Every now and then I get interested enough in language to ask questions of our hosts. There are various French language terms for enclosed (as opposed to flowing) bodies of water, including plan d’eau, lac and étang. The term plan d’eau seems to be applied to a body of water most often providing recreational facilities, but I’d wondered if there was a difference between lac [literally lake] and étang [pond, according to our dictionary]. Étang = pond is clearly not quite accurate because we’ve visited the Étang des Aulnes which approaches the size of an inland sea [slight literary exaggeration] and would never be described in English as a pond. I put my question to farmer Luc.

Luc’s explanation was that an étang is formed naturally whereas a lac is manmade/dammed. I’ll go along with this for the moment while I look for a few more examples.

As well as keeping a close eye on farmer Luc’s lac one other nearby lac that we have been visiting is the Lac de Lenclas. Both certainly fit Luc’s definition, both being formed by a digue [dyke]. The Lac de Lenclas is surrounded on its other sides by a bend in a section of La Rigole, the engineering masterpiece of a small canal that feeds water into the high point of the Canal du Midi. Lac de Lenclas was the first place I ever saw the captivating Violet Darter (Trithemis annulata). Thus, it holds a special place in my heart. This year it surpassed any expectation and has certainly become the star spot for Odonata round here, producing a few southern specialists, one of which was particularly unexpected.

The first celebrity I spotted, working La Rigole just beside the car park, was a Southern Skimmer (Orthetrum brunneum), a species which I’ve seen only twice before. Working our way along the digue to do a circuit of the lake, we did find a couple of Violet Darters, too.

My biggest surprise came part way round the circuit when, watching the common-as-muck Western Demoiselles (Calopteryx xanthostoma) flitting about, I fancied I spotted a demoiselle of the wrong colour. I took a distant snap – it was, of course, incorrectly positioned on the far side of the canal – for later scrutiny. Towards the end of our circuit, however, later scrutiny became unnecessary when we saw what was clearly a Copper Demoiselle (Calopteryx haemorrhoidalis). Quelle surprise!

During our circuit we’d be seeing various clubtails flying around, too, and I’d snapped as many as possible. I had recognized clubtail relative, another of the Gomphidae, a Small Pincertail (Onychogomphus forcipatus), but the clubtail identities required closer examination. I was surprised to find that this area was home to three different clubtail species – 4 Gomphs in all. This is perhaps due to there being essentially two different types of habitat in the small standing lake and the gently flowing canal.

Our first day’s haul for the Lac de Lenclas was 16 species but we added two more on a second visit making 18 in all. Good news.

Sadly (for me, anyway), farmer Luc’s lac could hardly be in starker contrast. During our three week stay, we have actually seen nine identified species which, by itself might imply that all is well. However, seven of those species have only been seen as singletons or, at best, twos. Furthermore, we haven’t seen them regularly. For example, there was an Orange Featherleg (Platycnemis acutipennis) flitting about the campsite two weeks ago but I’ve not seen it since. Similarly, we did spot a couple of Willow Emeralds (Lestes viridis) but we haven’t now seen one for over a week. Only two species have been seen regularly and those in modest numbers: Black-tailed Skimmers (Orthetrum cancellatum) and Blue-tailed Damselflies (Ischnura elegans). An almost complete crash compared to its former count of 18 species recorded by ourselves.

Add to this the complete lack of water birds and really the only life left in this vegetation-free lac is fish and a small, apparently ageing population of frogs. Sad news.

Farmer Luc seems to know his lac is “dead/dying”; at one evening gathering Nadine asked me why the dragonfly population was so low. I did what I could to explain in the hope that some corrective action might result.

Farmer Luc is a bit betwixt and between at the moment, waiting for a field or two of corn to be harvestable. Today, he and Nadine took some time off and left son Cedric to look after the farm whilst they shepherded another group of the campsite regulars into Toulouse. This time, much against his better judgement, city or no city, Franco went along with the gang. Tromping around a hot city might not be Franco’s favourite pastime but a day with a good bunch of friends sounded enjoyable so along he went. He even offered to drive in order to repay those who drove Francine on her midsummer night visit of Carcassonne a little while ago.

