Striking used to be called an English disease. In fact, it is much more of a maladie francaise, certainly these days. If it isn’t farmers blocking streets and burning foreign lamb imports, French truckers blocking autoroutes or French air traffic controllers refusing to control air traffic through their airspace, it’s French ferry workers throwing a strop and blockading ports. The latter had been going on for a week or so as we approached northern France for our return ferry today. Sometimes you seem to be better off not knowing that trouble is looming; at least that way you get on with enjoying yourself in blissful ignorance rather than fretting about it constantly. We knew about it.

It seems that the old Sea France ferry operation had somehow become part of Eurotunnel but that Eurotunnel had recently decided to sell off the ferry business, now called “My Ferry Link”, to DFDS. Horror of horrors, this sell off was done without consultation with the workers. Definitely time for une autre grève [another strike]. Roads were being blockaded, occasionally with tyres set alight, queues were being caused that illegal immigrant bastards were trying to capitalize on – all totally rational French stuff. As we approached Normandy yesterday for our last night, I had decided to try calling someone to find out what the form might be.

My first choice was the Caravan Club’s foreign travel service. It was Saturday; they only work on weekdays. Great!

My second choice was an out-of-office-hours P&O number, the company we were attempting to travel with. Eventually, I got through to a very helpful lady. I had suspected that the main action would be based on the motorway spur that connects the autoroute directly to the port of Calais. We thought we knew that trucks were stacking up in the UK trying to get to France and that the same would be happening in France with trucks trying to get to England. What we had no idea about was if anything was moving between Dover and Calais. My helpful lady told me that so far, all P&O services were operating to schedule, it was just DFDS/MyFerrryLink ships that were being stopped. She also suggested that we should approach Calais through the town because the actions were centred on the autoroutes. OK, maybe I’m rational after all. I felt better for having heard this but was still a little uncomfortable. we’d heard all sorts of stories about illegal immigrants doing unspeakable things to travellers in the middle of Calais. Nonetheless, the centre of Calais seemed the best plan.

That was just before the last toll both before Chartres where Francine paid the toll, went to wind up the window and “BANG!”, a report rather like a rifle shot. She nearly jumped through the sunroof. Her passenger window was, shall we say, buggered and stuck half open. The skies were darkening, too. Bother!

We made it to Normandy without further trouble and I managed to raise the window and wedge it closed – it fell down again if left unattended – with a disassembled wooden clothes peg. What worried me, of course, was the lack of security offered by an unsecured window in the centre of Calais.

We left early and hit the road for Calais, pegged window and all. We dived off the autoroute and entered the town guided by Sally Satnav. Our doors were locked but there’s was still that window. As it happened, we saw no sign of any low-life at all. The town route tips you out onto a roundabout immediately outside the perimeter of the ferry terminal. I thought I might see other returning holiday makers taking our route but no. Neither did we see any traffic spilling down the autoroute spur into the port. We did see a very long, slow line of traffic trying to get out of the port up onto the spur. There was no tailback of queuing traffic at passport control and no tailback of traffic at P&O check-in. We got on a boat an hour earlier than the one we’d booked. It all felt a little eerie.

Where there was a long tailback was at the newly modified Dartford Crossing back in good ol’ Blighty. I had paid my outbound and inbound DartCharges online before we left – at least, I hope I had. In an attempt to speed traffic through this major jaM25 bottleneck, the toll booths have been ripped out, number plate recognition cameras installed and pre/post-payment mechanisms put into place. How much this cost, I dread to think. I also hear that foreign traffic now tends not to bother to pay and that we can’t recoup the missing dosh, at least, not cost-effectively. Not only that but in my very limited experience of one mid-afternoon return trip from south to north of the Thames, it ain’t any bloody quicker.

Why? OK, here’s my theory. The back-up, at least going south-north, is not caused by the actual paying of the toll but by the funnelling of the lanes down into the two old carriageways of the Dartford Tunnel. The toll booths weren’t much of an issue at high traffic density because you simply paid whilst still waiting to get into the tunnels. It’s probably slightly quicker when the traffic is low but that wasn’t the problem that needed fixing, high traffic was. It was quick when we crossed the QEII Bridge going north-south 6 weeks ago but that was early on a Sunday morning – that was always quick even paying a toll. T’riffic!

