Sur la Côte

I've just come back from a rather indulgent and highly educational trip to Burgundy, home to the some of the finest vineyards on the planet, at least until climate change makes it impossible to grow grapes there. I'm currently going through millions of photographs, mostly of Snuffi perched on the various village road signs. The highlight was a bike ride starting in Beaune, and winding through the vineyards to Pommard, Volnay, Meursault and finally to Puligny-Montrachet, where I had lunch accompanied by wines labelled with the names I had just cycled through. If you know or like wine, some or all of these places may be familiar to you, and if you don't I did find a Brambling in Meursault just south of the main square.

I love good wine. I especially like drinking it of course, but I also enjoy learning about it, and there is no better way to learn about particular wines than by going to where they are made. Certainly that slow pedal through the vines taught me more than any book could about the soil, the slopes and where individual plots lie, and by talking to vignerons as I passed by I got a far better idea of what was happening. Some of the vines I cycled past I will never in a million years be able to afford, it is likely my whole life will pass without so much as a sip of Le Montrachet. North of Beaune, just outside the village of Vosne-Romanée I took a side road to the west and suddenly found myself next to possibly the most exalted patch of earth in France being ploughed by a horse, and from where a single bottle can cost £20k. Who buys it and nonchalantly pops the cork I cannot say. Not I.

There are a few wines from the area still just about within reach however, and I took great pleasure in tasting as many of them as I could at the domaines, shops, bars and restaurants from Gevrey in the north to Chassagne in the south. Post Brexit the duty free allowance is only 24 bottles, but from a place like Burgundy that is probably for the best and I didn't manage to reach it. I'll do a photo essay in due course. Between squandering my children's inhertance and chowing down on calorific goodness I also managed a morning of birding in Picardie, and an afternoon around the lakes in the Forêt d'Orient - in a single scan at the Lac d'Amance I counted over 200 Great White Egrets. It was mindblowing.

France is and remains excellent. Despite another large wad of paperwork required to get there and get back, nobody asked me for anything at any point, and my fears of the french authorities taking excessive pleasure in ensuring that UK visitors have everything "en ordre" with their cars (and frankly given our Government's shameful rhetoric I don't blame them) were unfounded. The cooking was fabulous and many of the wines were wonderful, but above all it was a pleasure to speak French from morning until night without really skipping a beat. I learned when I was eight years old, and whilst it does become rusty without use it has never left me and comes back relatively quickly. And in France it helps to open doors that might otherwise be closed, which can at times be very helpful indeed.

OK so I dipped....

Yeah, OK, I dipped. A bit of a pisser, as I pride myself on not dipping. Plus of course dipping is really really annoying, especially when it involves overnight to Cornwall. I think this classifies as my furthest ever dip as well. I've missed a couple of times in the South-east, but never as far away as Cornwall. Still, could be worse. Could be Shetland. Imagine that! Two days to get there and its done the bunk, ooof. That would probably put me off twitching for life. As it was, Cornwall wasn't actually that bad, and making a weekend of it rather than coming straight back once we realised the Cuckoo was gone was clearly the right option. On balance I'd still rather travel on news I think, but as these things go it wasn't too bad, and birds like the very stupid American Golden Plover helped soften the blow.

Thankfully this week most of the megas that have turned up are ones I didn't need. I spit, for instance, at Eastern Crowned Warblers. And a good thing too, as I've been out of the country for a change, this time in France en vacances avec most of la famille. On the Côte d'Azur to be precise, enjoying cloudless skies and warm sunshine. I understand it has been pretty agreeable here too, but I've had acres of lovely cheese and many vats of wine. Côtes de Provence rosé is magnificent in the right setting, and sat outside in a warm breeze somewhere between Fréjus and Sainte-Maxime is most definitely the right setting. Of birds and birding there was very little. Sardinian Warblers tchack-tchacked from all around, and there were billions of Magpies and Collared Doves, but on the whole I paid very little attention to matters avian. Too busy with the corkscrew mainly, but also too chilled out to worry about it. I took bins, used them a couple of times but really it wasn't the time or place. 

The riviera was fabulously French. People impeccably turned out, people impeccably snobby. Where else would a hotel reception be closed between 12 and 2, leaving arriving guests stranded? Rules abounded, no children this, no doing that. Ah non monsieur in response to an as yet carried-out indiscretion, they read your mind these people. Favourite moments included being herded away from the entrance to the indoor pool before I even got there, and having the cricket bat confiscated at Nice airport security. A toy I said, as my daughter wept. Ah non monsieur, the bat was wielded menacingly. I returned to check it in, this dangerous soft balls only foreign object that had travelled quite happily from Gatwick on the same plane a few days earlier..... Once back through I briefly considered buying a magnum of Rosé de Provence and returning to security, there to whirl all 3kg of it it by the neck in the manner of an elegant cut shot towards the smug official that had been unmoved by tears, but it was 32 euros and likely delicious so I didn't bother. Ah France, a country that is truly blessed with many fine things, but has the misfortune to be inhabited by the French, many of whom can be insufferable. You deal with it though, and by being polite and passing the time of day you begin to understand how it all works. Not for the French the incredible speed of modern life. Being from London it is almost incomprehensible, but if you can manage to slow it all down you're 99% of the way there, and you realise quite how irritatingly pleasant it all is. The quality of life - for instance hotel receptionists get two hour lunch breaks - makes it all worthwhile. They know how to live, and it's a wonderful place for a short recharge in the Mediterranean tempo.