There are things in Toulouse that would be of great interest to Franco. For example, it is the home of Airbus Industrie. It is also the start point of the Canal du Midi and boasts a lengthy canal water front that could provide much distraction for those interested in such things. Lastly, it has an enviable reputation for gastronomy and is home to a fine array of food shops, many of which would have stood close examination. I suspected, however, that none of these would be formally on our agenda and I was right.

It seems that most of what most people are interested in in such places, is architecture and particularly religious architecture. This predilection is evidenced by the contents of most travel guides, nearly all of which bang on endlessly about churches and cathedrals. They certainly are worth a gawp and a quick “ooh, ah” but I can do that to one or two in a few minutes.

We all drove to the outskirts of Toulouse where a park and ride system operates to reduce traffic. Rather than using buses, however, this park and ride uses a very modern driverless, fully automated underground train system. The parking is free (if you use the train) and the train fare seemed to be a mere €1.00 each (Luc graciously paid, hence my uncertainty). Sitting at the front of the train where a driver’s cab would normally have been were there one, offers a novel view of hurtling along an underground train line. The platforms are all enclosed by glass screens with automated doors which helps prevent unwelcome delays caused by selfish suicides or murders.

Whereas we regard towns built of red brick as quite normal, most old French construction tends to be of the local stone. This area apparently had a shortage of suitable stone so Toulouse is built mainly of terracotta couloured bricks, leading to its nickname, “la grande ville rose du Midi” [the large pink city of the south].

After our train ride into the centre, we did play real tourists and took a guided bus tour lasting 80 minutes, being driven slowly around some of the city’s sights to a recorded commentary. With temperatures topping 30°C outside and the bus having a glass roof, presumably to facilitate an unobstructed view of the various edifices, the bus ride was very hot but informative and enjoyable nonetheless, even though I don’t care how long a cathedral took to construct nor how many historical styles it is built in. The making of Toulouse sausages or cassoulet would have been much more interesting. 😉

The most fascinating architectural view of our day was undoubtedly inside L’Eglise des Jacobins. Not only did this have an enormously high ceiling, perhaps to get “nearer my God to thee”, but some inventive folks with a well developed sense of light theatre had placed a huge upward-facing circular mirror around one central pillar, thus offering a very different view of the ceiling without the need to crane ones neck. It made people photography fun, too.

Automation is great when everyone does exactly what they’re supposed to do. Almost inevitably, however, this was not the case with our multinational group of 11 (2 French, 3 Belgian, 2 Dutch, 4 Brits). Luc had purchased a group return ticket. Unfortunately, on the way in, a couple of folks mistimed their ticket/gate routine which, I suspect, led to the ticket being used a few extra times. Consequently, on our return trip, the ticket expired before all our group made it through the control gates to embark. A little gabbled French accompanied by some Gallic shrugs sorted it out, though.

All heads finally accounted for, back at the car park the same group ticket was also supposed to let our convoy of three cars through the car park exit barrier. Repeatedly spitting out the ticket, the barrier refused steadfastly to open and let even one car through. Eventually, a few more Gallic shrugs and gabbling managed to get two cars through leaving only the third stranded. Further gabbling and shrugging finally got us all out and on the road.

A pleasant day but about two hours too long for my taste. The automation was entertaining, though.

[I hope there’s an Edith Piaf fan out there that understood my titular French jeu de mots.]

[A literary pun? Whatever next?]

When enjoying a sunny evening’s BBQ outside Guillaume, we have been a little bothered by small flies/gnats, which insist on gathering in a swirling bait ball over ones head. Actually, it’s Franco’s less than hirsute head that attracts the little beasts whilst Francine’s rather better heat insulating thatching seems to reduce their attraction to her. We’re used to there being flies here but have begun to wonder if the reduced frog population might have led to an increase.

In contrast to previous years, this time in our on-going casual lake study we’ve noticed an almost complete lack of Swifts, Swallows and/or Martins zooming down over the lake to capitalize on what seems like an insect smorgasbord. It’s possible, though, that the birds feeding over the lack might have been more interested in Mayfly prey, now in short supply perhaps also due to the fish predation, than the flies that tickle our heads. At least the evenings produce a good crop of bats weaving their way between the trees to reduce the flying irritation.