We’re back. The passenger window is still wedged with a clothes peg.

Yes, despite towing a caravan, today we hit a ton – a ton on the barking mad Fahrenheit scale, anyway. We drove up from our over-priced but partly shaded campsite just above Limoges and checked into another supposedly partly shaded campsite in La Sologne, at a town called Salbris to be precise. The temperature had been climbing steadily as we drove north. After installing Guillaume, when we popped out to a local supermarket largely to get some air-conditioned respite, the temperature was recording 38°C/100°F. Regrettably, very little of the partial shade actually fell on our pitch; our part of the partly shaded was limited to that thrown by a relatively young, skinny tree. Nonetheless, we were thankful for what we could get and augmented it with Guillaume’s travelling sunshade. Guillaume, as you can see, was in full sun. Being inside Guillaume was distinctly unpleasant [I’ve never, ever said that before, he’s lovely]. Guillaume had become not a caravan but a caroven. 😉

There were a few Odos flitting about the lake that you can see in the picture – La Sologne is peppered with little lakes – and we did have a brief saunter around to check them out later in the afternoon but the temperature remained uncomfortably high, movement was too much of an effort and carrying any heavy camera/lens combos was utterly out of the question.

This is an example of where campsite descriptions fall down a little, for fussy travellers like us, that is. Since one man’s meat is another man’s poison, the book entries for sites are kept objective rather than subjective, which I entirely understand. Thus, this site’s description would include such information as “lakeside pitches”, “partly shaded”, “friendly welcome” (which came eventually, though our arriving at 12:10 PM shortly after madame’s lunch had commenced didn’t smooth the waters), and so on. The truth is, though, that whilst this was an adequate site for a one night stop, it was not a place we’d want to linger. It would, of course, have been a bit more comfortable an adequate site at a lower temperature.

The local church clock in Salbris provided us with some much needed amusement. We kept hearing a single “bong” for the half hour but hadn’t actually noticed any hour striking to know what it was half past of. Sure enough, the hourly chiming mechanism seemed to be broken. BONG! “It’s half past something again, dear”.

With no letting up of the French canicular oven, I tried tipping water all over my head and shirt in an effort to cool down, to the great amusement of our Dutch neighbours who were blond, as brown as berries [that expression has always amused me since I don’t ever recall seeing a brown berry] and equipped with a shop-blind awning for their own shade. Their caravan was still in the blazing sun and would still have been transformed into a caroven, though.

How we slept I will never know. Still, at least there wasn’t a Spanish fiesta in full swing, just Guillaume’s desk fan at take-off speed.

So, to the reason for our 2-night stay at an overpriced campsite just north of Limoges. Today we were setting off to visit La Tourbière des Dauges in search of dragonflies. I’d learned of its potential some years ago from an internet acquaintance also keen on Odos. Wanting to break our journey north into easier chunks and with blistering weather in the offing, this seemed like a golden opportunity to give it a whirl. A few years ago we visited another tourbières [peat digging], Les Tourbières de Vendoire, and, as well as having a very reasonably priced campsite literally right on its doorstep, it produced 22 species of Odos in a day. My expectations were set.

I knew roughly where this place was but we were assisted by road signs beginning very close to our not-reasonably-priced and not-on-the-doorstep campsite this time. After some earlier morning shopping we began following said signs and arrived in the tiny village of Sauvagnac at the reserve’s entrance. A helpful lady in the maison de la résèrve pointed us to a short (1km) and long (5kms) walk that would get us to a few dragonfly spots. We began with the short one. the first suspect we spotted turned out to be quite a find. Our helpful lady had muttered something about arctica as part of her introduction. Looking at our new suspect I thought we had a Downy Emerald (cordulia aenaea) but after consulting the book, this would be one of the lady’s arcticas, a Northern Emerald (Somatachlora arctica). If only the blasted celebrity would have paused for a photograph. At teh bottom of the track we found several more Northern Emeralds, accompanied by Keeled Skimmers (Orthetrum coerulescens) and a Small Red Damselfly (Ceriagrion tenellum) in typical flush habitat. We returned and were surprised to see not only a Common Goldenring (Cordulegaster boltonii) but also a cooperative Common Goldenring that was in the mood for photography, posing on a trackside bush. These spectacularly marked creatures have to be one of my favourites and seeing them is always a thrill, especially as they do not live where I do. Highlight!

