Sunday, 31 December 2017

A landscape for raptors

December's leaden skies (Martin Kelsey)
I relish the sight of troubled skies, heavy smudged charcoal, brush strokes of cinder-grey. And never more so than above the open steppes of Extremadura, bearing subtle tones of emergent green now. Westerly winds roll the banks of cloud, which fracture to allow angled beams of light to illuminate a distant dehesa, like a moving searchlight. The combination of open terrain and a vast sky creates a multi-dimensional space fully exploited by one group of birds in particular, the raptors. The Extremaduran plains are bird of prey habitat par excellence

In the first hour of daylight on a winter's morning there is movement. Multitudes of small birds are woven across the pasture. Jerky Meadow Pipits are walking, a fluster of Skylark settles, small parties of Corn Buntings tic-tic in urgent flight above us. There are White Wagtails and Lapwings on the ground. Two Thekla Larks shuffle beside a lichen-dressed piece of ancient slate. An Iberian Grey Shrike faces us on the fence, using its long-tail as a balance, with an accompanying Stonechat perched attentively just a few metres away from it. A roving, rasping party of Calandra Larks surge across the field. We bird by simply standing still and watching.

Suddenly, I hear a different sound, a high-pitched warning call and instinctively, like all the birds around me, I look up. Against the grey sky I see first of all a fluttering speck, a tiny Meadow Pipit. From the right another shape pitches in, compact and menacing. The Merlin skims across the pipit and swerves upward in an arc, then swooping downward, missing its target again. In barely a second, it has launched vertically to attempt another strike, its tail and wings spread as it brakes in pursuit of the prey. The pipit escapes. Then, as the Merlin, having overtaken the pipit, banks to plunge, another Merlin with arrow-like direct flight, enter the scene. It too swivels into attack. The Meadow Pipit disappears behind the skyline, both Merlins now following it. But the performance has not ended. One of the Merlins rises above the horizon and then dives down below it. In a perfection of timing, the second does the same, followed again by the first. It is as if they were trampoling, rising and falling, one after the other. How can the pipit possibly escape? But evidently it does because one Merlin flies off, in low direct flight, followed by the other, both looking empty-handed. 

In a nearby river valley, we watch an Otter moving upstream. It is the first time the river has flowed since the spring, so entrenched has been the drought. The heavy cloud does not bode well for sightings of large birds of prey, but perhaps because of the wind, there are Griffon Vultures gliding slowly above. Below them, a dark, longer-tailed bird rises, its wings in a shallow V and bearing a buoyant tilt. The Golden Eagle quickly gains height, pauses, closes it wings and in sheer exuberance, dives earthbound, until opening its wings again and allowing its own momentum to push it skywards once more. Again it dives down and rises, its skydance mirroring the trampoling Merlin.

The road follows the route of a Cañada Real, an ancient drovers' trail - a strip of uncultivated common land, 75 metres wide. The vegetation here is tall and withered, with scattered Retama bushes. Ahead of us, in low sweeping flight is a male Hen Harrier, a young bird, judging from the brownish tone in the middle of its back, but with gull-grey upperwings, black tips, and white underwing, neatly bordered by black on the trailing edge. We stop to watch it as it carefully quarters the verges. Its long glides are broken by a banking motion, as it stops and backtracks, prompted by a potential prey, before continuing in forward motion. It reminds me of an absent-minded pedestrian, stopping mid-stride, turning around abruptly, before changing his mind and resuming his walk.

A larger bird of prey appears to our left, caramel-coloured with dark flight feathers, fringed with white and white also on the rump. It flaps heavily before gliding, the ground falling away below it, its wings rigid and flat. It is a young Spanish Imperial Eagle. As it disappears from view, another identically marked bird approaches us from the left, taking a few flaps before it too drifts away. I feel feebly terrestrial, contemplating the space that this bird explores. We then notice another observer. Standing on a small dog's teeth of protuding rock, and resplendent with white epaulets, thick cream head with its neat black mask, is an adult Spanish Imperial. Despite its acute vision, our presence unremains unacknowledged.  I like to think that we are perhaps insignificant to it as it surveys this terrain, a landscape fit for eagles. As maybe was the cow, sitting nearby, which like us, also watched the eagle. All on a winter's day.

Spanish Imperial Eagle watched by a cow (Martin Kelsey)

Saturday, 25 November 2017

False dawns

The River Almonte in November 2017 (upper photo) and November 2015 (lower photo) - Martin Kelsey

The photos speak volumes...comparing the River Almonte in a normal autumn (this particular image is from 2015) with its sorry state this year. That joy that embraces all of us who live and work in the countryside of Extremadura as the autumnal rain arrives has been denied us this year. We have been robbed of an entire season, our second spring, that always brings such a sense of recovery after the summer and a more dramatic transformation of the landscape than is ever bequeathed in March and April.

There were false dawns that teased us. We have had three days with rain but separated by long anticyclonic lulls, and prematurely I wrote that autumn had arrived. In our sheltered hillside microclimate at home, yes indeed the land has slowly greened, but as soon as I venture onto the thin-soiled steppes, my demeanour changes and anxiety beckons. Those glorious golden summer tones of sun-dried grasses in the dehesas have senesced to a weary grey. Where sheep have grazed there are fields with barely a stem remaining, just trampled earth and sprays of droppings. Trucks are doing thousand-kilometre roundtrips from the north of Spain to bring hay and straw as emergency feed for livestock, so that the fields are freckled by yellow circles of trodden forage. It must be horrendous for farmers. All of us who sow, plant and harvest share now a feeling of misgiving. It is hard to think of any winners in this drought, perhaps just the vultures which exemplify the silence as they wheel over the ridges.

I stood beside the dried-up course of the Magasca River: lifeness dulled stones, lying months now without the smoothing wash of water. Below me was a tiny stagnant pool, coated by a film of algae whose surface was lined by the record of riffling gusts of wind brought along the narrow valley. Were there still any fish there I wondered. What happens to the barbel in years like, a bottom-feeding fish favouring the clean gravels of moving water? And what happens to the Otters? Ripples spread across the algae from the base of the rock beneath me and from its side emerged the sleekness of a fish-hunter. Thrice the Otter dived and crossed the river's relict pool, each time fruitlessly. It then came out onto the opposite bank, shook itself and moved, arched-backed, across the dried pebbles and up onto the withered bankside vegetation. It headed east (what was "upstream"), disappearing from view as valley turned, doubtless to visit the next marooned pool. It must travel many kilometres each day.

