For a bit of variety, we began by visiting our third high altitude Auvergne lake in three days, this one Lac Montcineyre at an altitude approaching 1200m/3900ft. If nothing else we’d be on more roads showing us more of the scenery in the area.

We got to a suitable parking area just off the road at the end of a track leaving us a 1km walk up to the lake itself. Frankly, the walk up the track proved to be more interesting than the lake itself; or, at least, at first it did. On our way up we saw another female Scarce Emerald/Robust Spreadwing (Lestes dryas), which was proving to be anything but scarce in these parts. [It’s a female, BTW.] A handsome Silver-washed Fritillary butterfly kept us entertained for a while, too. Once we got to the lake itself, we scoured the accessible edge of the lake without much of great interest.

A bunch of French walkers arrived and peered at us muttering, wondering what we were scrutinizing the lakeside vegetation for, “Libelules”, we replied, jauntily. “Ah …” – further muttering

Interest picked up as we were preparing to leave. Beside some trees and above a patch of stinging nettles, a cluster of emerald dragonflies was coursing back and forth hunting. Dragonflies don’t actually swarm, as such, but they will gather together at a good food source. Here, there must’ve been in excess of 20 individuals. We’d seen a few on the way in but given the background of a confusion of branches together with the fact that these guys don’t settle very much, we’d left them to their feeding. Now, we did pause to watch and admire their aerial display. It’s difficult in flight with a fast moving critter but we thought we could see yellow markings on them so guessed these were more Yellow-spotted Emeralds (Somatochlora flavomaculata).

Then one settled in the nettle patch a few feet from us. A shadow was cast across part of the abdomen but I was happy to get any settled shot. To my amazement, more individuals followed suit and began settling also in the nettles and not just briefly, sometimes for a minute or two at a time. We both clicked away furiously getting shots without irritating shadows as individual continued to land. You just can’t have too many shots of settled Yellow-spotted Emeralds. 🙂

These dragonflies didn’t appear to be eating when they settled. It’s possible they were pausing to rest but given their habitual tireless flight, I doubted that. I have heard of a sort of time-sharing that goes on with at least one species in the UK, given several individuals in one patch; one or two will patrol for food then appear to make way for others. Given the concentration of individuals here, I wonder if something similar was going on.

Once we tore ourselves away from the Emeralds, another addition to our butterfly catalogue presented itself as we approached the car; a Purple-edged Copper (Lycaena hippothoe) was feeding in one the very rich flower meadows that abound here in spring. June is definitely the time to visit the Auvergne.

I couldn’t resist one last try at Lac (de l’)Estivadoux on the way back to Guillaume, just to see if I could find an Irish Damselfly/Crescent Bluet (Coenagrion lunulatum) but, despite wading in the lake for a third time, the only different life forms I found consisted of a gang of school kids in the company of a couple of teachers armed with a net. Fearing for our sanity, we stayed at the opposite end of the lake.

That concluded what I considered to be a very successful visit to the Auvergne, albeit without my primary quarry, in astonishingly good weather. Tomorrow we begin our journey back north and home.

Our second day high in a brilliantly sunny Auvergne and what a glorious region it is in such weather. There are a staggering amount of walking routes all around us with breath-taking scenery to be enjoyed.

Yesterday we spent a lot of time combing Lac (de l’)Estivadoux for the Irish Damselfly/Crescent Bluet (Coenagrion lunulatum). We didn’t find it but we did get a tantalizing glimpse of what I now believe was a Yellow-winged Darter (Sympetrum flaveolum). More precisely, Francine got a glimpse of it but I did not. I couldn’t waste weather like this in such far flung habitat; had to go back for more.

Returning to Estivadoux, I put my trusty Salomon Techamphibians on again and we began combing the shallow vegetation-rich lake. Now I had two quarries, the Crescent Bluet and the Yellow-winged Darter. I continued not to see any Crescent Bluets but I did briefly happen across a Yellow-winged Darter – just briefly enough to snag a mostly in focus shot. However, Francine discovered a sheltered dip in the ground beside the lake that appeared to be attractive to them and we managed some much improved shots. This species was just emerging and all the examples we found were immature. This is an immature male whose abdomen will eventually turn red. The wings do show the extensive yellow patches characteristic of the species, though.