Lunch break: a French chap showed me two dreadfully blurred and indistinct phone camera shots of a dragonfly that had chosen to sit on his car. Identification being completely impossible, I banged off a couple of possibilities but, honestly, this was a crap shoot, in both senses. Nice man, though, and one with style – he was peeling cooked potatoes as part of assembling a comprehensive salad for lunch. Bravo!

After lunch we hit the longer 5kms track hoping to see considerably more. We saw more Keeled Skimmers and more Northern Emeralds. Disappointingly, additional species amounted only to Beautiful Demoiselles (Calopteryx virgo) and Large Red Damselflies (Pyrrhosoma nymphula). Part of the track took us through potentially ankle-deep peat bog with fences and gates that were designed to keep us on the track, not straying into possibly dangerous ground either side that we could have sunk into. There is a peat bog reserve in England where White-faced Darters (Leuchorrhinia dubia) live that is accessible only in the company of a guide to guard against this very danger.

Six species over a 6kms walk seemed like a pretty meagre haul. Strewth, I’d seen six species on a single modest pond in the decorative garden at Limoux! This was really a quite pleasant 5kms walk in wooded countryside with the occasional small dragonfly habitat en route, rather than a dragonfly habitat that you walk around. I was quite disappointed despite getting my first glimpse of a brand new species.

A greater insect haul was found on our way out. Francine stopped for a call of nature along the track and was mortified to discover seven ticks that had taken up residence on various parts of her body. One more tick than dragonfly species. Yikes! Francine had left her walking shoes in Spain and had been wearing open-toed Keens. We can only assume that the little tick bastards had got onto her feet and worked their way up before imbedding themselves in her softer, warmer parts. She’s getting quite adept at removing the little beggars. We’ll be keeping a close eye on the sites that they chose to imbed in.

Just after Francine’s tick discovery, I did see what I believe was the site’s seventh species of the day, a Black-tailed Skimmer () but it was a little distant to be entirely sure without studying the long shot photo.

So, I’ve ticked off Les Tourbières des Dauges and Francine is completely ticked off with Les Tourbières des Dauges. I’m glad I’ve seen it but neither of us will be keen to rush back.

On the other hand, I would return to Les Tourbières de Vendoire in a heartbeat; its completely different and much more Odo-nutter friendly when it comes to access.

[I know, posted out of sequence again.]

The French have a lovely word for heatwave: canicule. It’s not just the Brits with an obsession about the weather, the French are banging on about a canicule now. Parts of France were forecast to hit 40°C yesterday which is a tad too much even for a heat-seeking tourist such as Franco. Fanjeaux was reportedly up at 37°C the day before we returned but yesterday we were at a hot but relatively comfortable 33°C. Today, we were setting out on the first stage of our journey back north to the area that had been baking in a slow meteorological oven at 40°C. A departure committee of four of the regular camping couples de Fanjeaux hugged and waved us off.

The main feature of yesterday’s 33°C was the strong, hot wind that accompanied it. Clearly, we were in a fan oven. This morning was no exception; the wind continued. Towing a caravan in a strong wind can be unpleasant at best but fortunately the wind was blowing from the east, helping us on to our first obstacle of Toulouse, about 45 minutes away. Helpful information boards across the autoroute declared “Vent violent”. No shit! With the tail wind, though, we sailed along with ease and, as we sat in the gare de péage with Francine paying the toll, the extent of our wind assistance became clear; we’d averaged 38mpg. How much!? 38mpg is unheard of towing Guillaume, nudging 30mpg is considered v. good.

Once beyond the first obstacle of Toulouse,  we turned north and the vent violent calmed. Now we began seeing further helpful information boards across the autoroute declaring “Canicule: hydratez vous”. “Pass me a beer, Francine” – just kidding. 😀

We were heading a few kilometres north of Limoges. Our interest was a former peat digging area, now a nature reserve, called Les Tourbières des Dauges. It’s an area that another dragonfly fan told me about and I was keen to try somewhere new. As usual, finding a suitable campsite was the first challenge. Passing further comforting “Canicule: hydratez vous” signs every few kilometres, we re-examined the choices in our book and opted for one at Bonnac-la-Côte that was said to be shaded. Clearly, with the prospect of sitting on the centre shelf of a moderate oven at 30-something degrees C, Anglo-Saxons were going to need some shade so we opted for that one, even though it looked expensive being a 5-star Castels site.