Cormorants with accompanying herons and egrets (Martin Kelsey)

Cormorants it seemed were faring better. The great rivers of the Tagus and Tiétar have their waters damned a several points, and their levels are managed to meet the demands of power generation. Our reflective pause beside the Tiétar was rent by the whoosh of over six hundred Cormorants, urgently flapping just above the water surface, some crashing into the surface. their bow-waves brimming, whilst others, changing their minds, slapped the surface with webbed-feet spread. In counterpoint, both in sound and colour, were a supporting guard of at least twenty Great and Little Egrets. As the Cormorants arranged themselves on the river, so the egrets landed at selected points at the water's edge. Half a dozen Grey Herons took up the rear, one coming to rest in the middle of the river itself, swimming beside the Cormorants as they detected a shoal and started diving. We too, like the egrets, found ourselves following the Cormorants. The egrets were after the fish, flushed by the frenzy to the banks. We were after the visual, an encounter between fish, cormorant and opportunistic egrets, to which we, as passive observers, could relish - a counterpoint too for the enduring drought.

Saturday, 4 November 2017

Walking on the Wild Side

The Fortress of Hornachos (Martin Kelsey)

The immense quartzite crests rise above the gentle undulations of the red-earthed Tierra de los Barros, forming a landmark visible from a huge distance. The Sierra Grande de Hornachos, reaching over 950 metres above sea-level, is the tallest and most impressive of the sierras in the centre of the province of Badajoz. Looking at a relief map of Extremadura, these ridges appear as dispersed ripples, but stand anywhere is this vast landscape and you will see these sierras taking on the perspective of galleons, with Hornachos the flagship of the fleet. It both dominates and yet also gives out an aura of remoteness. Indeed, whilst conscious of its presence everytime I venture into this part of the region, I had rarely, unforgiveably,  reached out to explore it.

Crowning the western crest are the remains of  the Moorish fortress and tucked below it is the town Hornachos. From this vantage point the sense of isolation is profound and indeed, the town remained as an enclave of the Moriscos (Muslims who converted or were coerced into the Christian faith) well after the Reconquest by the Christian forces in 1232. Right up to the start of the 17th century, the town's population was 10,000 and one of the most largest Morisco centres in Spain and, unlike many others, openly practiced their Muslim faith, largely thanks to the remoteness of the community. However, in 1609, under order from King Phillip III, the Moriscos were expelled. They settled in Morocco, close to modern-day Rabat. Subsequently the town went into decline and today the population is less than half of that in medieval times.

The Sierra Grande erupts from the surrounding dehesas and olive fields with abrupt impressive crags and ancient scree slopes clothed with wild olives, cork oak and junipers. It was the latter that prompted our visit, their berries being an important food source for wintering Ring Ouzels. The distribution of the species as shown in the Spanish Winter Birds Atlas has just a single ten kilometre square marked for Extremadura, close to the border with Andalucia, which is the most important wintering area in Iberia. Juniper is found more commonly in the southern half of Extremadura, on the rocky slopes of these sierras, than in the north. The fieldwork for the Atlas took place between 2007 and 2010. Since then there has been an increase in the number and effort of birders in the southern Extremadura, with a concomitant increase in the number of records of Ring Ouzel. Most of these records may be of birds of passage, but perhaps there are more wintering Ring Ouzels here than we have thought.

At the edge of Hornachos, Fuente de los Cristianos (Martin Kelsey)

We found a track ascending the lower slopes beside the town. High above us the mountain side stippled with juniper drew us on invitingly.  A small valley provided terrain for smallholdings and allotments, a tiny patchwork of olives, figs and oranges. The place was full of birds, numerous Blackcaps and Song Thrushes feasting on berries. Suddenly a larger thrush swept in and landed proudly right on top of a large fig tree. It exuded a sense of the wild. Its long tail was slightly cocked, its slender neck stretched. There was something almost windswept about its chemistry, as if it has brought with it a dose of distant mountain tops. We did not need to see its bold white crescent on its breast. nor the frosted edgings to its wings to know that we had been greeted by a male Ring Ouzel. It stood poised and then dropped into an adjacent tree. Here suddenly it became remarkably concealed. I pointed the camera at where I thought it had plunged and when checking the photos afterwards was amazed to find that two of them actually showed part of this enigmatic bird with its white chest band.

Male Ring Ouzel (Martin Kelsey)

Blackbirds too were present, looking stockier and less elegant than the Ring Ouzel, but making it their business to push this intruder away. From the same tree, another bird erupted and, with a powerful direct flight, swooped up to land on an almond tree. It sleekness betrayed its identity: another Ring Ouzel. This was a browner first-winter bird, with scalier underparts but bearing the same pale edgings on the upper part of the closed wing.
Ring Ouzel (Martin Kelsey)

Although we did make a short venture to the edge of the juniper area, where we failed to find any more of our quarry, we spent most of the rest of the morning beside this busy area at the edge of the town. The Ring Ouzels teased us with more short exposures between the foliage and low, long, straight flights, sometimes giving their  cut-off chack calls. An Iberian Grey Shrike perched on a cable over a tumbledown house. There a male Black Wheatear also stood, before flying up the hillslope, its fanned, white-based tail shining like a beacon. A bird too of the wild side of this hidden enclave.

At the edge of Hornachos (Martin Kelsey)

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Small is powerful

Emerging grass shoots (Martin Kelsey)

It is a week since the first rains of autumn arrived. The moment the dust dampened we imbibed that familiar alluring scent. It even has a special name, coined by Australian researchers (who know a thing or two about droughts): petrichor. The distinctive aroma of rain as it breaks the drought is caused by two substances: oils from certain plants that become absorbed by the soil and also a metabolic by-product made by actinobacteria when the soil is wet. These actinobacteria act a bit like fungi, breaking down organic matter and enriching the soil. We depend on them, yet few of us know that they even exist. Only when we exalt in the petrichor do we have an unknowing sensory connection to them.  The scent of rain draws us to our roots. And, like when we gaze into the flames in a hearth or feel comforted by the embrace of savannas of the dehesas, it is a moment when that layer of modernity slips from our grasp.

Seven days on small changes are visible. Everywhere tiny green spikes of grass have now reached a height of two centimetres. Each one appears fragile but resolute, just a day or two old, emerging erect from the darkened soil. So small they are easily overlooked, but so powerful are they that the landscape will be changed. I mark out a square, five centimetres by five centimetres. There are about 70 tiny grass shoots visible. This means that in just one hectare, 280 million green spears have pierced the surface since the weather changed, and more will be following. In a few more days aided with the warmth of late October sunshine (and hopefully some more rain), our landscapes will be transformed. Green will return and we will embrace an emerald Extremadura right through winter and on to the eventual demise of spring.

Woodlark (John Hawkins)

The landscape changes in other ways too. Joining the transformation of colours and a clarity of the air, briefly laundered by clouds, there are new sounds. The sweet cadence of Woodlarks seems totally in tune with the freshness of the morning. I eagerly await this most uplifting of autumnal sounds. Robins have also arrived from northern Europe and their fluid winter song glistens like a resurgent stream.