I still didn’t find my primary quarry but another interesting character, a Yellow-spotted Emerald (Somatochlora flavomaculata), did put in an appearance as we were leaving, hunting over the access path. It flew tirelessly, as is their wont, but Francine managed to snag it.

Where we left to was another high altitude lake [1168m/3800ft], Lac de Bourdouze.

This place turned out to be Emerald City. As we approached, we saw more examples of the Yellow-spotted Emerald that we had just encountered at Estivadoux. When we were actually at a suitable observation point beside the lake, though, there was a brilliant metallic green flash as an appropriately named Brilliant Emerald (Somatochlora metallica) zoomed past. This was one of those critters that I’d observed before but not managed to photograph. The main problem is that they fly almost continuously, rarely settling. This beast was being reasonably predictable, flying a couple of paths, not exactly predictably but at least relatively frequently. We both took up station and clicked away, soon abandoning autofocus [too slow] and switching to manual. “Everything looks sharp on the back of a camera”, sprang to mind. The trouble is, it’s a small thumbnail. Best not to get too excited. We both thought we’d got something reasonable, though. Once back at home base and with processing available, indeed we had. One of my two bogey dragonfly snagged. [Since you ask, I still need the Northern Emerald (Somatochlora arctica).]

After a while, I saw an Emerald settle in a tree beside us – dreadful lighting, though. It took off again and began flying. I kept trying more in-flight shots. This one turned out to be a third Emerald species, a Downy Emerald (Cordulia aenea) which we do have at home. It was nice to snag one in France, though.

So, one more lake but with three different Emerald species and a bogey laid to rest. A pretty good day, really.

Since we ill-advisedly partitioned Northern Ireland a few hundred years ago to create a false protestant majority, Ireland has been a problem for us. You’d think we’d learn but no, we continue to grab land and partition countries causing yet more problems. What use history if we fail to learn from past mistakes?

I have an Irish problem of my own. Of the 45 breeding species listed for the UK, there is one Damselfly that I am yet to see. There is a clue in the name of this beast as to the reason that I haven’t yet seen it: it’s the so-called Irish Damselfly (Coenagrion lunulatum). Yes, in the British Isles C. lunulatum occurs only in Ireland and wild horses wouldn’t drag me to Ireland. Fortunately the critter is also available to be seen in other parts of Europe where the alternative, non-UK-centric name of Crescent Bluet is decidedly more appropriate. There are a few scattered populations in France, including in the Auvergne, which is where we now find ourselves. I wonder why?

One of my fellow odo-nutters informed me of a specific location where my quarry might be found. Somewhat confusingly, the name of said location seems to be documented inconsistently varying from a simple Lac Estivadoux, through Lac d’Estivadoux to Lac de l’Estivadoux. In any event, the key piece of information is the Estivadoux bit and here we are camped but a few kilometres from it. I pointed to the lake on our Michelin map and, guided by my primary navgatrix, we set off to find it.

We failed but not by any fault on the part of primary navigatrix. We had definitely found the correct road, which began more like a cart track, passed through some open countryside on proper tarmac followed by a wooded area, then ended up at a crossroads, a right turn from which soon had us looking over the bigger, more touristy water body of Lac Pavin. We were in the right location; we’d passed Lac (de l’)Estivadoux but not seen anything resembling a lake, just fields. Ignoring the tourist trap of Lac Pavin, we returned to the crossroads where we now spotted a helpful walkers signpost pointed back up our original road saying Lac (de l’)Estivadoux 0.7km. We backtracked, slowly.

From this direction, the south, we could see behind the trees into the fields as we approached the wooded area. My eyes were on the road looking for oncoming traffic but primary navigatrix suddenly said, “there it is!” [gesticulates outside left window]. It still didn’t look like a lake; what it looked like was a very flat field, so vegetated was it. Having parked in the woods and wandered a short distance, a picture may help you to see the problem, though from this end you can see a little water which is not visible from the road. At least we’d found it. Now to the searching.

The first critters I found on the walk from the car to the field lake was another rarity that I’d made a special trip to Norfolk to find, the so-called Scarce Emerald, the better non-UK-centric name being Robust Spreadwing (Lestes dryas). The place was absolutely inundated with them so that was a thrill already.

