We’ve left the unsettled weather of Fanjeaux (just as it is due to brighten up, of course) and headed for Marseillan. Actually, we’re staying on the Camping Municipal at the charming little village of Loupian just a few kilometres northeast. Apart from this being one of our favourite haunts in southern France, being an area that supplies wonderful white wines like Picpoul de Pinet and Viognier, we had a specific reason for coming here. We are renewing our acquaintance with some friends.

I thought we were being adventurous buying a holiday home in Spain. What Gwenn and Ian have done leaves me, well, not exactly speechless but certainly feeling like a wimp. Gwenn and Ian have a very pleasant holiday home in the middle of Marseillan. The catch is that they live in Australia. No, not Austria, Australia. A holiday home 12,000 miles away is a commitment to flying for 24 hours in both directions on a regular/frequent basis. All I can say is that they  must be built of stronger stuff than me.

We actually met Gwenn and Ian only last October on their home turf when we were visiting Francine’s brother in Australia, before embarking on our November campervan tour of New Zealand. That’s when we learned of their holiday home in one of our favourite areas and made a loose arrangement to meet them, their visit tying in quite nicely with ours. We began at their house, where the roof terrace gave us good views of whirling Swifts (Apus apus) being harried by a Sparrowhawk (Accipiter nisus).

Lubrication having been started, we finished the evening at an unpretentious seafood shack on the etang called Chez Titin. Here we enjoyed a surfeit of shellfish. Francine and I began by sharing half a dozen of their raw oysters, followed by another little appetizer of a dozen moules gratinées d’Edith, which were excellent and our favourite. We finished ourselves off, completely (!), with a huge steaming pot of brazucade de moules au feu de bois de Phillipe. This last seemed to be a development of the more classic moules marinière but cooked over a wood fire, the juices being collected as they cook, then tarted up, possibly with turmeric and who knows what else, before being added back to the finished mussels. It was interesting to try but I still don’t think you can beat a classic moules marinière.

Somehow we managed to waddle our way back from the restaurant.

Having rain feature in the weather forecast most of the time is depressing enough. It’s even more frustrating when rain does not feature in the forecast but turns up anyway. Such was the case this morning. The campsite had dried just a little but now, after two hours of mostly continuous morning rain, the puddles and mud-wallows were back with a vengeance. All we needed was, to quote Flanders and Swann, a couple of hippopotami.

During our first escape to Gruissan, Francine had seen some paintings featuring rather impressionistic representations of a subject at an area known as La Plage des Chalets in Gruissan Plage, namely the chalets themselves. The chalets are built on stilts and are arranged in a sort of chalets village, with intersecting streets. Frankly, it can look a little seedy but nothing like as seedy as Jaywick Sands near Clacton in the UK. Once you get used to them, these can look like an architectural curiosity. They are a subject that definitely benefits from an impressionist approach rather than a photographically precise representation. The painted art works all had an unrealistic colour tint. Francine fancied a go with her camera, skipping the colour tints, and why not, indeed? We decided to escape the rain again and go for an experiment.

Just as with our first escape, 10kms east of Fanjeaux the rain ceased and the skies had brightened a little, solid dark grey becoming broken lighter grey. After 50kms, passing the Corbières region, the clouds had given way to more or less uninterrupted blue. It’s worth a few tolls and more fuel.

‘T was a Saturday morning and the Gruissan market was in full swing so parking spaces were at more of a premium than on our initial visit. However, following signs to La Plage des Chalets, we were surprised at just how few people were there. We parked and began looking for a suitable line of chalets. What constituted suitable was a bit of a guess but we thought that less tall concrete poles, strung with black cabling, sticking up high and fowling the roof line would be better.

The wind was once again very strong. modest sand dunes collected in seemingly random spots along the walkway, caused by the wind eddying around gaps in the low wall according to some complex fluid mechanics. The wind was providing great fun for collections of wind surfers and kite fliers alike; I don’t recall ever seeing a wind surfer travelling quite so fast. The first items of interest to receive the camera treatment were lines of stakes casting razor-sharp shadows on the fine, dry sand.