Moisture in the soil has provoked other stirrings of small beings. We stood in the middle of a vast rolling expanse of open plains. Our journey had paused so that we could watch the drunken wheeling of a gathering of Common Starlings, just arrived from eastern Europe. Skyward we directed our binoculars, picking up the eccentric twists that the starlings were making. As we focused, the reason for these manoeuvres sunk home. Amongst and beyond the birds were myriads of particles, showing almost Brownian motion. As we concentrated a subtle buzzing or crackling sound could be heard. At first we assumed this came from the nearby power lines, but the timbre was not quite right. It issued from these tiny objects themselves, the sum of a countless mass. We were watching the alates of an ant: large winged-queens and multitudes of winged-males. The latter pursued the queens, seeking aerial bonding, which usually brought them sliding down to the ground. Their mission accomplished, wings were discarded unceremoniously by some mysterious disconnection of tissue.

Firecrest, photographed in March 2016 (Martin Kelsey)

Across the dehesas, barely audible high-pitched whispers help me locate a tiny bird which, shrew-like, is perpetually on the move from dawn until dusk in search of tiny invertebrates. Through the dapple of holm oak leaves, it rewards me with the briefest of glimpses, but never of the whole bird itself. The visual fragments fit together like a jigsaw and are crowned by the shock of black, white and red on the head. Firecrests, so aptly named, are also moving into Extremadura now, taking advantage of the landscape of trees and mild winter days. Food can always be found, even if the tiny size of the morsels means that foraging becomes their sole pursuit all day long. Across our region there will be tens of thousands of Firecrests this winter, so small that they too are barely noticed but also playing their role in shaping a landscape. 

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Local patches

Parkland beside the Guadiana River in Mérida (Martin Kelsey)
The sting at the tail of this long dry summer is merciless. There is no respite from the prolonged drought or the heat of the day. The rustic fatalism of rural communities means that in every encounter I have with neighbours or passers-by the conversation is framed by the parched, dustbowl of the plains or the shrivelled olives foretelling a disasterous harvest. People are forlorn: longing for the wave of autumn rains which remain stubbornly at bay. Signs of hope are remote - it moved me to find fresh flowering Merenderas, pink splays of petals, drawing on moisture stored in their bulbs, casting early morning shadows across the dust, as seemingly lifeless as the surface of the Moon.

Merendera (Martin Kelsey)

But last week some solace was found in the environment of an urban park, right in the centre of our capital city, Mérida. We started at the magnificent two-thousand year-old Roman Bridge, spanning the Guadiana River,  the longest surving Roman bridge in the world. The river's name itself acts as a parenthesis to the Roman heritage: a composite word derived from the post-Roman Arabic word "wādī " meaning river, and a pre-Roman word "ana", also meaning river. Downstream on the western bank there is a strip of public park. Here watered lawns soothe the eyes and the clumps of ornamental trees offer pools of shade. It is an oasis in these times of drought. The riverbank is clothed by Typha reedmace. Across the park are playgrounds, paths and benches, refuge for the residents of the apartment blocks of the residential zones beyond.

David Lindo on his local patch, with friends (Martin Kelsey)

This green and watered land is refuge too for other denizens, a wonderful conglomeration of birds, attracted by the same elements as the people here: water, shade, the softness of foliage. The birds have places to forage in and rest. This is the local patch for my friend and colleague, the Urban Birder David Lindo. He lives just minutes from this park and when not working overseas, will stroll along the river bank here, downstream for a kilometre or so from the Roman Bridge. This is his beat, to reconnect after periods of absence to a local milieu, to track from day to day, week to week and month to month, the flux and change of the birdlife. Most birders have such haunts, a place where a such a depth of familiarity is achieved that in one's mind's eye each tree and bush can be visualised, regular perches for particular species recognised and one becomes driven by the anticipation of surprise and discovery. For many such birders, finding an addition to one's local patch list can be as exhilarating as seeing a bird for the first time ever. Despite only working this site for about three year's now, and with long absences abroad, David has already clocked up 115 species in this short stretch of parkland and riverside.

Migrant Pied Flycatcher in Mérida (Martin Kelsey)
As we strolled through the park, both Pied and Spotted Flycatchers were making use of the dappled shade to dart out on fly-catching sallies, Hoopoes probed in the luxury of recently watered turf, whilst Willow Warblers seemed to lurk in almost every corner. We stood and watched a migrant Tree Pipit as it sauntered in bouyant gait at the edge of tall grass. Bird on passage, stocking up their reserves prior to their trans-Saharan crossing are present across the region at the moment, but those who had paused to feed here struck me as especially privileged. It is very likely that many of these individuals will remember this oasis beside the Guadiana, amidst the streets, stone and concrete of the city and be here again in a year's time - to be watched again by the Urban Birder.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017


Booted Eagle in September (John Hawkins)

Summer clings on, despite the delicious freshness at dawn. The countryside is poised on stand-by until the first rains of autumn. The sound of August's piping Bee-eaters have long gone and replaced by the incongruous cheeping of Booted Eagles. Slowly circling against the porcelain sky, this aggressive small eagle utters a premigratory chitting call, recalling a slowed-down version of the cheeps of a day-old poultry chick. I hear this call in the spring as well, as pairs dance over newly established territories. Now it seems like a lament, to the vestige of their sojourn here in Extremadura.

There is barely no other movement. Clusters of House Martins on the wires disperse into a void during the day, and Red-rumped Swallows, now in family groups, descend in wide glides to nest sites to roost at dusk. But during the day, a heavy emptiness hangs over the olive groves and fields. Only the indefatigable Heliotrope is in flower, somehow finding sustenance in the dust. But sit and observe. There is a silent migration underway. A flitter betrays a Pied Flycatcher, appearing from the base of low canopy to seize an insect and withdrawing again to perch, almost invisibly, in the shadows. When one bird encounters another, there will be the short, whip-crack like calls of contact breaking the brooding silence. I can see more Pied Flycatchers in half an hour at this time of the year, than in the whole of spring: testament to a loop migration which sends millions through the Iberian Peninsular as they move south, whilst their northward return takes them much further to the east. Each day small birds are trickling through, pausing, feeding and resting: flyatchers, redstarts, Whinchats, Willow Warblers, Garden Warblers and Whitethroats. They appear briefly from cover, quietly waiting for garrulous Azure-winged Magpies to finish bathing and drinking at the few remaining places where water can be found.

