Birding Extremadura

The sun rises over the slopes of Pedro Muñoz at 08.23 (Martin Kelsey) The Cetti's Warbler had beaten me to it. I started my first lockdown birding session of the day at 06.25, a full 97 minutes before sunrise. I had been expecting the Little Owls to be calling, and they were. I had hoped for Scops Owl - but they were not. But as I got out of bed at 06.15, an abrupt barrage of sound assaulted me: an impatient but rich-toned blast coming from the bottom of the garden. Their Spanish name Ruiseñor bastardo can be translated as "False Nightingale", based largely due to similarities between their warm brown plumage and often skulking habits, but lacking the quality of the real Ruiseñor . However, a shared trait for nocturnal song could also account for its etymology. It was an awe-inspiring dark sky, no moon, no clouds and no suggestion whatsoever of a glow to the east. The Milky Way stretched overhead. The zodiacal constellations Sagittarius, Scorpio and Capricorn prese...

River Guadiana (Martin Kelsey) Spring ended with a thump. Suddenly we are where we should be in middle of June: summer, with cloudless skies and crispy dry blonded vegetation. Yet, just over a week ago this extraordinary stretched-out spring gifted us moderate temperatures, clouds and meadows still looking like an artist's palette, chaotic in colour. A whole cycle has spun slower this year. Plants have flowered later (our olives are still in blossom), fruits are several weeks later than normal. But the cool and damp spring held butterflies at bay. I spent most of the day walking along the banks of the Guadiana River, the second great watercourse through Extremadura. It moves sluggishly east to west across the northern half of the Badajoz province. Helped by temperatures close to 40ºC, it had a truly tropical feel about it. It reminded me rather of the Nile in southern Sudan. There is a gallery woodland of poplars, ash and willows, with stretches of exotic eucalyptus as well....

My huerto (Martin Kelsey) I confess that too often it takes second place and suffers an inevitable neglect. But there are few places that give me such a sense of satisfaction as my little vegetable garden, my huerto . Lying just in view from our main gate, at the base of the slope carrying our olives and beside the ancient pond, is my fenced-off plot, probably well less than half the size of a standard British allotment (which is ten poles - a wonderful old measure dating back to Anglo-Saxon times and about 250 square metres). It is in summer when my visits are daily: each evening to check the irrigation for the tomatoes, peppers and aubergines. As winter approaches, the peppers are still prolific and tomatoes hang from their vines. But now, as in early spring, is the time for the major tasks. But opportunities are scarce. On days of fine weather weather there will be the competition with the allure of exploring further afield, often with guests, finding birds and other wildlife ...