We finally found a frontage line of chalets that looked suitable. I spotted the tell-tale waggling up and down of Francine’s camera; we were in for some ICM [Intentional Camera Movement]. The cynical side of me finds this technique odd in that one pays £1000+ for a professional quality lens capable of producing pin-sharp images, then proceeds to create a blurred image with it. Go figure, as the Americans say. There is no doubt, though, that the technique can produce an interesting artistic end result.

Francine’s difficulty was the amount of light. Most DSLRs’ minimum ISO rating is 100. Landscape photographers have been screaming for years at the camera manufacturers to introduce lower ISO ratings to slow things down more, so they can reproduce the sort of exposures that are possible on, say, Fuji Velvia rated at ASA 50 or even Kodachrome rated at ASA 25. Neutral density filters achieve the same effect but … we weren’t carrying the holder. Oops! The slowest exposure Francine could achieve was 1/30th second so the waggling needed to be a bit faster and better coordinated. The digital advantage is that you can see if you are getting anything close to your desired effect before returning home. I think Francine did pretty well.

Do that through a Lee Big Stopper and, as well as slowing down the exposure by 10 stops, you’d get a slight blue colour cast naturally, a bit like some of the original art works that led to the experiment, though softer. The trouble is, you can’t actually see through a Lee Big Stopper – it’s just too dark – to time the shot anything like accurately. The Little Stopper at 6 stops, maybe? This looks good to me, though.

Deluges continue apace, at least in our petit coin [small corner] of France. Yesterday evening was wet, overnight was wet and this morning thrashes were several and frequent. In a bid to escape to better weather and avoid the constant squelching sound of our newly webbed feet as we walk, we arranged to drive over to Gruissan on the Mediterranean coast, a distance of about 90kms, our main plan being to enjoy a plateau de fruits de mer lunch at a particularly good seafood shack that we know. The only reason any arrangement was necessary was that we’d asked our Dutch neighbours if they’d like to come too and they readily agreed. We set off at 10:30, leaving the waterlogged campsite behind.

We didn’t have to go more than about 10kms east along the autoroute before conditions brightened. Patches of blue appeared in the sky and the view ahead held a promise of continued improvement. It was windy but we’d take wind over continuing rain any day. Parking was a doddle and, stepping out of the car, all four of us luxuriated in the now unfamiliar feeling of warm sunshine.

My trusty Tilley hat, used recently mainly as a defence against rain, was at last pressed into service as a defence against a sunburnt scalp. Only briefly, though; the wind was so strong that Tilley went flying off in the wrong direction. “Bother”, said Pooh crossly, once more. There was nothing for it – out came the inelegant but effective chin strap, which I hate using. Now, If only I could find me a six gun, the effect would be complete.

After a brief aperitif wander around the town looking at the market which was now in shutdown mode, we repaired to the restaurant and found that it, at least, provided some shelter from the continuing strong wind. The restaurant faces a salt pan with astoundingly pink water. One day we really must get here at the right time, i.e. in the morning when the angle of the light is best for the colour and with less wind disturbing the surface, to do it justice. This will give you the idea of the effect, though. Naturally, the phrase that springs to mind is “sky blue pink”. See, that mythical colour does exist.

Studying the menu, our friends Hans and Marga fancied a seafood platter, too, so what turned up was a humongous dish laden with seafood for four. A platter order is for a minimum of two and contains a crab, oysters, raw mussels, prawns and whelks, together with the necessary hardware, bread and mayonnaise. We added a bottle of white wine, of course. Maternal remonstrations not to play with ones food are useless faced with a such a feast. We all set about manually attempting to destroy it and very nearly succeeded – very nearly but not quite; a few bulots [whelks] went back with a moule [mussel] or two.

We’ve had three more showers since we returned to the campsite. I’ve always said this site is 50kms too far west.