The story is different in places where there is a lot of water. The rice harvest is now underway and yesterday I sat in my car and watched as just a few feet away from me bundles of Cattle Egrets, Little Egrets and a Squacco Heron, joined by Lesser Black-backed and Black-headed Gulls, clamboured and leap-frogged over each other as a tractor mashed the stubble into an oozy, food-rich quagmire. Far more dainty were the Yellow Wagtails (I counted over eighty in a field barely the size of two tennis courts) busy catching smaller prey. Their movements were jerky yet purposeful, taking long darting strides culminating with a split-second lunge (sometimes aided by a flutter of the wings) to pick-up an insect with their tweezer-like bills. Across this constantly moving flock, there was a staggering variation of colours, from rather grey juvenile birds to males in rich satin hues of yellows, olive-greens, whites and blues.  They were colour-coded as per their origin: Iberian birds with bluish heads, yellow underparts and white throats, Central European birds with yellow throats and darker blue heads and at least two British birds with a glorious strong-lemon, suffused against a more yellow-toned green on the backs, how appropriate their subspecific trinomial: Motacilla flava flavissima!
Yellow Wagtail (M.f.favissima) Martin Kelsey

I stopped to take a look at a small gravel-based water tank, thronging with Mallard and Teal, still in postnuptial eclipse plumage. Some migrant Pintail up-ended and swimming close to them were four juvenile Great Flamingos, part of an usually large influx into Extremadura this year. A party of coot were reaching up to pick off seeds from some inundated grasses. I gave them a casual check with my telescope, as a final gesture before heading back to car. One caught my attention with its rear-end pushed up more markedly than usual. As it turned, its bluish bill contrasted with a smooth-sided white frontal shield with a distinctive square-top. I realised that I had just found a Red-knobbed Coot, a rarity in Extremadura from the deep south of Spain, perhaps dispersing outwards from the drought-ridden marismas. It was the first I had seen in the region for over a year.

Red-knobbed Coot (rather distant) Martin Kelsey

Monday, 14 August 2017

The sound of silence

Bee-eater (John Hawkins)

Returning to Extremadura after several weeks away and I am confronted by Lucifer, the name, I hasten to add, given to this year's Mediterranean blast-from-an-open-oven heatwave. Pleasure is found at dawn, when the air still feels fresh. I slowly walk on the plains, each footstep a crunch of brittle grass, as bundles of Calandra Larks twang across my view just a few feet from the ground. At the same height a male Montagu's Harrier is hunting, seeking signs of movement of possible prey in that narrow window of time before the heat pushes the rodents and small birds into cover. The subtly-changing hues of the landscape as the low sun rolls out have a transitional depth. In just a few hours, the light has flattened and we are left with a bicoloured impression: the remarkably uniform golden blond of the crisp dry herbaceous vegetation, set against the sombre green of the encina holm oaks of the dehesas. And above, an extraordinarily plain Dunnock egg-blue sky, empty of cloud and even bereft of life, until a passing Red-rumped Swallow chortles slowly overhead.

There is a strong sense of stillness at this time of year, silence. There is barely a yelp from a Little Owl at dusk and certainly no calling amphibians, simply subdued crickets at night. And I can stand in the middle of day, under this azure sky, not a breath or a must surely be the only time of the year here when everything is so still, so silent. Until a soft"prrt", repeated three times, then more rapidly into a chorus, joyfully, breathlessly, almost adopting a Castillian lisp. The "prrt" becomes slightly slurred "pwwrrt". This sound of silence comes from the empty sky, and despite struggling to do so, I cannot locate its source. But I can tell that these calls come from many birds, a large flock indeed, and it is one of the most easily recognisable of bird calls here: Bee-eaters.

And at this time of the year, almost everywhere I stop, I can pick up this sound. Bee-eaters are amassing in readiness for their migration southwards. Sometimes, I do encounter these groups, especially in the rice fields, perched on cables and darting off in a sally to swoop down over the intense green of the crop. They arch back to perch, with their wings pleasingly uplifted in a salute as they do so, with a dragonfly in their bills. The paddies are seething with millions of Red-veined Darters, a superb resource for these aerial hunters.

Red-veined Darter (Martin Kelsey

The profile of the Bee-eaters over the last few days has risen not merely for these post-nuptial concentrations, their omnipresence. A press release from ASAJA (a national association representing young farmers) on behalf of bee-keepers has described a devastation of the bees by Bee-eaters this year, causing a massive fall in honey production. Honey production is important in Extremadura with about five thousand tonnes produced annually, supporting, according to ASAJA, 1600 families. The Lucifer heatwave, the prolonged hot spell before it, coupled by the severe drought all year, have truncated the flowering season significantly, yet of the reported 60% fall in honey output this year, only 20% is claimed to be due to severe weather conditions and 40% attributed to the Bee-eaters, although no evidence is given to base this assertion. Neither is any mention made of the role of pesticides on bee populations. Furthermore, they describe the Bee-eater as an "invasive" species, a description lazily picked-up by some journalists, despite the fact that far from being invasive,  Bee-eaters are not only native to Spain, but have lived alongside bees in Extremadura for millenia.

I applaud and admire young people who are resisting the temptation to migrate to the cities and instead seek to build livelihoods on the land in Extremadura. The landscape and the wildlife it supports is the outcome of an intricate relationship built up over the centuries with rural communities. Without young people, the small villages here will slowly die (as they are doing in many parts of Spain). It is a tough life and I can empathise with the anxiety and natural reaction of a honey producer in a difficult year seeing a flock of Bee-eaters descend to feed on the bees around the hives. However, scientific research by at least two different universities in Spain shows that the impact of Bee-eaters on bees and honey production is negligable. Sadly,  ASAJA is misleading young farmers and the public by failing to be scientifically credible and accurate. In response to these representations, the government of Extremadura will permit honey producers to use methods to scare Bee-eaters away (including the firing of shotguns), although specific requests detailing methods and time-frame will need to be submitted for approval. The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries, Food and the Environment already has recommendations on techniques which are known to be much more effective and are simple to adopt without causing disturbance to the birds (such as caged protection to hives and providing access to water close to hives where bees can drink in extremely hot weather). Conservation groups are urging that these tried and tested measures are the ones that should be approved.

What is saddest of all is that another opportunity has been lost to build alliances to address the fundamental challenges facing both birds and bees. Positions between the honey sector and conservation have become needlessly entrenched when actually there is massive common interest. The enemy to both is insidious and invisible, but well known: the increasing use of pesticides in the environment.