As we passed Limoges and approached, Primary Navigation Officer overrode Sally Satnav, who was about to send us along what looked like it might be a narrow lane and got us to the campsite in time for a slightly late lunch (baguette collected en route). This site seems to be used by our Caravan Club. I wandered into the reception area and leapt into my now practiced best French to ask for a pitch. The lady responded in French, then switched to English, complete with a sort of apology for doing so, declaring that she was English. Fair enough.

1st July is the start of high season so I suspected that prices had gone up.

“What’s the nightly rate?”, I asked.

“It’s just gone up,” she confirmed, “it’s €35 a night”. [Low season, incidentally, was, I think, €29.]

How much!?

Fortunately, my heart continued to beat. The most I can remember paying for a campsite in France prior to this was a few centimes under €20. Trust the Caravan Club to go for something expensive. We were in unknown financial territory. The shaded description would in practice have more accurately been part shaded but we found an Anglo-Saxon-friendly pitch with a couple of large trees suitably positioned relative to the passage of the sun and got Guillaume settled.

Being a 5-star campsite we’d usually avoid this like the plague ‘cos the attendant swimming pool and play area attract doting mothers with hoards of Satan’s Little Disciples. Besides, we don’t use the equally expensive restaurant and bar, either. Thus. it’s like paying for a bunch of facilities we neither want nor use. We knew it would be expensive but thought we’d treat ourselves to some convenience. The choices around our targeted nature reserve were limited.  The pitches are a decent size, though, and we are in the grounds of an old Chateau, whose photogenic appeal would be vastly improved without electric buggies and white plastic chairs adorning its façade.

There were some deer – well, three – fenced off in the grounds but the most interesting thing was this tree standing alone in the middle of a sizeable lawn. From a distance it had us thinking Horse Chestnut given the shape of the flower clusters but, of course, it was much too late for one of those to be in flower. Close up it looked quite different, both flowers and leaves. Fortunately there was a name label helpfully displayed within the curious structure of branches, the largest of which seemed to descend to the ground and then grow back upwards. It is a North American Catalpa, apparently. No, we’d never heard of it either. 🙂

For the price of this campsite I’d expect a luxurious sanitary block with gold-plated taps but in practice the sanitary block feels decidedly tired. Most of the doors are painfully low for anyone over 5’ 8” and I comprehensively brained myself on doorframes twice. Ouch! I’d also expect Wi-Fi to be inclusive but the cheeky bastards want another €6 a day, and it isn’t even all over the site. I enjoy a good joke but someone’s having a laugh.

At about 9:00 PM on a short walkabout to settle our baked salad, we spotted a dragonfly hawking about part of the campsite. I didn’t get a good look but flying at this time of evening, I can only think that it was an Western Spectre/Dusk Hawker (Boyeria irene). Maybe I’ll get a chance to investigate tomorrow evening, though the chances of it settling are very slim.

Now to try to get an expensive and very hot night’s sleep.

After trying to see how well £3200-worth of camera gear would bounce when thrown at a tarmac road surface, I’ve been back out and about a couple of times looking for Odos again, now concentrating on my grip on the camera. [A phrase concerning stable doors and horses springs to mind.]

I popped over to another valley, driving past the blackened landscape of yet another mountain fire, and on to Val d’Ebo where we had had some Odonata success a few years ago. Our part of Spain is about two years into a drought so I wasn’t sure what I’d find. What I found surprised me; there was water, just, certainly noticeably less than we’d seen here previously, but even though there was some water I found not one single critter. Curious.

