocks. Squadrons of them were flying in all directions, screaming as they went, hurtling out over the sea. As before, there did appear to be two sizes of bird, and they flew differently too, one noticeably more rapidly than the other. We deduced, therefore, that we were again watching the “ordinary” swifts, which we also see in the heart of the old towns, and the alpine swifts, which are significantly larger. The latter have white patches on their fronts, but when seen from below, silhouetted against the brilliant sun, this was not easily spied. We estimated, terribly roughly, that we might be seeing two-hundred-and-fifty birds, but it was hardly more than a guess … and a magnificent spectacle!

Martine, as ever, has been energetically photographing fish, and has managed pictures of three species which we don’t see often: these have included the striped red mullet, the axillary wrasse, and what might be some kind of cornetfish.

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Striped red mullet
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Axillary wrasse
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Rainbow wrasse
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Young cornetfish?
On the calmest days, we get quite far into Spanish waters, and go to a favourite large bay with a number of sandy beaches. The best of these is fronted by a shallow lagoon, while, between the sand and the rocks behind it, is a smallish area of what I suppose we might call “bents”; rough grasses like marram growing out of the sand, with some thistle-type plants and patches of succulents. Scattered among them, were the lovely white blossoms of Pancratium maritimum or sea daffodil (the Catalan name is lliri de mar). I read that this is native to the Canary Islands, around the Mediterranean, and through to the Black Sea, so it has a truly exotic appeal to folk who lived for decades in the furthest North of Scotland! It is vulnerable, of course, to trampling by folk approaching the beach, and such places are, all-too-often, developed for tourism, so it is quite a privilege to see it blooming well.
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I am fairly certain that it also grows between our own local Etang and the sea, just north of the Fishermen’s Huts we often refer to. On a recent visit there, we headed in this direction for the first time, looking for a second hide which is marked on the large map beside the Information Cabin. We did not find it (turns out it was burnt down some years ago!), but we did see some old leaves and large seed-heads which look to me as if they, too, must be the beautiful sea daffodil.

On this occasion, there were more flamingos on the Etang than we had ever seen before. We wanted the perfect photo of Canigou with its first delicate snows of the autumn, seen between the markedly pink flamingos but, sadly, they refused to co-operate! We did also see one very emphatic crested lark, a handsome male kestrel and, slightly to my surprise, a lone curlew. And from the one remaining hide, we could see biggish, handsome, silver fish, moving in a series of leaps, something which, again, we had not seen here before; we think they were sea bass.

There is nearly always something new!

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From the Garden to the Sea

23/7/2019

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By Robin Noble

If you are permitted to count as "garden birds" those you can see in the sky above the home patch, we are slowly amassing an impressive list of raptors; the latest, observed clearly from the terrace in front of the house, has been a circling griffon vulture, which joins the golden and short-toed eagles, buzzards, sparrow-hawks and kestrels so far observed. Not bad for a suburban garden in the well-populated Vallespir!
 
Like most of the houses here, we have thick hedges and lots of bushes in the said garden; very slowly, over the years, I have observed a few of the creatures (other than birds) we share it with. I have suspected for a few years that among those was at least one hedgehog, and again this year have observed droppings which suggested that somewhere in all the undergrowth lurked one of our prickly friends. Sadly, as is so often the case, it proved me right by venturing out through our gate and being run over by a car…
 
We have fled to the open sea on several occasions in order to avoid the heat which has so suddenly hit us this year. Here, as ever, our observations are not scientifically precise, but we are sure of some general trends. One comment has to be that the Marine Reserve off Banyuls is having a clear and beneficial effect on fish numbers, both in the protected area and elsewhere. It used to be the case that while we saw a number of fish of different species there, there was almost nothing to be seen in some of the other attractive coves beneath the great cliffs, where we anchor and swim regularly. Now, almost everywhere, the friendly saddled bream soon gather beneath our modest craft, and we are seeing more, and bigger fish on the Reserve itself.
 
There are definitely rather more gulls (still modest in number and behaviour compared to the British!), and this year we have seen larger groups of Sandwich terns, some 35 in three parties on one day. They still mystify us, as we never yet have seen them fishing; when DO they feed!?
 
And another bird seems to be doing well this year. Down towards Port Bou, there was always one part of the great black cliffs where swifts nested; there may be fewer of them there this year, but they are using a number of other cliffs this summer, including those under the lighthouse on Cap Béar.
 
There is always something to note and wonder over…

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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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A Winter Wetland

20/2/2019

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By Robin Noble      Photos by Martine Noble
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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.

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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.

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Dabchick (Little grebe)
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Coot
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Shoveler
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Teal
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Greylag
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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!
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*Aiguamolls de l'Empordà
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Winter Wanderings

13/2/2019

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By Robin Noble       Photos by Martine Noble

In some years, we seem not to have had real winter weather until we were into the “official” Spring, but this year, albeit in fits and starts, quite a few days have been convincingly cold and dank. On the plus side, there have been a number of brilliantly sunny days – some of them very windy, which makes them more suitable for touring than longer walks. We have, accordingly, made a few rather pleasant jaunts on days when we have not been working outside in the garden.
 
One of these was to the coast; we spend so much time on, and in, the Mediterranean that it always seems strange to walk along its shores and know that it is totally impossible to swim in it! One day, we went first to Argeles-Plage (where we often launch the boat) and to Racou, quiet in its winter sleep. The profile of the beach has changed quite a lot during the winter; at one end, the wind has driven the sea to remove a significant amount of sand, and at the other, people have created banks of sand as some sort of defence for the chalets and cottages which are so close to the water’s edge. On rocks at the end of the beach, a few gulls and cormorants were resting above the splashing sea.
 
We went northwards through the quiet resorts, as far as the Etang and the Fishermen’s Huts, to which I have often made reference. Here, as so often, it was very windy, but we got out of the van to walk around, and are so glad that we did! Almost immediately, we discovered that there were no fewer than five hoopoes feeding industriously in the sandy grass; they were comparatively tame, and we had amazing views of these wonderful birds – I don’t think I will ever be able to get used to seeing them around, they are so exotic to look at. Things were quiet on our side of the wind-blasted water, but there were cormorants, gulls, great-crested grebes and a few flamingos in the distance. As we arrived, we had had distant views of a marsh harrier flying low in the wind.


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

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Other trips have been up our own valley of Vallespir, dominated by a moderately snowy Canigou. On the first trip, we went over the Col d’Ares, into Spain; down to Camprodon, then up a beautiful side valley which we only discovered during the past autumn. It leads, to all intents and purposes, to Canada; of course, this seems crazy, but the upper valley is dominated by hugely steep and craggy mountains, their rough lower slopes covered by tall conifers, and the result looks just like the Rocky Mountains. There is a skiing area at its head; in the autumn, it was totally deserted, apart from several lively marmots, and there were still gentians blooming on the short grass of the pistes.
 
On this recent visit, which was on a Saturday with blazing sun, we decided that the whole of Spanish Catalonia was out for the day, most with numerous happy (or screaming) children, enjoying a real winter wonderland.

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

26/9/2018

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By Robin Noble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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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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