Tuesday, 13 June 2017

Connections and reconnections

Pygmy Owl in Belavejskaya Puscha (Martin Kelsey)

Extremadura lies in the south-western corner of Europe, with depopulated rural communities and an extraordinary diversity of habitats, many with the dimensions of landscapes, holding globally important populations of certain species of birds. Last week, I visited Belarus in the north-eastern corner of Europe, thinly populated too, with landscape-scale ecosystems, also critically important for certain species. It was a journey which became almost a pilgrimage, a discovery of connections and significant personal reconnections.
Water meadows of Pripyat River, Belarus (Martin Kelsey)

My visit focused on three landscapes, all very different from anything I can encounter on my home turf in Spain. The first was the extensive water meadows of the Pripyat River, close to the small town of Turov in southern Belarus. Sometimes the river was visible, sometimes not, but always water was in view. Earlier in the year the river will have spilled over, creating a vast shallow lake, but now at the start of June, the waters had retreated to the meandering braids of the river, to old drainage channels and to shallow patches in the low-lying fields. What the river had left behind were lush water meadows. These used to be cut for hay later in the year and used as a grazing marsh, but many have suffered degrees of encroachment by willow scrub as farming practices slowly change. The conservation organisation, APB-BirdLife Belarus, organises volunteer camps to keep the meadows open, as the habitat they provide is home to a host of evocative species. I stood with Dzmitry Vintchevski on a small raised bank, looking towards meadows, just across from the muddy-sided channel in front of me. There was a constant sound and a visual sensation of waves as everywhere I looked birds were rising and falling, a medley of motion. Black-tailed Godwits and Common Redshanks were bustling in the sky. In the middle distance, White-winged, Black and Whiskered Terns lolled up and down like gentle lapping water and gave me the only clue that another channel lay beyond this body of lush grass. Common and Little Terns took more purposeful direct flight. From time to time there were more intense flurries of activity as waders mobbed a passing Hooded Crow. On the muddy margin close to us, a Terek Sandpiper bobbed its way along the water's edge, appearing lop-sided and unbalanced with its long, slightly up-turned bill but rather short legs. Closing my eyes, I absorbed the sounds: a rasping Corncrake pitched against the strident, clean calls of the waders.
Azure Tit (Martin Kelsey)

Along an embankment, we entered the shade of some willows. A Thrush Nightingale sang from a tangle below us, whilst beside a small, wooden house and its vegetable plot with rows of potatoes and strawberries a Common Rosefinch gave long, tuneful notes. This was where I had one of the top encounters of my visit. As a child, looking through the plates in a bird book, certain species caught the imagination more than others. Close to a very familiar species, a Blue Tit, was an extraordinarily exotic-looking bird. With broadly similar patterning as a Blue Tit, its plumage was essentially reduced to pure white and different shades of blue, giving its name - the Azure Tit. It became a dream bird, unattainable as its range lay beyond the Iron Curtain. Now, on a slender willow twig arrived this breathtakingly stunning bird, my first Azure Tit. It was far more strikingly beautiful than the book illustrations suggested. Much of the body was the purest of white, which marked too the outer feathers of the tail, which spread like a vivid beacon. Much of the blue was the tone of a summer sky, darkening on the wings and there forming a white-bordered panel. Longer-tailed than a Blue Tit, its wings shimmered as its mate approached. We had stumbled across these mythical birds and so doing, discovered that they were building a nest, entering a narrow crevice in a fruit tree bordering the cottage garden. We stood for more than an hour watching them, as they seemed completely oblivious to our presence. Indeed the only interspecific behaviour we saw is when they drove off a comparatively dowdy-looking Blue Tit.
Azure Tit (Martin Kelsey)

The next landscape was also wet, but mire habitat rather than water meadow. Here, at the Sporovsky Reserve, I stood with Viktar Fenchuk as the sun was setting, The short sedge growth barely reached our knees. Scattered across the expanse of this sedge fenland were iris stems, bearing their yellow flag flowers. We started to hear a short rattling sound, culminating with squeaky flourishes. I had waited many years to hear this...the song of Aquatic Warbler. As darkness fell, so others started to sing. I was anxious to get a view of the bird itself, and it did not take me long to find one close by, singing from an iris stem high above the sedge layer. It perched bolt upright, its bill wide open as it produced its rattle, its distinctive head pattern with a pale crown stripe and boldly marked back. Soon I had found another, also using a clump of irises to lift it into view. This is a compellingly fascinating bird on so many levels. Of the Acrocephalus group of warblers, it is remarkable in having no pair bond at all.  Females alone  care for the young, which may well have been sired by several different males. Females will be choosing males not on the basis of their performance as diligent fathers, but rather hoping to ensure sexy sons.

Aquatic Warblers were once so common in central Europe that they were called the sparrows of the fens in Germany, but are now probably the rarest and most threatened European passerine. Their stronghold is Belarus, but remarkably it was not until about twenty years ago that they were even known to be breeding in the country. Their conservation has been spearheaded by APB BirdLife Belarus and indeed the species has been the driver of much conservation effort there. Scrub encroachment was traditionally kept at bay by the cutting of the sedge as forage, but now to ensure survival of the open sedge mire, APB bought a special sedge-cutting tractor.
Song time for Aquatic Warblers: dusk at Sporovsky (Martin Kelsey)

As the light faded, the Aquatic Warbler song increased in intensity, the vibrations of Common Snipe drumming overhead soothed like a massage, a Corncrake scraped. We then started hearing a quiet crackling sound, like paper rustling, along with a bizarre, high-pitched disembodied wavering. Suddenly two birds flew up from the sedge in a vertical head-to-head and then flew a short circuit in pursuit. Their white tail corners seemed charged with brilliance as they banked ahead of us. They were lekking Great Snipe - choosing like the Aquatic Warblers nightfall for their seduction.

Great Grey Owl at Vyanaschanski Forest (Martin Kelsey)

My journey culminated in the great forest of the Belavejskaya Puscha on the border with Poland, extending into the neighbouring country under the name Bialowieza Forest. The Belavejskaya Puscha National Park itself covers over 150,000 ha, although the Biosphere Reserve covers a full 216,000 ha (40% of Belarus is forest-covered). It is described as the last remaining primeval forest in Europe, but human activities (selective felling, hunting) have created some impact over the centuries. My childhood awareness of this forest came from documentaries about this sole refuge of European Bison and then as a graduate student I knew the great Polish ornithologist Tomasz Wesolowski who has spent his career studying the bird community of the forest there. I became fascinated with the differences between bird ecology in that great forest compared with the well-studied English woodlands. In terms of species diversity and the role of predation it was more akin to the bird communities in tropical forests.

Giant oak tree in Belavejskaya Puscha (Martin Kelsey)

My two and half days of exploring the Belavejskaya Puscha bestowed many impressions. First, the forest was much more varied than I had imagined. I moon-walked on the bouncy surface of a raised bog, fringed by birch. There were forests dominated by huge spruces, others by pines whose bark had the texture of pangolin scales, hornbeams were the survivalists against browsing deer. Most breathtaking were the huge oaks, well over a hundred feet in height and centuries old, whose trunks were as straight as pillars. But equally significant was the amount of dead wood, moss-covered trunks lying criss-crossed on the forest floor and leaning against brethren. A million niches for invertebrates and vertebrates alike. I had never seen tree gaps like this away from tropical forest, where a forest giant had fallen, bringing down other trees with it, gashing open the canopy to bring in light. A whole micro-community of saplings and shrubs rush to fill the gap. The oak groves were especially rich in bird life: a constant sound of song from Wood Warblers, Collared and Red-breasted Flycatchers. I was there when the Great Spotted Woodpeckers (one of the arch predators of woodland birds) had noisy young in their hole nests and the density of this species was extraordinary. But we also came across nest sites of Three-toed and Middle Spotted Woodpeckers, as well as watching White-backed and Grey-headed Woodpeckers with the thumping drumming of Black Woodpeckers within earshot.