I had already returned once to the Jalon river and found that one of my favourite pools there now seemed to be lifeless following my camera bouncing episode. That was quite late in teh afternoon, though, so now I wanted to check mid afternoon. I did so. The pool had shrunk noticeably in a couple of days of 30°C heat. I found nothing, nada, nichts. At camera bounce bend, where the water still looked quite reasonable, I did find a couple (not the four we saw previously) of my beloved gaudy pink Violet Dropwings (Trithemis annulata), one of which offered me a better pose than before, and the Emperor (Anax imperator) was still cruising about but I’m curious about the other spots that look as though they should have life. I’m wondering if, in many of teh locations, the water quality is too poor given the amount of evaporation that has occurred – certainly, the water surface in many cases looks unappealing – and that the critters have skipped.

It’s not just the Odos that have been suffering from a lack of water. Yesterday morning we went out shopping. [Oh no, not shopping again!?] When we returned at lunchtime, my relief at having returned soon evaporated as we discovered that Casa Libélule was suffering from a lack of water. For those that may be unaware, which is probably only Brits, that there is no cold water storage tank in continental houses, everything being fed directly from the main. So when the water is off, it’s all off and you’ve got no water at all; nothing, nada, nichts. That’s exactly what we had.

Our nearest neighbours, who had arrived a few days earlier, were out so I couldn’t aske if their water was working. I found another couple moving furniture in to one of the houses and asked them but they had not yet been connected to the water supply so that was no help in determining if we were part of a general problem or unique. I went down the hill to our friend, Jim, who declared that he did have water. Hmm, not looking good. He did suggest contacting the estate agent who might call the Town Hall to see if there was an issue.

Meanwhile, our neighbours had returned. They were also without water, I was a little relieved to hear, there being safety in numbers. Off to the normally helpful estate agent [no, still feels wrong] who was not there. Bother! I bit the bullet. I drove to the Town Hall, mustered all my courage and wandered in. “Perdon, hablo poco Espanol. La Almazara es sin agua”, I managed, startling even myself. It may have been utter nonsense but it caused a reaction. The receptionist wandered into an office and reappeared saying something which I took to mean that someone was aware of the problem and was out working on it.

Long story short. Our development spreads itself half way up a mountain and our house is at the highest level. Somewhere above it is a large communal tank which the Spanish call a deposito into which water is pumped from below in the valley. Sometimes the pump fails. Such an occurrence first causes the deposito slowly to empty as water is used. Then supply pipes to all the houses begin to empty so the higher houses feel the effect the first, though there is still water in the lower pipes so lower houses still have water for a time. “Time” can be a day or a little more.

We still had no water by the time we went to bed. Copying a more experienced resident, I filled a bucket and 5-litre contained with swimming pool water so we might flush the loos when it inevitably became necessary. I was beginning to change my opinion and favour our British cold –water-tank-in-each-house solution. The system was apparently fixed but it now took some time while the downstream pipework was first refilled before the top deposito would start filling.

In the middle of the night nature called and I tried a tap. We had some water but at a much lower pressure than normal. It took all of the next day before normal service was restored.

How nice it is to be able to flush loos and do washing up.

I felt even more sorry for the local Odos who rely on their diminishing supplies to continue their life cycle.

Why do we call June 21st Midsummer’s Night? Officially, June 21st is the start of summer, the first night of summer, not the middle of summer. Everything from March 21st to now has been spring. I know the sun is at its zenith and it’s all down hill from here but, please, let’s get it right. This could reasonably be called Midyear’s Night but not Midsummer’s Night. Midsummer’s Night would be round about 6th August. I blame Shakespeare, personally, though I suppose accurate  titles such as Start of Summer Night’s Dream or Midyear Night’s Dream just wouldn’t have worked terribly well, would they? Or maybe the Druids are to blame with their sunrise and Stonehenge fixation. So, I’m going to call it Misnomer Night ‘cos it isn’t midsummer anything and it’s less clutzy than Start of Summer’s Night. Blasted poets!

Now that’s straightened out, there’s a little road on our development here in Spain that has been drawing me to it at night, simply because the street lights run up and over a hill – the Spanish are very fond of hills – in what I find to be an attractive manner. The trouble is, other than the hill and lights, there’s not a lot of content for a photograph. I went down with battered and bruised new camera and took a quick snap just as a trial line-up shot. Sure enough, decent looking road but where’s my content?