For the last five years, the area of La (normalement) Belle France around Guillaume’s favourite campsite has been staging a photographic festival. The festival’s form consists of several Chemins de Photos [photograph trails] “en grand format et en plein air” – large format photographs displayed in the countryside. We were camping here five years ago when the first running of the festival got underway. We had been a little bemused when farmer Luc began thumping large wooden stakes into the shallower waters at the edges of the lake beside which his campsite sits. Confusion diminished a little when our friendly sheep farmer subsequently attached boards bearing photographs to the stakes; “curiouis”, we thought but at least we now knew what the stakes were for.  Quite why one would want photographs staked into a lake remained a mystery.Luc and Nadine introduced to us the concept of the Chemins de Photos. Ah ha.

Photos printed on paper in the open air just north of the Pyrenees (18kms north of Mirepoix, to be exact) did not fair too well for festival #1, which was a bold idea on a relatively modest scale. In the intervening time the festival has clearly continued and, happily, advanced considerably. Festival #5 has a free guide book together with a souvenir brochure [€3], both well produced in colour, and a title: Scènes de Vies [Scenes of Lives]. There are now 21 locations in various villages around the area, some with multiple installations. The photographs are now printed on a plastic, or plasticized material, so are at least weather resistant and may last until 30th September when the festival ends. [In the modern vogue, let’s hope that plastic doesn’t end up in our oceans.]

Today we had been invited by Nadine to join an organized tour by bus of some of the installations. Friday and Saturday had been clement, mercifully, and the farm ground had dried to a firmer consistency. Sunday had brought another deluge so the ground was now once again soggy. Today’s forecast was no better. The concept of wandering around open air exhibits on muddy ground in occasional heavy rain may not have been highest on either of our bucket lists but what else were we to do on such a day? Besides, Nadine had generously insisted on paying for us so we gratefully grabbed waterproofs, donned shoes that were washable and set off at 08:45 to join in the fun; given such hospitality it would have been rude not to.

Over coffee and cakes, two token Brits joined 25 hardy French souls at Fanjeaux. Finally we boarded the bus and began. So did the rain. The driver did a magnificent job negotiating the narrow lanes, most often single track, to some of the tiny ancient hilltop villages. At each installation there was a sometimes lengthy introduction about the photographer and their chosen theme. The introductions were, of course, in high speed French that was way above our level of comprehension. One lady volunteered a teenage girl, maybe her daughter, to translate for us. That would have been way too complex so I thanked her and said it was unnecessary – that, at least, was well within my French. We understood some of what was being said but missed the majority of it. No matter, pictures speak a thousand words.

At Belpech, where the rain had relented, there were three installations to wander around before an included 3-course lunch was served. The lunch was preceded by further high speed speeches, both from a festival organizer and from the mayor of Belpech as one of the hosting villages. It was a bit like the Oscars – much thanking and congratulating. These folks certainly could talk. Mouths that were needed for talking were finally freed to eat. I thought our over-worked brains might get some respite now but we were seated with Nadine, who usually moderates her speed in deference to us, and another. Nadine’s speed returned to native normality in the company of her compatriot and we were left mentally scratching our heads once more. The food was good, though – a little too much for us in the middle of the day but good. The river flowing through Belpech had clearly flooded – debris was strewn on the bank – was swift and the colour of mud washed off the surrounding countryside.

This year’s continental European summer continues. The overflowing lavoir at one of our earlier stops may give an idea of just how much rain this country is having to try to absorb. It is failing noticeably.

French lunchtime appetites sated, we re-joined our bus for the afternoon continuation of more villages with more installations viewed in ocasional further dumps of rain. Another lady with some English had befriended us and had volunteered a few explanatory clarifications in English, not so much of the photographs but of some of the village architecture. At least it gave our brains a brief rest and hers seemed to enjoy the exercise.