Natural tree gap in Belavejskaya Puscha (Martin Kelsey) 

In open glades we came across groups of Bison, often accompanied by Red Deer and such places were wonderful to pause by simply to wait for birds to appear, be they a hunting Lesser Spotted Eagle or a pair of Common Cranes.

Bison and Red Deer Deer in Belavejskaya Puscha (Martin Kelsey)

On my last evening, I stood at dusk at the edge of small lake with the forest behind me. Viktar was with me, with his son Sacha and colleague Nicolay. On a makeshift table there was some rye bread, tomatoes, cucumber, cheese and sausages, with a bottle of local vodka. A pair of Whooper Swans with five cygnets sidled away from us and a roding Woodcock passed overhead. At the forest border a River Warbler buzzed, but closer to me an anarchic yet coherent song caused me to stop still in my tracks. I closed my eyes and let my memory intertwine with this fluid improvisation. I had spent three years of my life studying Marsh Warblers (over thirty years ago) but I was carried even further back, to childhood on my grandparents' small farm in Germany and the sound of this song from the willows and nettles beside the reed-filled boundary ditch.

This visit to Belarus had made me think about connections: perhaps the Common Cranes and Song Thrushes I had seen in the forest spend the winter in Extremadura, as do the Lapwings of the Pripyat water meadows. We know that Aquatic Warblers pass through Spain on their way to their newly-discovered winter quarters in West Africa, and friends of mine trapped one in Extremadura last year. In both Belarus and Extremadura habitats fill landscapes and have changed but slowly over the centuries. Even more profoundly, I also became reconnected to vivid moments of childhood and to early dreams. Longings had been satiated in this visit, even a reconnection to some lost folk memory perhaps, embraced by the song of waders and Corncrakes, to a time when all places seemed full of birds.

I am indebted to APB BirdLife Belarus for making the arrangements for my visit and finding me truly excellent and knowledgeable local guides and experts. For anyone thinking of visiting this wonderful country, I would strongly recommend contacting APB and asking them to organise a tour for you. Not only will you benefit from the best local knowledge, but you will be directly contributing to the work that APB does to protect the birds and habitats of Belarus. If you are interested, please contact Valeryia Sashko or  

Friday, 19 May 2017

Rolling rolling rolling

Roller (John Hawkins)

Dropping from its perch, the bird performs a low gliding arc, the presumption of which will be a sweeping ascent to another position, further along the line of electricity cables beside the road. Contrarian as ever, the bird breaks from this smooth curve, rises and then enters a chaotic, swerving motion. The wings appear yanked forcibly in opposing directions, causing the bird to wobble dramatically, widely spread they reveal a blast of electric blue, of breathtaking intensity, a vibrant contrast to the soft blue that occupies most of the plumage. This rolling action ends as the bird abruptly takes a perch - and it gives us the common name of the species, the Roller. It had joined its mate and they perched close to each other. They embark on a bowing display, heads held aloft, bills pointing almost vertically upwards and then a series of slow heavy nods, as if concluding some weighty discussion. Incongruous to the sophistication of their plumage, the call which accompanies the rolling display is a rudimentary rattling cackle, giving the Spanish name for the species, the "Carraca", where the rolling comes not from the visual display, but from the Castillian rolling of the double "rr".

Fancy nestboxes have been bequested to these birds, each fastened to the wooden telegraph poles that bear the cables beside the road. We have found a safe place to park and we sit and watch for over an hour. The pairs of Rollers show a lot of bonding. The slightly more brightly-coloured male drops from the perch and makes a brief hover above the blonding grasses. Once again the vivid blue wings grab our attention as it drops to the ground, becoming submerged in the swaying vegetation. Its disappearance is momentary, as it quickly rises, carrying in its powerful black bill what looks like a cricket. It perches beside the waiting female, sidles up to her and feeds her his gift.

The Rollers' real estate is the nest box, and although several pairs are present along this stretch of the road, giving a feel of a colony, the chases between individuals indicate strongly held territories within this area. There is a surfeit of boxes, many more than the Rollers could possibly occupy, which offers opportunities for other birds. Spotless Starlings jostle beside some, Jackdaws beside others. Through the entrance hole of another, I receive the cross stare of a Little Owl. But from the behaviour of our pair of Rollers it seems that they have secure possesion of their box. The female sits on the ledge, the male above her. They look secure and established. And then something unexpected happens.

Roller (John Hawkins)

The female has popped inside the box and cannot be seen. The male comes down to the ledge and starts calling in a loud and fiercely agitated fashion into the hole. We assume that we are witnessing some domestic dispute, but the haranguing continues with the male retreating to the top of the box as the female emerges. She is not alone. She is physically pulling out, by the scruff of her neck as it were, a female Lesser Kestrel. The kestrel protests noisily, but to no avail as she is dragged clear of the box. The Roller continues to pull at the kestrel as they tumble together into the grass, the very same patch where just minutes earlier, the male Roller had collected his nuptial gift for his mate. To offer support, he has plunged down as well and for a moment all one can see is the expanse of sheer blue plumage, whilst the furious kestrel sits with her wings spread clumsily over the grass. She then seizes the opportunity to flee, and with a panicked flight departs, chased for a few metres by the dominant Rollers. Back they return to the box, resuming once more their positions: one on the entrance ledge and the other on the cable. Had we arrived at that moment only, or indeed had left five minutes earlier, we would not have witnessed this extraordinary interaction.

Sunday, 30 April 2017

A bee-eater with a difference

Blue-cheeked Bee-eater (Judd Hunt)
I look forward to late April each year when the birding company Shetland Wildlife sends out a group to spend a week's holiday in Extremadura. They stay at our home, Casa Rural El Recuerdo, and I share the role of leading the group with my good friend Judd Hunt. I had not known Judd before we met about ten years ago in the Monfragüe National Park, but it transpired that we had a great number of mutual birding friends and we both birded in our adolescence in South Wales. I left the region in the late 1970s, but Judd lives there still and I always enjoy a catch-up with him on how the birds (and birders) are doing there now. Judd is not only a wonderful person, he is also a great guide and superb birder. He gained great acclaim last year when he found Britain's first Siberian Accentor.