Enter Francine playing the role of Miss Nomer for Misnomer Night, needed to lean alluringly against the far left lamppost dressed as brightly as possible. OK, what I could do with is a really bright splash of colour like a startling red dress, or maybe yellow, but the nearest my cooperative Francine could dig out of the wardrobe was pink. It’s fine, perhaps a little softer and less brazen. Such was her dedication that she even staggered up and down the hill in heels a couple of times clutching the wine bottle and glass that I insisted on her using as props. This was because I’d chosen to use the old camera, sans dents, this time and unfortunately it didn’t seem quite as cooperative when it came to giving me what I was after. Francine helped out.

OK, camera more or less sorted, Miss Nomer back to holding up the lamppost and … snap.

It’s definitely a work in progress. I need to hone this. I had been hoping that the opposite streetlight might cast more light on Miss Nomer’s face. I think a little off-camera flash secreted just off set may have helped but I haven’t got one. We had a laugh though with a very rarely posed shot.

Oh, I should also point out that, on the road between Benissa and Teulada there are regularly what I would most politely describe as two or three working girls. My Miss Nomer is definitely NOT intended to resemble one of those. More of a party-goer, than just a goer. 😀

Spanish properties are frequently, maybe even usually, fitted with rejas over the windows. Rejas are a bit like decorative prison bars over windows but they are designed to keep low-life out rather than you in. The two readily accessible “ground floor” windows at Casa Libelule came complete with rejas already fitted. However, there is at least one other window, the kitchen window from which we escaped having famously locked ourselves in, that is technically, though not perhaps readily, accessible to a moderately determined person. Franco was moderately determined to get out and the subsequently summoned locksmith was moderately determined to get in .. and did so.

A neighbour’s version of Casa Libelule, having already been the target of a burglary, has had additional rejas fitted over their similarly positioned kitchen window. They’ve also had locking metal gates fitted over their lower balcony sliding doors, which was, we think, the actual point of entry. Our lower balcony is something over 2 metres above the ground but, given two low-life scum, one giving the other a leg up, it seems like a point of weakness. As we’ve already proved our kitchen window to be a point of weakness, we decided to get a quote for an additional set of rejas and gates for the balcony. Consequently, I found myself waiting in for Antonio to arrive at 3:30 PM to measure up for his metalwork.

Antonio Metalworker was pretty punctual – extremely punctual for a workman, especially a Spanish one. I was also happy to note that Antonio Metalworker, unlike Bozo Plumber, actually possessed a tape measure and, furthermore, appeared to know how to extend it and use it. He also made drawings upon which to note his measurements. I am hopeful, therefore, that our eventual gates will actually fit the balcony doors whereas our shower screen never stood a friggin’ chance of fitting our shower tray.

Antonio had no English. Combined with my extremely rudimentary Spanish – I was able to use one of the numbers I know, catorce [14, I hope], when getting into a date discussion [at least, I think it was a date discussion] – we seemed to part with some sort of agreement. Whether we both parted with a similar agreement remains to be seen.

I was now able to go out to play in the sunshine. I was still keen to try and snag the Violet Dropwings (Trithemis annulata) that I’d been after when I so deftly threw my camera ensemble to the floor a couple of days ago. Apart from anything else, I wanted to see if it really did still work. Francine and I set off for the fateful road I chosen to throw the camera down onto.

We wandered along the road beside what Jalón amusingly refers to as a river – most of the time this river does not actual flow but is a meagre collection of standing pools. It’s more of a natural storm drain for the mountains at the head of the valley, really. Anyway, we did find our quarry and I’m delighted to report that, not only did my battered and bruised camera work, but it  performed no further somersaults onto the hard surface intended more for feet and car tyres than for expensive precision equipment. Not only did we find our delightfully gaudy pink Violet Dropwings but a Blue Emperor also cooperated by hanging up in a few reeds across one of the remaining pools of water. Here they are. Aren’t nature’s colours wonderful?

Now, if I can just work out the Spanish, I may approach the Ayuntamiento [Town Hall] to see if they might consider covering all Jalon’s roads, footpaths and tracks in some form of protective foam covering.