We’ve recently seen for the first time here a delightful little bird doing its best to reduce the fly population. A Spotted Flycatcher is using the campsite as a hunting ground. Flycatchers are entertaining to watch as they perch on a base and fly sallies to catch prey before returning. Their behaviour is very like the darter dragonflies which also hunt from a favoured perch. Spotted Flycatcher is another of those slightly misleading bird names, IMHO, the spots in question actually being more like faint grey streaks down its breast. I suppose Streaked Flycatcher wouldn’t have the same ring.

This little cutie was using a variety of perches from which to hunt, including tree branches, the campsite lights and most recently Guillaume’s draw bar. After I spent a considerable amount of time and effort trying to catch our new entertainer on natural perches, Francine managed to snag him through Guillaume’s front window. The proximity made up mostly for the visual imperfections of a plastic window. Guillaume, wildlife hide again.

Continuing the bird theme, a late afternoon wander along a few of the farm tracks, mainly to collect grass seeds in our socks and walking shoes, solved a fairly long standing mystery in that we finally identified the maker of a bird call that we’ve been hearing. The rather tuneless rattling chatter that I’d been wondering about turns out to come from a Corn Bunting. A new one for the Franco avian list.

Now, if our new Spotted Flycatcher friend could just recruit a few reinforcements, our slight fly irritation might go away. Nah!

The French have a traditional way of celebrating the summer solstice; the whole country joins in staging a fête de la musique, in which very varied types of musical entertainment break out all around the streets in cities, towns and villages countrywide. Being fans of June camping in France, we’ve enjoyed these French celebrations on numerous occasions.

Our French campsite hosts, Luc and Nadine, set themselves apart from the vast majority of campsite hosts by also having traditions in that they frequently seem to be trying to entertain their campsite guests. As well as hosting a reception for their guests with snacks and wine every week, they organize the odd trip, as well as inviting campers to join them at local events. For midsummer’s evening, Luc gathered a group of willing revellers and took them to join the fête de la musique in the picturesque, you-simply-must-see-it-before-you-die mediæval walled city of Carcassonne, which looks more like a Hollywood film set than a real city. Nonetheless, real it is and a few car loads of willing revellers set off to enjoy the sights and free entertainment.

Franco was not among the revellers. Franco is not really a city person, particularly when it gets in the way of an evening glass bottle or two of vino. Besides, after a little overindulgence the previous evening, Franco didn’t really want a second consecutive late evening. This was much more Francine’s thing so she joined a few other campsite regulars to wander the streets of Carcassonne and try its version of the fête de la musique.

Lying outside the walled mediæval city of Carcassonne, looking more like King Arthur’s Camelot than King Arthur’s Camelot, is the modern city of Carcassonne, looking entirely unlike King Arthur’s Camelot. Surprisingly, to me anyway, Francine returned to report that the fête de la musique in the modern streets had seemed more interesting than anything in the old city. Stomp might be playing in one street to be replaced, when a corner was turned, by a rock band in the next street. Turn again into the square of the Hôtel de Ville, and you’d be confronted by a wind-only classical orchestra and chorus.

It’s all terrific fun and something that should be experienced. I just prefer to experience when sobriety and driving isn’t a necessity. 😉 Francine had a great time, though.

That’s it then, it’s downhill from here. 😀

I am very pleased to say that last night we were lulled to sleep by a satisfying chorus of croaking frogs in the Fanjeaux lake. Clearly senior (erstwhile) farmer Marcel has not managed to manges tous les grenouilles. A couple of years ago Marcel began a concerted campaign, based around his ample stomach, seriously to reduce the admittedly overcrowded frog population. Whilst some campers found the nightly croaking disturbing, most of the regulars consider it to be an enjoyable, integral part of Fanjeaux. Indeed, no frogs, no Fanjeaux. So, we were pleased to hear a decent, albeit reduced, overnight chorus.