At 18:00, after nine hours of intense French, we finally returned to Fanjeaux but the tour was not quite over. As is usual, our farm has an installation to be seen around the lake but the farm ground was too muddy to contemplate hosting our bus. So, those who had not yet seen enough collected their cars and swarmed the extra 3kms in convoy to the lakeside. As the foreigner but one knowing the farm intimately, I was amused to be shepherding all the French-registered cars whose drivers were less than familiar with the geography.

The photos are of widely varying subjects and styles so naturally not everything appeals to everyone. Our last lakeside photos are of Emperor Penguins raising chicks in the middle of an Antarctic winter, taken by a German photographer who indulges in photography in extreme conditions. Mid-winter Antarctic penguins most certainly fitted his brief. As a wildlife enthusiast, this series is my personal favourite from this years disparate collections.

Honestly, the day was too long. I well remember touring the remains of no fewer than eight ancient Cambodian temples in one day. It all blurred into one and I felt completely templed out. This was a similar experience though clearly the weather conditions had not helped.

And relax …

To celebrate the 20th anniversary of Carcassonne becoming a UNESCO world heritage site, it has been decorated. In this writer’s opinion, the old walled cité of Carcassonne is already decorative enough not to require further adornment; it already looks more like Camelot than would Camelot. Some folks clearly disagree, though. We popped along to have a look, though choosing to go on a Saturday morning when a market was in full swing was perhaps a questionable decision. With yours truly watching traffic and Francine watching road signs – in an unfamiliar busy city one person can’t do both – we finally found first the cité and then a parking spot unscathed, despite at one point thinking I was in a car park that was actually a two-way street. An oncoming car provided the clue.

OK, so “a work of modern art” [instant ringing of alarm bells] has been bestowed upon Carcassonne by a Swiss-born chappie called Felice Varini. He now lives in Paris. As with Antony Gormley of The Angel of the North fame, we benefit from the artistic mumbo-jumbo explanation that necessarily accompanies any true modern artist, according to which Mr. Varini:

… designs his paintings from a a point of view which reveals a geometric shape built upon the architecture. As soon as we leave the right point of view, as soon as the visitor moves, the shapes split and create a multitude of other perspectives.

Ready?

OK, so what adorns Carcassonne is not actually a painting because paint would not be removable. In this instance the work is made of kilometres of very sticky bright yellow tape, the advantage of sticky tape being that it can be unstuck. The artwork is called Concentric Eccentric Circles and is designed to be seen from Port d’Aude on the west slope of the cité.

Personally, I think the mumbo-jumbo is somewhat arse backwards. Having parked and as we approached, some sections of the the city’s magnificently intact walls appear to be covered is disjoint slabs of bright yellow, some of which hint at their titular circular nature but others of which do not. So, this disjointed nature, those so-called “different perspectives”, are actually the first things that any visitor sees (unless, of course, they were to be blindfolded and walked to the design point of view).

As one approaches the design POV [photographic shorthand], these disjointed blocks of colour do, amazingly, come together into their intended geometric shape, in this case concentric circles.

Think about that for a moment. The towering, convoluted walls of the city, complete with turrets, reaching heights that must top 100ft/30m, taking into account variously curved and angled surfaces, have been accurately taped up in yellow such that, when seen from one point and one point only, those yellow shapes form circles. Firstly, how in the blazes does one work out exactly which sections of the many differently angled walls have to be taped where and, having done so, how does one actually direct and accurately affix the tape where it needs to be? I can only imagine that a precise computer model would  have been made in some Computer Aided Design software.

I must admit that the form of the adornment, whether an artwork or not, is thoroughly amazing. To me, this is more like a complex engineering work than an artwork, though I suppose that the conception would be termed artistic.

Thick, even grey clouds with frequent very wetting rain – not thrashing, just heavy and persistent. This is worse than the storm we arrived in yesterday afternoon ‘cos at least a thunderstorm is somewhat entertaining – once you can get inside Guillaume, that is.