It was the final full day of this year's tour and in the latter part of the week the weather had changed quite dramatically from hot and settled conditions to being cold and windy, with rain (although a huge respite from the devastating drought that we have suffered this spring). We normally take the group high into the edge of the Gredos Mountains on the last day, to look for Western Bonelli's Warblers singing in the deciduous Pyrennean oak and Ortolan Buntings returning to their territories on the moorlands of broom scrub above the tree-line. But with the forecast of low cloud, a fierce easterly wind and showers our plans were quickly changed.

We spent the morning on the plains west of Trujillo, having the best views so far of Great Spotted Cuckoo and enjoying once more the medley of larks, with some Pin-tailed Sandgrouse thrown in. Then, after our picnic, eaten in the shelter of our vehicles, I suggested that we headed south-east to visit a pool which earlier in the week had delighted us with its show of Collared Pratincoles. A few waders had been present which would also be interesting to look at again, just in case other species had arrived. Struggling against a head-on wind, a quick scan showed that the pratincoles had gone, but the variety of waders had been enriched with the presence of a Temminck's Stint, two Curlew Sandpipers, three Sanderling and a Spotted Redshank, amongst the couple of dozen of Little Stint and Dunlin already there.

It was now mid-afternoon and pleased with the selection of birds we had found, I considered how best to make use of our remaining time. As we had driven through the rice-growing area I had noticed that some of the fields were now flooded, announcing that moment in the rice-growing calendar when the the spring landscape of parched, dry bare-earth transforms to a vast wetland as the rice gets sown. It would be worthwhile driving through this area in case we found places where there may be more waders feeding. I decided to take a short-cut through an area of dehesa, along a dirt track which would take us onto the rice fields. That track I knew would give us some good opportunities to see and photograph birds such as Woodlark and potentially Turtle Dove.

As we turned onto the track, I led the way and after just a couple of hundred metres stopped to watch a small group of Bee-eaters that were coming to settle on the fence in front of us. The bad weather was forcing them to prolong their perching and make fewer foraging sallies for bees. We watched two in front of us, their heads facing the wind, making minor adjustments with the line of the bodies to ensure balance. As they flew off, I drove on to let Judd and his group take up position to enjoy them whilst we slowly continued along the track. The track rose and descended and I stopped to wait for Judd to arrive, as we could now longer see his vehicle.  Suddenly my walkie-talkie crackled but the incoming message from Judd was inaudible. I replied "Can you repeat?". My mobile phone rang and I struggled to get it out of my pocket. It was Judd with what turned out to be a wonderful understatement "Hi Martin, I think I have a Blue-cheeked Bee-eater".

Blue-cheeked Bee-eater (Judd Hunt)
I reversed up the track until reaching a place to turn and parked up directly in front of Judd. He was pointing to my right and we checked the wires and trees: nothing. Carefully I got out and went over to Judd: "It's on the ground". And there it was, sitting huddled and rather miserable-looking, on a clod of earth, a Blue-cheeked Bee-eater. We managed to get everyone in the team to see it and cameras worked overtime. This was the first time this species had ever been seen in Extremadura (and only the ninth time in Spain - see the other records here) so I sent a photo directly to some other birders in the region to tell them of the find. Judd described to me how he had been photographing the Bee-eaters and suddenly in the viewfinder of his camera appeared one which looked all green.  There was a bubble of excitement which rose as simultaneously we obtained as much documentary evidence as possible, whilst at the same time simply absorbing this unique moment. What struck me whilst looking at the bird was the sheer size of its bill, looking longer that the length of the head.

Blue-cheeked Bee-eater (Martin Kelsey)

We watched until the bird flew off, moving further into the dehesa with the other bee-eaters. There are perhaps a million Bee-eaters in Extremadura - no one really knows - and they can be found almost anywhere. What were the odds of finding the one group in the region to which this rarity had become attached? Pure serendipity to take that particular track, along which we did indeed have some splendid views of Turtle Dove, although we never did see Woodlark. That is birding.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017


Bonelli's Eagle (John Hawkins)

The Pin-tailed Sandgrouse slowly trundle around on the sparsely vegetated slope. They are distant but show well with that diamond-honed crystal light bequeathed to us during the short space between sunrise and the first vibrations of heat. Broad-shouldered, but small-headed, they peck at unseen objects, sometimes pausing to peer around, revealing the blast of orange-yellow on the breast above the pure white of their bellies. Suddenly they rise as one, giving a raucous alarm which seems utterly incongruous against the song of the Calandra Larks around us, a cry which would fit better on some coastal island or sea-cliff, gull or even auk-like. Showing remarkably dynamic flight, they lift as one, swirl and rise, becoming lost to our view against the clear blue sky. At the zenith of their ascent, the flock becomes a pyrotechnic, seemingly exploding like an animate firework, breaking into twos and threes and scattering in all directions. We become surrounded by the calls but the attempt to locate and watch the flying birds becomes almost futile. The birds have succeeded in completely confusing our senses, we simply do not know which way to look.

On this occasion we are not the cause of the sandgrouses' panic and response, merely bystanders, witnesses. What drove this eruption is an immature Peregrine which wheels high and then glides in a slow descent. It too has had its senses bewildered by this deliberate impulse by the sandgrouse. It lands in the very same field that had been occupied by them and sits upright on a small stone to regain its composure. This bare gradient clings onto its lure for the Pin-tailed Sandgrouse however, for within minutes we watch the return of three clusters, about ten birds in all. Our telescopes pan from the Peregrine to the sandgrouse, now getting back to their quiet foraging and then back to the falcon.  But astonishingly we are soon no longer confronted with this choice since within the single field of view, we can watch the Peregrine standing proud whilst within just a few feet of him, the now nonchalant sandgrouse feed.

The object of their erstwhile fear and panic has transformed to a harmless onlooker. A Peregrine standing on the ground presents no threat, it has been disarmed.  The vigilants in the group pass the raptor without a second glance and then peer skyward, searching with a wit honed by evolution for the sign of a hunting raptor or the sound of other birds in alarm. Within the space of just minutes two separate encounters with the same individual hunter have elicited from the sandgrouse two contrasting reactions.

Our patience and willingness to stay put and wait had rewarded us richly, as it did a few days later. Early afternoon found us standing in front of a magnificent cliff, with aged wrinked rocks patterned by lichen blemishes.  But it had been slow, with few distractions apart from the effortless Griffon Vultures and some distant Alpine Swifts. But it pays to stay put. At last, that most evocative of eagles, the Bonelli's, drifted across the rock face. It is a species that appears without warning, more an ambush than an encounter. The complex patterned underwing with the blackish diagonal band, was shown to perfection against the etched quartzite backdrop. It gave an idle tussle with a Griffon Vulture as it passed and then rose above the skyline, turning in a wide arc. Nearby, in utter contrast to the eagle's engineered form, wheeled a gangly Black Stork, appearing all appendages: spindly legs hanging downward, the long red bill bourne by a lithe irridescent neck. But somehow by paddling the blackness of its wings, the stork managed to make a lunge towards the eagle. Ignoring this attempt, the eagle glided effortlessly along the ridge top, finding rest in a perilously-positioned holm oak. Hidden from view it may have been, but the stork had watched the eagle's passage and now made more composed elegant dives towards the crown of the tree, a bravura of mobbing before making its own departure from the scene.