We started combing the vegetation for blue-striped pyjama jobs – Bluets. I soon found out that there was a mixture of Common Blue Damselflies (Enallagma cyathigerum)  and Azure Damselflies (Coenagrion puella). Drat, that’s make the searching hard work ‘cos you have to study everything minutely. Then I spotted what I thought was my much sought after Irish Damselfly/Crescent Bluet. I snapped excitedly, hardly controlling my breath. I was sure I had it. I hadn’t. Unbeknownst to me, this lake also held a population of the very similar Northern Damselfly/Spearhead Bluet (Coenagrion hastulatum), which had been one of my quarries on last season’s trip braving the vagaries of Scottish weather. [OK, I can just about do Scotland but Ireland is a step too far.] “Bother”, said Pooh, crossly. Well, don’t get me wrong; I was delighted to see these critters again but I was still missing the Irish irritation.

A few years ago I had invested in a pair of wonderfully useful shoes – not particularly useful for Joe Normal but very useful for an odo-nutter. These shoes are Salomon Techamphibians. They were, I seem to remember being told, originally designed for river guides. They are made entirely of materials impervious to water, including Kevlar cable fasteners. Absolutely nothing on them absorbs water and their grip on wet rocks is quite exceptional. In an uncharacteristic attack of farsightedness, I had packed them and was now wearing them. [Frankly, they’re less useful in the UK where water temperatures are generally lower – not this year, perhaps – but are brilliant for odo-hunting in the south of France.] I began wading into Lac (de l’)Estivadoux, which proved to be about 30cms deep at most. I tried to study every blue-striped pyjama job that would settle long enough to permit study. I didn’t find anything buzzing with an Irish accent.

As I was wading failing to find anything Irish, primary navigatrix Francine spotted and snagged a Darter. I waded out of the lake but it had scarpered and we couldn’t find it again. Back at home base, I studied the Darter, which was snagged almost full frontal – not the best angle for identification. She’d done well getting it at all, though. I was perplexed; it didn’t look like anything I was familiar with. It wasn’t. Eventually, the heavy black along the lower side of the abdomen gave me the clue and the sizeable yellow area on the wings confirmed it: this was a brand new one for our catalogue, a Yellow-winged Darter (Sympetrum flaveolum). Joy! Well, joy except that we’d have to return to try and get better shots of it.

Ireland aside, what and incredible piece of habitat Lac (de l’)Estivadoux is. Here is a high mountain lake, a lake that to the casual eye looks more more like a field, sitting at an altitude of 1250m/4100ft. It is home to at least three specialist species that we did see, including one difficult-to-find Darter that I was thrilled to add to our catalogue, as well as the one we didn’t find, the accursed Irish Damselfly. I like it better as the Crescent Bluet, despite disliking the term bluet.

I removed my Salomon Techamphibians and dried my feet as well as I could – clearly my forward planning wasn’t perfect. We have another two days. 😉

There are many wonderful lines in the film Zulu but one of them in particular sprang to mind today as we headed away from the Languedoc and up to the Auvergne. In Zulu, as the British forces are preparing their defences at Rorke’s Drift, a strange noise is heard in the distance causing Gonville Bromhead, played by the wonderful Michael Caine, to remark, “Damn funny, like a train, in the distance”. The noise was, of course, the sound of about 4,000 Zulu warriors approaching intent on wiping out the defenders.

We had driven north from Loupian, largely on autoroute, and then began tacking across country to Murol about 40kms southwest of Clermont Ferrand [or Clement Freud, as we prefer to know it]. All was going smoothly until we came across some French road works. Well, at least they maintain their roads which is more than I can say for us, these days. A contraflow system was in operation as the road crew covered some nice, fresh, sticky tar with lorry loads of new gravillons [gravel]. We waited as the opposing traffic cleared whereupon it was our turn. We were last in the queue with Guillaume looking reasonably pristine after nearly four weeks on tour.

Eventually it was our turn and our line of traffic began making its way slowly over the freshly completely lane that was opened to us. A cacophony began and, in the towing mirrors, I could see poor ol’ Guillaume being peppered with gravel reaching half way up to the level of his front windows. I was being very cautious and doing only about 20mph/30kmh. Soon we were alone as the leading vehicles had all left us in their wake.