However, I think that there is a sinister trend just beneath the surface. On previous years we have seen humongous tadpoles in the lake along with many small froglets in and around the lake. This year, however, the younger, replacement generation seems to be absent. We have not seen a single tadpole, nor have we seen a particularly small frog. My fear is that the frogs’ breeding success is now almost non existent. I would, of course, blame the voracious fish for vacuuming up any frog spawn and tadpoles, should any happen to hatch. So, does our frog chorus have a limited life based upon the natural lifespan of a frog? At least Marcel appears to have stopped trapping them.

Whilst there may be a complete lack of birdlife on the lake, the same is mercifully not true of the surrounding poplar and ash trees which still support a good variety of oiseaus. We frequently hear the “inverted wolf-whistle” [my description] of the secretive Golden Oriole. A glimpse of this stunning bird would be most welcome but rarely comes. Making the resident Chaffinches sound rather dull, there are a good number of Blackcaps warbling away entertainingly. Most delightfully however, this morning we were awoken at 6:00 AM by the piercingly tuneful call of a Nightingale. It began in the bushes demarking one side of Guillaume’s pitch, then gave a repeat performance from the bushes of the opposite side of Guillaume’s pitch, before moving slightly further afield for a reprise or two. Birds marking out their territory is a bit like beating the bounds. We’ve heard Nightingales singing before but not at such close quarters. The song variation and detail revealed by such close proximity was a revelation. It’s certainly a much more pleasant alarm call than that of a cockerel. Alarm clocks should contain recordings of Nightingales.

Having been comprehensively Nightingaled awake, I encouraged Francine out, as she had threatened, to play with some early morning light, photographically, that is. The narrow road leading up to the farm runs beside a raised field of onions, the heads of which had proved an irresistible draw. She also found a few splashes of colour framed by a corn field or two that grabbed her attention.

One of the attractions of camping on the farm site is the variety of activities and subjects that can provide entertainment, assuming that one takes an interest in such things.

Shunning the autoroutes favoured by Sally Satnav, we dragged Guillaume the 150kms across country from the eastern Pyrenees to Fanjeaux, just north of Mirepoix. We’d booked a lakeside pitch from the coming Friday but were arriving four days earlier than originally planned. Such is the draw of our favourite campsite. Luc’s ladies, ~300 dairy ewes, were out in the top field munching fresh grass to greet us. I didn’t expect our prime lakeside pitch to be free four days ahead of time but was quite prepared to shift pitches after a few days. However, it was free so moving would be unnecessary; we claimed our spot in time for lunch.

This campsite is a few other people’s favourite, also, and we’d be renewing friendships from the two years since our last visit. [Last June had been spent at home for me to have a cataract operation.] Most of the regulars here are long term visitors, staying for a month or more. We were particularly keen to renew our friendship with our immediate neighbours, a Wenglish [Welsh/English] couple, installed for a month and lethal with an empty wine glass. On another of the lakeside pitches is a Cornish couple here for about two months this time and there’s a lovely Belgian lady, still installing herself for the entire summer, with the help of family, after losing her husband a couple of years ago. The campsite must be related to Hotel California; I won’t attempt to quote it verbatim but it’s something like:

… you can check out any time you want but you can never leave.

After a 2-year absence, we were greeted with hugs by all the regulars – it was like coming home.

The dammed irrigation lake used by farmer Luc has become something of a personal long-term study. Six or seven years ago it supported a rich diversity of fauna including waterfowl such as ducks, coots, herons, egrets and some enchanting little grebes, together with a large population of frogs and even a few snakes. There were painfully cute tree frogs in the hedges of the pitches beside the lake. The lake was instrumental in getting me thoroughly hooked on dragonflies with 17 species, many of which were present in large numbers.

About four years ago things changed and changed dramatically. Large Grass Carp were introduced into the lake to remove the vegetation. Along with the Grass Carp came some 3rd party intensively farmed Koi Carp. We have never been completely clear as to the reasons but we suspect the huge frog population might have been the main driver – some campers had been known to leave “because the frogs were too noisy at night”.Whatever the reason, the lake’s vegetation vanished and the dragonfly population crashed, though small numbers of a few species still hung on. I was most interested to see what effect two years more had had.

