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.

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.