Great Bustards (John Hawkins)

These encounters had offered drama, but let me relate another moment when we had also been silent witnesses, when the birds had been unaware of our presence, portraying a moment of charm and intimacy. It was another morning on the plains, we stood for an hour immersed in the courtship dances of lekking Great Bustards. The rivalry of the males had reached a peak and two individuals in particular, which had been staring at each other, head-to-head, started making lunges. This excited the other males present, causing more distant birds to charge over as spectators in expectation of what might erupt as a full bloodied-fight. One very large male that had displaying on its own, rushed over, its still inflated orange neck wobbling from side to side like a  monstrously obese belly. The flurry of attacks between the two rivals climaxed in sufficient physical contact for a richly patterned tail feather to drop in a see-saw motion to the ground. As the battle shifted, with the prancing males edging each other up the hill, the fallen feather distracted one of the spectators. He paused and looked down. There followed what can only be described as curiosity or even play. He picked up the feather in his bill and let it drop. As it settled, he picked it up again, released it and watched it fall to the ground. This action was repeated twice more before he strode away. For me the moment was precious, a tiny interlude, an encounter between the male Great Bustard, a feather and an unseen observer.

Monday, 3 April 2017

orchid trickery

Sawfly Orchid (Ophrys tenthredinifera) Martin Kelsey

Spring comes tumbling in from the middle of March onwards in Extremadura, an avalanche of new birds: migrants fresh from a trans-Saharan crossing, busy and expectant. Indeed by early April I have had sightings of almost all of our summer visitors, apart from just a handful of notoriously later species. The few remaining winter visitors suddenly look out of place - Meadow Pipits appearing even more nervous and jerky than ever.

This is also peak orchid season in Extremadura, with the highest numbers of species findable that are in full and spectacular bloom. I can find orchids in flower from January to June, but late March and early April are when certain spots on the isolated strips of lime-rich soil become places of paradise. Few of these sites can be fairly described as scenic treats. Yes, I know of locations where one will find special orchids in gorgeous meadows surrounded by wild olives and imposing crags, on a slope affording views of eighty kilometres or more. But many of these sites are quite unprepossessing: scrappy corners of derelict land, litter-strewn roadside verges, thin weary almond orchards. I celebrate the presence of orchids in such places, a testament to their determination and mystery.

The name Orchid comes from the Ancient Greek órkhis, which means testicle, on account of the shape of the two tubers shown by some species. One of these tubers stores food for the plant, whilst the other is where the spring growth will occur. Orchids in our climate spend most of the year underground, using the warmth and rainfall of spring for growth, flowering and building up reserves for the following year. It is underground that the wind-blown and almost microscopic seeds encounter the fungi without which they cannot germinate, an intimate life-sustaining relationship invisible to our gaze.

The most intriguing and beguiling of them all are the bee orchids, members of the genus Ophrys. Unlike other orchids and other insect-pollinated plants where the pollinator visits through promise of a nectar reward, the bee orchids use blatant trickery. An extraordinary process of evolution has resulted in the flower mimicking the scent and to some extent the shape and colours of a female insect to bring the male in to land, vainly attempt to mate with it and then to leave with a dusting of pollen. The scent produced will be unique to a single species of insect, on which that orchid will thus depend, luring the male insect with the promise of sex.

Now is the time to see almost all of Extremadura's Ophrys orchids. A few, like the Sawfly Orchid (Ophrys tenthredinifera) are widespread and common, popping up with their joyful clown-like visages in meadows and along drovers' trails (see photo at top of post).

Some like the Early Spider Orchid (O.incubacea) and stunningly-patterned Woodcock Orchid (O.scolopax) can grow as tall slender plants, with flowers spaced along the stem.

Early Spider Orchid (O.incubaceaMartin Kelsey

Woodcock Orchid (O.scolopaxMartin Kelsey

The black and yellow of the Yellow Bee Orchid (O.lutea) tricks the eye in Golden Oriole-fashion, making the plant surprisingly cyptic.

 Yellow Bee Orchid (O.lutea) Martin Kelsey
The highly localised Bumblebee Orchid (O.bombyliflora) is so small and inconspiquous that one wonders whether its rarity is more about the challenge to simply detect it.

Bumblebee Orchid (O.bombylifloraMartin Kelsey

The commoner Mirror Orchid (O.speculum), also small in stature, has a bizarrely shaped flower when seen in close-up.

Mirror Orchid (O.speculumMartin Kelsey

Orchid taxonomy is both complex and fluid. Hybrids are frequent and some species produce variations in colour and patterning that both excite and puzzle the aficionados. Following locally accepted species, I have a special fondness for the Sombre Orchid group: O. fuscus, O. bilunulata and O.dyris. They stand modestly, as if awaiting your discovery, and so easy to overlook if they merely face away from your gaze. The Sombre group continues to yield more discoveries in Extremadura and more debate.

Sombre Orchid group O. fuscus Martin Kelsey

O. bilunulata Martin Kelsey

O.dyris Martin Kelsey
This Ophrys peak subsides as the ground dries and the temperature rises. In their place our focus shifts to the Serapias tongue orchids (also a fest of discovery and taxonomic challenges) as well as species at higher, milder altitudes. But the bee orchids have a swansong as I found, retracing my steps on a favourite path, weeks after my previous visit. Dessicated spikes that had bourne orchid flowers poked through withered brittle grass. I carefully walked through the crisp undergrowth until jolted by surprise with the mocking face, or so it looked, on a clean and fresh Bee Orchid (O.apifera).

Bee Orchid (O.apifera) Martin Kelsey

But nearby was something even more special. Thought to be unique to this hillside beside the town of Almaráz grows what is considered a form of Bee Orchid (O. apifera var. almaracenis), a deep blush, highly pigmented and thriving at precisely that time of year when its other cogeners were slowly shutting down.
Almaráz Bee Orchid (O. apifera var. almaracenis) Martin Kelsey

I left puzzled at what made such a distinct form to be described as a variation rather than true species, baffled by taxonomy. I wondered too whether the male insects tricked by such a distinctive-looking form would be the same as with the regular apifera. Had anyone analysed the scents produced by them? The Ophrys chapter had closed for the year, but questions that I could never answer remained.