First impressions were that the lake now looked almost sterile. It is much deeper than we’ve ever seen it after some heavy winter rains but it looks sterile, mostly because there is not a single water bird of any description on the lake – not one. Today is very warm and sunny, so perfect dragonfly conditions but I initially spotted just a few Black-tailed Skimmers (Orthetrum cancellatum) at the dam, and a couple of Blue-tailed Damselflies (Ischnura elegans) together with a Common Blue Damselfly (Enallagma cyathigerum) around the lake.

Neither are there any Koi Carp visible, though the floating feeder is still lashed to the lakeside. The fourth lakeside pitch is occupied by an English fisherman who is pole fishing and catching carp by the dozens of kilos, each individual fish being upwards of 5kgs but, he told us, they were not Grass Carp. As well as the whales, there are very many smaller fish around the margins of the lake but they are brown surface feeders (we suspect Bleak) rather than the gaudy oranges and reds of Koi.

So, clearly things have changed again but once more we’re not sure quite how or why. The Koi were being bread for sale but once introduced you’re never going to extract every single individual so where have they all gone?

Given the rich supply of potential Heron food – fish of many sizes and frogs, which are still present though in lower numbers – why are there no Herons present? We spotted a Grey Heron fly over, do a circuit or two looking around, then fly on as if it had rejected it as suitable habitat – very curious. I can understand a lack of coots and dabbling ducks ‘cos there’s no vegetation to dabble at but why no Heron? I am wondering if the lake margins are currently too deep for a Heron to wade and stalk prey but that is just an idea formed out of desperation.

It’s early days so we’ll see how things go. It’s good to be back despite the reduced fauna. 🙂

It’s good to have a reason to go and investigate pastures new. I have an e-friend (i.e. met over the Internet), a fellow dragonfly enthusiast, who has a holiday home down at the Eastern end of the Pyrenees. His latest trip to France coincided with ours and here was the perfect excuse for us to explore pastures new. We’ve previously looked at the western end of the Pyrenees, Basque country, and we’ve looked in the central area around several famous Tour de France mountain climbs, but never the eastern end towards Perpignan. So, with an invitation to a BBQ, after four nights at Loupian, near the Bassin de Thau, we headed further south down the main autoroute, for trucks, towards Spain. We hung a quick right before hitting the border to zoom a safe distance inland – safe, that is, from any danger of kiss-me-quick campsites.

I’d been keen to avoid another busy ACSI campsite but, when looking at the books, one campsite sounded too much like us to avoid: rural, good for walks, quiet. Regrettably, it was flying the ACSI banner but that’s where we headed. We’ve ended up at about 300m/1000ft, on what would merely be classed as a hill round here, amidst another swarm of Dutch campers in the foothills of the eastern Pyrenees. The campsite  isn’t actually full but it’s certainly busy.

It’s also very windy. The Tramontane is blowing, largely from west to east along the mountains. It’s hot,  almost too hot for some, hitting 35°C down in the valley, but the constantly strong wind with occasional violent gusts, makes sitting outside Guillaume a little less than completely comfortable, We do have a view down to the plain below, though. We are reliant upon a conifer tree on our pitch for shade because we’ve been unable to erect our sun canopy which would swiftly have been blown into the Mediterranean 30kms east had we foolishly tried to pitch it.

Shunning sun-worshipper territory to the east, we made an exploratory trip a little way west up the valley of the river Tech, passing through Céret. We’ve been told that Céret  has a wonderful though touristy market, which we chose to avoid ‘cos we can get exactly that at our next stop near Mirepoix. Like many places in Europe on gorges, Céret also has yet another example of a Pont du Diable [Devil’s bridge].