I’ve been carrying out something of a long term lake watch at this Fanjeaux site, which we’ve been visiting for about 12 years. Once I became fascinated by odonata, this site proved to be a goldmine and we notched up 20 species, several of the damselflies being in large numbers.

About 6 years ago, a Koi Carp farmer began using the lake to rear fish intensively. Koi eat anything and everything. The lake also had Grass Carp introduced, which destroyed any floating vegetation and the odonata population plummeted. Several species clung  on in small numbers but I expressed my concern to Luc, the farmer. Mercifully the fish farmer now appears to be history and, after a 3-year gap, I was hoping to see how, if at all, the lake was recovering.

This year the lake is very full after a persistently wet spring. It is, though, a very muddy brown colour with all the run off from the surrounding quagmires that pass for fields. Because of the conditions, Luc is very behind with his crops which he needs to feed and care for his 300 sheep.

Unfortunately, the persistently wet spring seems to be continuing and, unless conditions improve, both Luc and I will have problems with our tasks. Luc’s tasks are much more important, of course. However, in one rain interval today we did find a few damselflies, three species in all, sheltering in the vegetation beside the lake:

• Common Bluetail (Ischnura elegans)
• Small Redeye (Erythromma viridulum)
• Migrant Spreadwing/Southern Emerald Damselfly (Lestes barabrus)

Surprisingly, one of these, the Migrant Spreadwing/Southern Emerald Damselfly (Lestes barabrus) is a new species for this site, making 21 species in all over the years. I doubt that this species count would be seen here in any conditions currently but nature tends to find a way, if left to its own devices.

I can’t recall seeing L. barbarus in the near vicinity so I’m wondering where it might have come in from. I did actually also see a dragonfly, probably a Skimmer, zooming about but it is yet to be identified. A new species may, however, indicate that the lake is being recolonized gradually.

If the weather ever improves, I may get the chance to find out.

Basically, this year the European weather system is screwed up. The normal weather patterns are a tad inverted. England, traditionally unsettled and changeable, has enjoyed what I believe is the warmest May on record. We certainly had three weeks of stunning weather and my mind began comparing it to the blissful summer of standpipes in 1976. We have heard from Francine’s pen friend in Bergen, Norway, that they are suffering a ban on barbecues in their gardens, so dry is it. Bergen is normally wet so frequently that they put brave faces on it with phrases like, “there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”. Our area of Spain, the Costa Blanca, is known as the second driest part of Spain and was good when we were there but not as good as one would normally expect it to be. So what of France?

Yesterday evening we finished our visit to La Brenne with a doozy of a thunderstorm. Fortunately, it was late enough in the day for us to have done everything we wanted and to shelter in good ol’ Guillaume enjoying the light and percussion show outside. Today we moved on to Fanjeaux and our favourite dairy sheep farm. We weren’t actually booked in but we had informed the site owners, now friends, that we would be arriving today for two weeks. An Englishman’s word is his bond, etc. etc., so, we hitched up and set off on our 485km drag south.

Half way down the route and three quarters of the way down our tank of diesel, we called in to an autoroute services to top up. It must just be one of those trips; on our way down from Neufchatel-en-Bray to La Brenne we first chose a services disrupted by external building works, this time we chose one with internal building works in progress. We ”enjoyed” a coffee and baguette to the almost constant staccato accompaniment of a drill.

As we enjoyed our noisy coffee, a French TV news station showed scenes of devastation caused by flooding in the Alsace region. They moved on to more, widespread similar situations. We were informed that there were oranges warnings of orages [storms] in 28 departements. How poetic the French language can be – Oranges Orages. OK, we’d say amber warnings between yellow and red but the message was clear, the meteorological situation over France was serious. A weather map graphic appeared on the TV. Warm air from Africa was moving up from the south and turning west above France. Simultaneously, cold air was sweeping down from the northern Atlantic and turning east over France. In the middle of France, the two air masses, one war and one cold, were colliding. France was caught in a meteorological pincer movement. Net result: deluges. The 28 departements affected cut a swathe down the centre of France from north to south finishing at the Mediterranean, yes, just where we were heading, in the Languedoc.

