[Ah – literation!]

I actually quite enjoy long distance driving. Left to my own devices, I’ll keep going all day without much in the way of pauses, much to the annoyance of my female passengers. There is one thing about it that drives me mad, though – the tunes in my head.

In a half way decent climate it’s nice to drive along with my driver’s side window opened at least a crack. An open window is where the trouble starts. My brain always thinks it hears bizarre short, repetitive tunes in the rushing sound of the air. The tunes are generally not real tunes, just a short sequence of invented notes with a tone that suggests a certain instrument. When we left Bellebouche on Saturday, I spent the first 150kms or so listening to an imaginary blues riff played on a harmonica. A fuel stop provided me with some kind of relief and I spent the last 150kms listening to one of my more usual imaginary brass fanfares. The only off button is to stop. Imagine listening to Boy George for five hours and you’ll begin to understand my frustration. I can quite understand why folks who claim to hear voices in their heads can be driven completely mad.

We hit rain approaching Normandy, so I had to concentrate harder through my musical entertainment. We did managed to get set up in a respite, though. Our only agenda was a raid on the local shops for some booty to carry home – Ricard (pastis) and Père Magloire (Calvados) – and something for dinner.  We fancied our favourite platter of smoked fish from a small smoke-house in Tréport but sadly, the shop didn’t have any so we had to make up our own mixture. Poor show! Our substitute did a reasonable job washed down by a decent bottle of Pouilly Fumé but I do hope the real thing will reappear next time around.

Sunday morning soon descended into cloud, then light rain as we set off for Calais. Half way through the two hour journey the light rain had become a deluge the like of which I have never before driven through. The clouds were on the deck, the spray was intense and the rain was incessant. We spotted an accident which seemed to have involved a car attempting to do a skate-boarders rail-sliding trick along the Armco barrier, two wheels one side of the barrier, up in the air, and two the other side of the barrier, on the ground. The car rested at a rakish angle of about 30°, and this on a dead straight section of road. How does that happen?

Initially under some lesser rain, I spent the remaining 2 hours driving back from Dover listening to the National Anthem of the Ancient Britons, having mentally forced my irritating initial ear worm into something at least amusing.

We’re back home and I’m a gibbering wreck!

For once, we didn’t go through our usual “two days or three days to head north” debate as we approached time to leave Fanjeaux. With a combination of an almost dead lake and frequent winds, we both felt it was time for a change of scenery. A farewell committee of seven faithful camping regulars was dockside to hug us and wave us off as we hitch up Guillaume and set sail. After pausing up at the farm itself to bid adieu to our friendly hosts, Luc and Nadine, we were on the road and heading towards the Toulouse ring road by 8:30 AM.

Normalement, the clear blue skies over fields of tournesols [sunflowers] would have made us wish we were staying longer but we sailed along with only a light wind – and that in the helpful direction – with only light traffic. Leaving Fanjeaux frequently means fighting a strong headwind which makes for tiring driving with Guillaume on the back putting up a stern resistance. And where were all the trucks? Even the commercial traffic seemed light.

With the cruise control set at truck speed, we made good progress and it was clear we’d be able to cover sufficient ground for a stop of two nights somewhere en route north. A little more than half way up the centre of France and not too far from the autoroute lies a blissfully rural, wildlife-rich area called La Brenne, more formally the Parc Naturel régional de la Brenne, an old favourite of ours. There was little debate, though we tried to force one – two nights here would be just the ticket, especially as we’d be able to refresh our memories after our 2-year gap and do a bit of research for a potential dragonfly-spotting trip being mooted by our local natural history society. They seem to want my input! 😯

Our usual campsite at the Villages Vacances Nature beside the Etang de Bellebouche would be best described as adequate – the pitches were decent enough but the sanitary facilities had been particularly dated and tired. We went into the acceuil [reception] where I launched into my well practiced French to check in. “I’m English” said the delightful young girl who met us, “you can speak English if you like”. I sent Francine off to find our pitch, pocketed Miss Delightful’s numéro de téléphone [just kidding], paid up then dragged Guillaume after Francine.

Shock #1: this was 3rd July and, as we drove into the campsite itself, we spotted just two other units pitched up, one tent (British) and one caravan (French). I’d approached fully expecting the site to be relatively busy. Where was everyone?