Further up the valley from Céret, we passed through Amélie-les-Bains-Palalda, and on to Arles-sur-Tech, finally avoiding the classic tourist trap of Gorges de la Fou. Returning to Amélie-les-Bains, we found a pleasant picnic spot beside the river Tech. The most fascinating thing about the picnic spot was the inventively engineered bridge across the Tech, required to gain access. The bridge appears to have been constructed by laying a series of concrete pipes, through which the river could flow, and covering the tubes with more concrete. The dire warning signs were enough to put off anyone of a faint heart. The bridge felt just about wide enough for a car, but someone had clearly worn the extreme edges a little.

The day we arrived at Llauro in the eastern Pyrenees was, we thought, pretty darn windy. That, it seems, was just the Tramontane flexing it muscles and warming up. For the last two days, the Tramontane has been up to speed and it’s been damn windy, buffeting Guillaume on his corner steadies.

It’s still hot but sitting outside in the constant gale has become so tiresome that we’ve tended to retreat inside Guillaume for some shelter. The knock-on difficulty is that we’d like a lot of fresh air inside Guillaume but can’t really get enough because we can’t open any windows or the roof light on props for fear of something being ripped off  by the wind. Opening the door gets us frequent rattles and a caravan full of windblown dust.

There’s second issue with our choice of campsite at Llauro. Getting anywhere, and returning from anywhere, involves a 15-minute drive each way along one of two roads both consisting of a seemingly never ending series of hairpin bends. Being a Sunday, the seemingly never ending series of hairpin bends we chose today was full of a seemingly never ending series of French cyclists often rounding said seemingly never ending series of hairpin bends on the wrong side of the road, or, at least, in the centre of it. A car driver really does not want to hit a cyclist in France because, whatever the cyclist may have done, they cannot be deemed to be at fault; the car driver is automatically at fault, always. It’s a ludicrous law that some would have established in the UK.

We managed to negotiate both the hairpin bends, without colliding with too many of the maniacal cyclists, to get down into the valley for a morning Odo hunting trip with our friend, after which we bit the bullet and visited Argelès-sur-Mer for a beer or two and a spot of tapas for lunch. I say “bit the bullet” because we feared Argelès-sur-Mer would be just beach territory, definitely not us. However, our pal new a pleasant harbour location, Port-Argelès, which was perfectly fine, part of the port being home to some of the area’s delightful traditional fishing boats.

The presence of tapas highlights one of my main education points here. This neck of the woods, albeit France, is classed as Catalan, sharing much in common with the north-eastern part of Spain. Here, the Catalan flag takes precedence over the French tricolour.

So, after three days of being buffeted by the Tramontane and of negotiating 30-minutes worth of hairpins to get off, then back onto our hilltop campsite, the sheep are calling – we’re heading for Fanjeaux and our favourite sheep farm tomorrow. We can’t wait to get out of this bloody wind. One hears about how the Mistral, blowing down the Rhone valley, can drive a man insane but, trust me, this Tramontane has been the worst wind I’ve experienced. I’m sure it’s quite capable of causing similar insanity. The Dutch couple next door appear to have had enough, too; we spotted them thumbing through their (accursed) ACSI campsite book.

Having said all that, we have enjoyed visiting our friend and sharing a little dragonfly hunting trip with him. It’s been good to see his holiday home but we must confess to wondering quite why they chose this location.

I suspect we won’t be back but, if we are, we certainly wouldn’t stay on this hill top again. A valley location would be much more convenient and a little more sheltered should the Tramontane blow up again.

At our continuing-to-be-practically-full ACSI campsite near Mèze, we had a recent interesting new arrival. A lone traveller pulled into the pitch behind us driving a Spanish registered McLouis brand motor van,. An apparent lady got out and started setting up. Shortly afterwards, the site electrics blew (this was not an infrequent occurrence) whereupon the “lady”, in a rather gruff English voice, said, “I hope it wasn’t me”. I explained that the electricity was only a 6-Amp supply and “she” went on to say that she didn’t really understand what that meant. So, the technical knowledge fitted the clothing but the voice did not. When “she” donned a bikini and sat under a sun shade reading, we didn’t think the shape of the torso matched the clothing, either. Perhaps in this case the McLouis should have been a McLouise? Actually, a much more suitable camper van might have been something based on a Ford Tranny conversion. 😯

This morning we wobbled into into Mèze  on our bikes – I say wobbled because my bike now has an impressively buckled back wheel caused by my landing on it almost two weeks ago – and found the market in full swing. Though we’ve stayed in th8is neck of the woods before, we’d never really seen the middle of Mèze, just the harbour. We were impressed, particularly by the market and were forced into buying a splendid piece of espadon [swordfish] which I thought would do well cooked with the remains of our ratatouille. [For the insatiably curious, the idea stemmed from an Italian recipe called Impanata di Pesce Spada.]