The new road surface went on for what felt like 5kms, though I didn’t measure it. Finally, mercifully, we left the freshly gravelled surface behind and were again driving on a seasoned tarmac surface. It is always an unsettling feeling when ones car makes odd noises whilst driving. Ours now sounded very different. I didn’t actually think I could hear the normal note of the engine or, indeed, the engine at all. I wasn’t losing power and things appeared to be working correctly but there was a drumming noise smothering everything, like a train. I was naturally apprehensive, as was Francine. This strange drumming noise continued for several more kilometres, through a village or two, before it seemed to begin to moderate. Or was that wishful thinking on my part? No, I believed I was now beginning to hear the note of the engine again.

Another kilometre or so and normal service appeared to have resumed. I can only assume that our tyres had been so coated in sticky gravel and that we had been running on stones rather than on Pirelli rubber.

With a little relief, after a few more kilometres, we made it to our campsite in Groire and checked in. Having got Guillaume installed I had as much of a squint as I could beneath the car and could see nothing untoward. Guillaume’s front panels were a different story; they were now spattered in tar and every flat surface and cranny had collected a goodly array of gravillons. I needed to learn that the French for tar is goudron in order to buy some solvent.

Our pitch had an electric hook-up, a branchement, but it was a paltry 5 amps, which brought to mind another film, Apollo 13.

“How much is that?” 

“Oh, barely enough to run this coffee pot …”.

Time to renew our acquaintance with Mèze and its picturesque harbour. Fortunately we chose to cycle down the voie verte and give our hard-working tow car a rest. Mission accomplished, we returned to our Loupian campsite.

As we cycled back in our delightful French neighbours across from Guillaume’s pitch came over to us excitedly. A Cicada was emerging on the side of the awning of their caravan. Eleven years ago and this very area, we had been fortunate enough to witness and capture this spectacular process on film (ISO 50 Fuji Velvia). I would dearly love the chance to document it again on my modern digital equipment but this one was not photogenically placed and was half way through its emergence. Nonetheless, I snagged a record shot. Well, having been invited over it would’ve been rude not to.

Here’s where the “fortunately” in relation to our early cycle ride comes in. As we sat with lunch, Francine spotted a second Cicada, having just left its exuvia (the nymph case left behind), clinging to the front wheel of our car. I certainly would not have wanted to drive off inadvertently and squish the poor thing. How ignominious would that have been – years developing underground only to be flattened by a Pirelli P Zero after just a few minutes of adult life?

Our guest being too far advanced when Francine spotted it, I couldn’t capture the whole sequence but I did have to assume the position to snag the tail end of the event. The adult Cicadas can take an hour or two to harden off before being able to fly. The insects darken as they mature. We wouldn’t be driving anywhere until the poor beast had flown to relative safety.

As it turns out, we didn’t drive at all, electing to return to Mèze in the later afternoon. The Bassin de Thau upon which Mèze sits has a sizeable oyster breading industry, accounting for 7% of the French production. We were interested in a 55-minute cruise in a catamaran, the Mansathau, around the oyster frames out in the étang, the so-called Parcs à Huitres. [The names Bassin de Thau and Étang de Thau appear to be interchangeable. Either way, Thau is pronounced “toe”.] A sunny ride on a catamaran lasting almost an hour had to be worth the €12 each. We had a different view of Mèze harbour as we set off.

Our host and captain was from one of the oyster farming families centred around Bouzigues. He gave us an introduction both in French and English, thinking that his strong southern French accent might prove to be “une catastrophe”, before handing over to an informative video on the oyster breeding process. In the étang off the shore of Bouzigues, are dozens of metal frames called tables. From these, the oysters are hung/strung. Very young oysters are put into netted sacks to grow. When big enough, these are transferred to cords, to which they are affixed with cement, the same stuff used to build houses but for this it is mixed with salt water. The process of affixing the oysters to their cords looked manually intensive. On a long grooved support table, pairs of oysters are placed two by two. The all important cord is then strung along the top of these pairs of oysters before a dob of cement is added followed by a third oyster on top. the three are now cemented together. These cords are then strung from the metal tables out in the étang. The farmers raise the oysters out of the water for six hours at a time to starve them and encourage them to feed more when they are lowered back in. I think this basically replaces the natural action of tides elsewhere, the Mediterranean being a little lacking on tide action, and speeds up the growing process.

We had to sample some more, including sharing some unpronounceable expensive jobs at €3 a pop. They were delicious.