Considering the enormous choice, Guillaume Francine picked a spot quite swiftly, though I did foolishly position Guillaume 1ft/30cms too far to the right and had to move him. 😀

A few changes had occurred during our two year gap. Though the tired/dated old sanitaires still existed on the campsite itself, a new block had been erected just outside the field. Why outside? We suspect it is primarily for those attending other events which are staged here, such as events hippiques [horse events]. We’re used to campsites claiming to have heated shower blocks but these had gone an extra kilometre – these were air-conditioned! Three camping units now on-site, 29°C outside, air-conditioning running inside … and the door was wide open. Terrific! The shower room looked more like a team changing room with a large space given over to bench seating and less space for the actual shower cubicles, of which there were 7 or 8, each of which was very tight on space. Worse, not one of the shower cubicles provided a single hook – there was nowhere to hang a towel or clothing other than over the cubicle door frame. Even more terrific!

Shock #2: worse changes (from my point of view) were soon revealed. For me, this site is historic in that it’s where I took my first ever dragonfly photo, many years ago, before my digital camera and before any interest obsession in dragonflies had developed. A few years ago when my obsession had developed, we discovered a couple of small fishing lakes behind the campsite that proved to be a rich in Odonata, getting us several firsts and a total species count of around 17. With the sun shining, we wandered off to make use of the ideal conditions. We gazed in horror at the first lake which was all but drained of water, with land plants growing on ground which two years ago had been under water. One corner contained sluice gates which must have been opened to drain this much. Whereas we used to disturb dragonflies and damselflies with every step taken, we now saw just a handful hanging on in the now meagre habitat.

Worse was yet to come. We continued to the second of these lakes to be faced by no water at all, just something resembling a large sand and gravel pit that was now home to a bulldozer rather than any dragonflies. I felt like weeping.

Being an intentional eradication of two habitats (for what purpose, we know not as yet), this feels worse than the accidental degradation of farmer Luc’s habitat at Fanjeaux which, given an improved management strategy, would doubtless recover. This will not, there are clearly plans afoot which mean it is gone forever.

There are said to be 1000 lakes in La Brenne – well, 998 now, I suppose – so in the big order of things this is probably not a tragedy. There is still very rich wildlife habitat in La Brenne. Due to our personal history here, however, it feels like a bit of a disaster at the moment.

Accepting that we aren’t quite there yet, one of the most notable features of the last three weeks of our trip has been some pretty persistent high winds. Our dear old friend the Jetstream has been playing games and is screaming across the Mediterranean, or so one website seems to say. Whether that’s the reason or not, we have been getting serious doses of Tramontane and whatever its easterly opposite number is called. Whilst yesterday evening was the calmest we can ever remember here at Fanjeaux – it was utterly blissful – this morning we are once again being battered from the east. We decided to head for the coast to Gruissan in search of a seafood lunch.

We are somewhat familiar with Gruissan, having visited it on a few previous occasions. we clearly have a little to learn, though, ‘cos it was essentially shut after we made the one hour/€7.70 autoroute trip to where it lies on the Mediterranean coast just below Narbonne-Plage. Previously, we’d eaten in a restaurant in town; it was closed today along with several others. Fortunately, our intended target this time was a seafood shack/restaurant on the Île St-Martin overlooking the Salin de St. Martin. We breathed a small sigh of relief as we found this was actually open.

Walking towards the restaurant past the menu, which would normally have been our primary interest, our attention could not help but be grabbed by the surreal sight before us. Check out the picture.

Your eyes do not deceive you and we haven’t been messing with the colour balance, the water really is pink. This is the Salin de St. Martin, a large salt pan from which the water evaporates and concentrates the salt. For some reason, this turns the water pink. Fabulous!

After several “ooh ers”, we managed to drag ourselves back to the task in hand, ordering some lunch. The restaurant specializes in seafood, much of which is normally enjoyed raw, but it we momentarily toyed with one of its other speciality choices cooked in a salt crust. Well, with all that pink water making mountains of the stuff outside the door, I suppose it’s a natural item to put on the menu. We’ve never actually tried anything with a salt crust but ultimately we couldn’t resist a good old plateau de fruits de mer.

Aided by a bottle of white wine, we managed to see off 8 oysters, 8 mussels (raw), 8 prawns, 12 whelks and a mega-crab, and very excellent it was, too. I’m afraid this is all that’s left.

The very casual atmosphere at this informal restaurant shack was far more enjoyable to us than any pretention in a more formal restaurant. I, for one, would much rather spend my money here. This was certainly the best value plateau de fruits de mer that we have seen anywhere in France, despite the €15 tolls to get there and back, and it certainly beat the one we had earlier in our trip at Maussane-les-Alpilles. Darwin, that seems like a long time ago!

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.