I have always disliked neck straps on cameras. Modern neoprene straps are better but stuff swinging round my neck is essentially uncomfortable. i don ‘t even like a modest pair of binoculars doing pendulum impressions around my neck, never mind a camera body weighing in at 750g. Add to that a long lens making the whole ensemble weight 2kgs or more and a neckstrap is out of the question for me. I did used to use a wrist strap with more modest lenses attached but a couple of kilos hanging off ones wrist isn’t an appealing prospect either. Since, when hunting wildlife I habitually use a monopod, my preferred transport approach is to sling the monopod with camera and lens attached over my shoulder. I’ve been doing this quite successfully for 4-5 years.

Today my approach failed. Actually, not knowing exactly what happened, perhaps my concentration ran out. Whatever the cause, as we were wandering along a road near Jalón to go in search of dragonflies and particularly one of my gaudy favourites, the delightfully pink-coloured male Violet Dropwings (Trithemis annulata), my hand somehow contrived to part company with the monopod over my shoulder. The complete assembly: almost brand new EOS 7D mk2 (£1600) complete with 1.4X extender (£400) and Canon 300mm F4 prime L-series lens (£1200), fell off my shoulder (a height of about 5 ft) onto the road surface beneath. Arghhh!! Most definitely, an “oh shit” moment.

The first obvious problem I spotted was that the lens hood, perhaps mercifully extended, was now more oval than circular in shape. A little judicious squeezing managed to return it to its more familiar and useful circular shape.

I turned my attention to my beloved camera. The camera still switched on but, as I looked closer, I spotted the point of impact on the lower left rear corner, just near the delete button. Scratches were the least of the trouble; a couple of the camera body’s sections were not now quite the shape they should be and didn’t exactly meet precisely. I looked through the eyepiece and tried a shot. It didn’t focus, the viewfinder information telling me I was in manual focus when, in fact, the lens was switched to auto. The shutter fired … very slowly. An error message saying, “Err01 – communication error” was now about all I could get out of £3200-worth of dropped equipment. Further attempts resulted in the same error message.

We continued our short wander with a gloomy cloud hanging over my head. As you might imagine, this did not make for a relaxing time spotting dragonflies. We did eventually find our quarry, plus a couple of Epaulet Skimmers (Orthetrum chrysostigma) but I had no way of recording them.

Back chez Casa, I tried a few more tests swapping components between the damaged mk2 and my older 7D mk1, which I’d left here intentionally to avoid carrying hefty equipment on future flying visits. Amazingly, these tests seem to show that the camera still works, though I’ve yet to try all functions. The lens, including stabilizer, also seems to work properly. It’s the extender, when mounted in between them, that screws things up and is very definitely broken – it has a slight but disturbing sideways movement that should not be there.

BOTHER!

When we return, I need a trip to canon’s service centre at Elstree to get one of my lenses serviced. I may try to see if they can refurbish and check the 7D mk2 as well.

Oh, and a friend at UK DRagonflies blamed the mishap on the Violent Dropthings. Very good, I needed a laugh!

[Yes, I know, another one out of sequence.]

Just after we left Spain on our previous visit, we had just had our misplaced shower screen refitted, complete with an extra component to make it actually line up with the shower tray. Now there’s a radical idea, making the shower screen sit on top of the shower tray instead of falling short by an inch and a half [~4 cms}. While the silicon sealant was curing, we’d been using the upstairs shower over the bath.

Here we were back in Spain and keen to have showers in our own shower room. We both showered and dried ourselves off. We hung the towels out on the balcony to dry in the sunny late afternoon air. I returned to the shower room where I was dismayed to notice a small amount of water at one corner of the outside of the shower tray. As I was looking, I was even more dismayed to notice a larger and much more disturbing pool of water at the opposite outside corner of the shower tray. Bugger! Clearly there was still a problem.

I spent a partly sleepless night considering what might be wrong. Since the shower screens were now correctly positioned, I began to fear a leak from the shower tray waste. In the morning, I set about a test; I began pouring 2-litre jugs of water down the shower waste. After four such jugs of water, no further water appeared where I had noticed them. Head scratching time again. I put the shower head on the floor of the shower and turned on with the screen doors closed. I noticed no problem at first but then Francine, now an onlooker, spotted water tracking along the shower tray below and outside of the shower screen.