Our journey was actually quite pleasant; not sunny, exactly, but dry. We did pass through a few brighter areas and also put up with a spit of rain or two but nothing untoward. Finally we arrived at Toulouse and made our turn east towards the Med. Toulouse was actually quite bright. We began the final 70kms to our destination. After 35kms or so bright gave way to gloom and a black, threatening mass darkened the horizon ahead and just a little to our right. Ahead and just a little to our right was exactly where Fanjeaux lay. Brilliant.

We took our autoroute exit with just 10kms to go and turned south directly towards the black mass. Fanjeaux is a hilltop village that was just ahead of us. Mordor would have looked positively Elysian by comparison. A few gouts of rain hit the windscreen. That was a few seconds before the heavens opened and we were towing Guillaume through a cloudburst. Still, Guillaume could do with a good rinse. We knew the hill top church at Fanjeaux was ahead of us, we’d been able to se it originally, but it had become obscured by darkness. The twisting road up the hillside towards Fanjeaux was more like a river. Trucks descending the road threw modest bow waves into our path. At the hill top we turned towards our destination farm and campsite.  Thunder cracked whilst lightning tried but failed to brighten the sky. The 1km single track road approaching the farm was crossed by unmapped streams washing soil off the surrounding fields. There’s a deep dip in the road before the final ascent to the farm which somehow remained clear. The mapped stream draining the gulley, normally a trickle, was now a torrent, though. We’ve seen some wet in France but never anything on this scale.

I haven’t looked at the Jet Stream flow recently but I did when we were in Spain. It certainly sweeping much further south than usual. We did, after all, spend 41 hours aboard our return ferry in the wake of Storm Felix because of it. Doubtless, it is still the culprit. Had we not been “booked in”, we’d probably have done something else; possibly even, stay put for a while and see if the situation improved before heading south.

In continuing rain accompanied by occasional peels of thunder, we pitched Guillaume. These conditions were a new experience for us. Somehow I got him levelled using our ramp and fought my way through  bushes and overhanging dripping trees to the electricity supply to get him hooked up. It didn’t matter, I was already soaked through. Once I stepped out of the car I was wet so a waterproof became pointless. An old boy scout trick surfaced in my mind and I stripped off my shirt. Bodies dry better than do clothes. Francine, smart enough to put on her waterproof immediately she stepped out of the car,  gamely did her bit fetching water.

One journey of our tow car around our pitch left water-filled ruts in the soft, saturated soil. The weather forecast shows a largely disturbed two weeks, the duration of our stay, thoug hthe coming weekend holds the promise of something brighter. Fingers crossed.

We could be in for an interesting time.

We have embarked upon a few orchid hunts following various publications and they have been, what shall I say … a little disappointing? The Indre departement seems to have an enviable reputation for orchids and Francine even has a book on them. Perhaps it’s a poor year for orchids. Alternatively, our timing hasn’t been great.

First, there was our orchid field south of Rosnay which was admittedly very pleasant but which yielded only two species, Tongue Orchids (Serapias lingua) and Lesser Butterfly Orchids (Platanthera bifolia), though both were in large numbers.

Second, we drove to a village where there was reportedly an orchid walk but we could find nowhere to abandon ship with any degree of safety or confidence, so ended up just going shopping instead.

Today, we tried again and followed instructions to a stretch of road near Saulnay, published as an orchid hotspot, where we did manage to park and began scouring the verges. At first, orchids were not jumping out at us but we did begin finding individual plants along both sides of the road. They almost all appeared to be examples of the same single species but Francine also found a pair of Common Twayblades (Listera ovata). [Here’s a macro shot showing the tiny little flowers.] I don’t think either of us would’ve considered this a hotspot. Nonetheless, conditions were pleasant and we sauntered while Francine snapped away happily.