We were also taken by the possibility of a 55-minute, late afternoon catamaran trip round the oyster beds in the Bassin de Thau and decided to return after lunch. However, as the afternoon progressed, so did some very threatening black clouds all around us. Neither a stormy boat ride nor a wet return ride on board les bicyclettes appealed, so discretion got the better part of valour and we continued to sit around relaxing and waiting for the storm to break. It never did.

I was right about the swordfish and ratatouille, though. Yum!

Tomorrow we head for the eastern Pyrenees.

Now look, don’t get me wrong, I love birds, as those who know we would freely admit. yesterday morning, however, they were having a laugh.

The first assault was mounted yesterday when a small bird, possibly one of our surrounding Serins. Francine, bless her, Had put some laundry in our travelling bucket to soak prior to washing. She stood the laundry-containing bucket just outside Guillaume’s door. When she returned to take it to the laundry, she discovered that one of little avian friends had pooped right in the bucket. “Bother!”, uttered Francine, or words to that effect.

It could have been worse; our avian friend could have pooped on the laundry once it had been washed. Bearing this in mind, Francine was particularly nervous about pegging out her now bird-shitless washing. “Shields up, Franco!”, she commanded. I manoeuvred our parasol into place over our travelling washing line as Bird Shield 1 in the hope that it would protect against any additional cling-ons.

One bird made clear its displeasure by pooping on Francine’s left arm as she sat in her chair. Fortunately, both these initial assaults were just minor weaponry. I rushed for some toilet paper to clean up but the bird was already miles away. [The old ones are the best!]

This morning, Francine woke us early – 5:00 AM! – to go to Mèze harbour for a dawn photo shoot. 5:00 AM is no time to put the bed away se we left it until we returned. When we did return and I set about stowing the bedding, I noticed a small blemish on one corner of my pillow. “Curious”, I thought, sponging it off with a dampened sock. I glance up and was horrified. The source of the curious mark on my pillow became horribly clear. Guillaume has a very large sunroof which, in this climate, it is very nice to have fully opened – propped almost upright. The resulting large hole in Guillaume’s roof tends to let in insects so the sunroof comes complete with a fly screen which we habitually leave closed. Our fly screen was now caked in bird shit, not small bird shit but 5 megaton bird shit. The not quite vertical sunroof was similarly caked by another 5 megaton blast. Actually, it could all have the fallout from a single 10 megaton strike. Evidently an avian friend approaching the size of a Golden Eagle had been roosting in the tree branches above Guillaume and had scored a direct hit with its morning movement. “Bother!”, I muttered, or words to that effect.

In this baking heat, bird shit is a bit like Jetcem ® – it sets like concrete and it sets very fast. The longer I left it the harder it would get so I was anxious to clean up as soon as possible but how? A serious sponging would make a serious mess saturating the inside of Guillaume. I removed the upholstery and stowed it in the bathroom, then spread our groundsheet (purchased as a bicycle cover) over Guillaume’s floor and benches before setting about sponging down. The tenacious cling-ons on the fine mesh of the fly screen proved particularly tricky since there’s really nothing to press against. Guillaume’s roof itself was one helluva mess. Using our step, I managed to gain access through the sunroof and clean him as best I could.

OK, fine for now, but two more nights here would likely have poor Guillaume caked in guano again. We could leave the sunroof on a lower setting and avoid a repetition of the fly screen caking but in all likelihood he’d still get splattered again. After a little thought we managed to combine four old guy ropes with the corner eyelets in our multi-purpose groundsheet and deploy Bird Shield 2.

Our antics and bird engineering amused our neighbours greatly.