Time to get prostrate on the floor. I peered under the aluminium and could just about make out at least one gap in the silicon sealant beneath the aluminium. For f**k’s sake, Mr. Bozo Plumber couldn’t even seal a shower screen correctly with it in the correct position. Actually, he’d done it all wrong anyway. Accepted practice is to position the aluminium and assemble the screen first, then seal around the outside edge of the screen where it meets the shower tray. It looked as if this sealant had been put down first then the aluminium of the screen positioned on top of it. How are you supposed to know you’ve put enough sealant down when you can’t see it? Either that, or he’d attempted to seal the inside and failed.

The bill for misfitting the screens twice was still outstanding. I could have withheld payment and got the idiot back for a third attempt. However, by now I didn’t trust him to be able to find his own arse with both hands, so I set about sealing the screen correctly myself and paid the outstanding bill whilst making my feelings known.

For pity’s sake, if you want a job done correctly, do it yourself. We can finally have our showers without turning our shower room into a swimming pool.

It’s smack on 500mls/800kms to Jalón from Fanjeaux. About 480mls/770kms of that would be on autoroutes/autopistas so we reckoned it would be about an 8-hour drive. Francine set her alarm for 6:30 AM so we could be on the road at least by 8:00 AM. That should give us an arrival time of about 4:00 PM leaving time to shop for our evening meal.

You know what it’s often like with an alarm set. Come 4:00 AM we were both awake, waiting for the alarm and thinking we wouldn’t get back to sleep again. The night was over. “We could always just get up and hit the road”, I risked suggesting. Francine seemed up for it. Packing up Guillaume and securing him for 2-week stay tout seul is inevitably a somewhat noisy business – stowing the water container, disconnecting the electricity, etc. – but we had no neighbours to disturb; the only other unit on site last night was on the far side of the campsite out of earshot, unless we got really noisy. So, decision made, we carefully packed up and drove gently out of the campsite at about 6:50 AM.

Jocund day, as Shakespeare would have had it, was breaking directly in front of us as we headed east on the French autoroute towards the dawn and the Mediterranean coast of France, before turning right and south towards Spain and its autopista. [Note to self: I really must look up jocund one day to find out just what a jocund day is.] Cruise control set to 75mph/120kph (good for both French and Spanish limits), pausing only at the occasional toll booth, service areas for an occasional pee break and a single fuel stop, the 500mls passed as we guessed in 8 hours. Pulling out to pass the odd small cluster of trucks with their cruise controls set to 56mph/90kph was about as difficult as it got. What a delight driving on these roads is, even if you do have to pay the tolls. A similar length journey in the UK would give one pause. We parked in Jalon for lunch at 2:00 PM before announcing our unscheduled arrival to our friends, who welcomed us warmly.

The heat was about to increase. Although the skies has done their frequent clearing trick as we crossed the Pyrenees, just south of Barcelona we ran into heavy black skies. torrential downpours followed swiftly. There were occasional breaks of lighter grey but essentially the weather was dreadful all the way down to about 30mls/50kms above Jalón. The stormy skies were moving south towards us. As we were remembering how to drive our Spanish house and preparing for a reunion meal with our friends in the evening lightening flashed and rumbles of thunder began. Then we noticed flames and plumes of smoke rising from the hillside across the valley from us, directly behind our friends’ house. A lightening strike must’ve set the scrub aflame on the hillside.

We called our friends who in turn tried calling the authorities but contact had already been made. Shortly, a couple of fire trucks headed along the valley to the blaze, not that trucks would be able to do much near the top of a mountain. Maybe this was a precautionary move in case the fire crawled down the hillside to habitation? Then a helicopter flew by and appeared to investigate the situation from above. It settled briefly, we think to drop off some fire fighters on the ground, took off again, now with a bucket slung beneath it, flew back up the valley and shortly returned with a load of water which it dumped on a chosen part of the fire.

As I was thinking that this looked like being a long job, one ‘copter bucket at a time, two yellow fixed wing aircraft appeared on the scene and joined in the fight. They appeared to be able to carry a heavier water load. Water bombing continued for a while after I could see no more flames glowing. What they didn’t want was a re-ignition. I know this type of flying is very hazardous and watching the professionalism was fascinating and educational.

Whilst a warm welcome was good to receive, I thought setting fire to the hillside was going a bit far, though. 🙂