On our way there, we’d passed a spot with a track leading off, a spot that I recognised as having been described to me as an orchid area by a contact back at home. It looked just like it did on Google Earth. Having scoured our verges, we returned to it, parked and began exploring the track. We started well with a Lizard Orchid (Himantoglossum hircinum) beside our parking spot, although there was an irritating barbed wire fence behind it marring the background.

Then we set off down the track. We saw nothing apart from a couple of Southern Emerald Damselflies (Lestes barbarus) which I was happy to snap.

Our track joined another at a T-junction. Francine took one arm and I, the other. We continued to find nothing. Francine joined me and eventually we came across an opening into a field which Francine entered and I heard her tell-tale “ah ha”. She’d found some more Lesser Butterfly Orchids.

There were other pink-purple orchids which, along with those on our first roadside stop, Francine thinks/wonders/hopes might be the endemic Brenne Orchid (Dactylorhiza brennensis), though for identification purposes she is trying to work from a French description that she’s having to translate. They are known to hybridize so a definitive species name may prove to be elusive and we may end up having to settle for just Dactylorhiza sp. Back at home base, an English description will hopefully prove more helpful. If it is the Brenne Orchid, Francine will be very happy. 😉

After lunch we made a short bike ride, 5kms or so, to La Maison du Parc, which has a decent dragonfly pond at its rear. Just for the record, to be added to my map later, this is what we found there.

• Southern Emerald (Lestes barbarus)
• Dainty Damselfly (Coenagrion scitulum)
• Blue Emperor (Anax imperator)
• Broad-bodied Chaser (Libellula depressa)
• White-tailed Skimmer (Orthetrum albistylum)
• Broad Scarlet (Crocothemis erythraea)

We made our return cycle ride in the dry but as we were having a reviving shower, the heavens opened and the sky lit up with the occasional lightning flash. It’s OK in the late afternoon/evening, though, especially if the BBQ is out of commission anyway.

We are already on holiday but Francine had set this morning’s alarm for 05:45. To find out why, we must rewind 24 hours.

Yesterday morning, Francine had awoken at about 06:00 to peer out of Guillaume’s window and find a misty morning over the campsite lake. This was like a red rag to a bull. Forsaking her beloved first cup of tea, she donned clothes and prepared to grab her camera.

With mist on offer, I wondered if I might get the chance of a picture I have long wanted to try, a dew-covered dragonfly or damselfly still roosting. I joined the early morning madness and threw on some clothes, too. We were in business at 06:15.

Francine set about her misty sunrise lake picture while I went looking for roosting damselflies. I like it and the ducks seem to like it, too.

With her lake-scape in the bag, Francine came to join me on the roosting odonata hunt. We’d seen a particular corner of the lake where there was a lot of activity the previous evening so this is where we concentrated our search. They were tricky little devils to find but shortly we began to get our eyes in and started finding some. Sure enough, the little beauties, all White-legged Damselflies (Platycnemis pennipes) were covered in dew as I’d hoped they would be.

Getting the right line-up on the right suspect was tricky. I tried against the light thinking that might make the dew drops glisten more, then with the light to get some surface detail. On balance, I think with the light seemed better. The most important aspect, as is normally the case, was background – the clearer the better. Classic portrait stuff, really. That wasn’t easy with subjects generally keeping low down for shelter in a mass of tall grass stems. Here’s a couple of what I think are worthy shots, though they show how important the background is when compared to this one, with which I am particularly happy.

We returned to Guillaume for a cup of well earned coffee, both happy with our efforts.

So, today Francine had set her painfully early alarm hoping to get us out a little earlier for a repeat misty performance. Off went the alarm. Francine scrambled to the window and peered out. No mist. I went to have a look at my damselflies anyway but they were all perfectly dry, not a glistening drop in sight. We made tea instead.

It’s all about time and place. You need the right atmospheric conditions to occur in a suitable location that you’re on top of and you need to know the intricacies of the location. All our ducks haven’t been lined up before but here, we struck lucky.