Belgium Minibreak

As if I have not travelled enough recently, on Sunday I made a last minute decision to visit Belgium. The reason? Heroism, pure and simple. Heroism comes naturally to me. As naturally, say, as wishing to have a large stock of excess Brownie Points available for twitching far-flung Hebridean islands. So it was a pretty easy decision to for me, on finding that Mrs L and two thirds of my descendants were stranded in Belgium, to mount an immediate rescue mission. The problem? Mrs L, handbag connoisseur and noted security expert, had had her car key stolen in Brussels. To be absolutely clear, it had not fallen out, unnoticed, from her massively-overstuffed handbag that does not close properly. Never in a million years could that ever have occurred, and I most definitely have never mentioned this ridiculously obscure possibility to her. No, stolen. Stolen by a heinous criminal gang who had used incredible guile and agility to somehow gain entry to her handbag - amazing that they weren't suffocated by Tesco receipts in the process.

After an afternoon of faffing about with the Belgian RAC, after which it was determined that they could not start the car, nor now lock it back up again, the obvious solution began to dawn on me. The quickest way to regain access to the car and thus return the family to Chateau L and domestic bliss would be for me, Superfatherhusband, to personally and immediately travel to Brussels with the second car key. The second car key is my car key. It lives in my pocket, which I pat approximately once every twenty seconds to ensure its continuing presence. I am not paranoid at all. I gave my pocket another reassuring pat. Yup, one car key, all present and correct. Amazing, and so the plan sprung into action. My brilliant neighbours could take Muffin overnight, so he packed a small bag. Meanwhile I retrieved my passport from its ultrasafe secret hiding place, checked that my wallet – on a CHAIN attached to my belt was still attached – and that the remaining Euros from Spain were still in it. Check. Ipod zipped up in jacket pocket? Check. House Keys in case Mrs L had lost them too had them stolen too? Check.

With the Eurostar website down, I had no choice but to go to St Pancras and chance it. Chance is a fine thing, and so I got a seat on a train leaving 20 minutes later. Not long after that I was in my fourth European country in a week, and under cover of darkness I infiltrated Belgium, my fifth. The location of the car was pre-set on the sat-nav on my phone – attached to me via ANOTHER CHAIN (OK, so I am perhaps a touch paranoid; then again, have I ever lost my phone or wallet?) and so also still present (for the avoidance of doubt that means that it hadn't fallen in a puddle, or down the toilet.... ) but in the event it proved unneccesary as Mrs L's good friend and object of Brussels visit, Jo, was there to meet me, probably in disbelief that I would be on the train and needing to check it out just to be certain. A taxi to the car, and we were reunited! Rejoice! And then Mrs L and the girls came down the stairs - more rejoicing!

The moment of truth. Did I still have my car key, or had the Brussels phenomenon struck twice! Hah! Of course I had it, one simple click and the car was ours again. Family in, seat adjusted, mirrors set, and we were off. Warp speed through northern France as, already approaching midnight we needed to catch the last shuttle before a serious gap in the schedule. We made it with quite a bit of time to spare. A scary moment when the car wouldn't start when we arrived in Kent; not because it  wouldn't start at all, but because in order to start it I had to entrust Mrs L with my key whilst I fiddled with the battery. Luckily she managed to keep hold of it for five seconds and we were off again, once again with me selflessly taking the wheel and guiding us safely to Wanstead. A great success, up there with the best of twitches!

I was in bed by 3am, and in work on time the next morning, though the coffee consumption was excessive by anyone's standards. So, a lovely little trip - I've never been to Brussels before, and I have to say that during my lengthy stay it looked pretty nice. Of note were the taxi driver not having the faintest clue where he was going yet driving at about 100kph through suburban streets, and a Nespresso shop where on another day I might have sourced some decaf, of which I have run out. Next time I have to rescue Mrs L from a foreign city I'll be sure to research the retail options before leaving.

In addition to the above heroic tale, I have three other pieces of news. The first is that I almost accurately predicted that Sunday would be a great day for Buzzards and Red Kites on the patch. Before I was called upon to don my cape and mask, I had scored three of the former, but the Red Kite came through the following day when I was at work earning money for Eurostar tickets.

The second is that also on Sunday, I had a first winter Gull go over the Flats with a very clear black "W" starting on the leading edge of the upper wing. Distant, I could not pick it up with the camera for an ID-clinching shot, and in my excitement I didn't think through the options very clearly and am thus forced to concede that I cannot assign it safely to either Kittiwake or Little Gull, even though it was undoubtedly one or the other, and I need both for the patch. Upon reflection, the flight mode was that of a Gull and not a Tern, though this is hardly a concrete ID feature. So, elation tinged with bitter regret on that front.

The third piece of news is that during a short break from saving the world, I have managed to find time to put together a post of gratuitous photos of Lesser Kestrel from my second-most recent European trip. You can find it here, meanwhile I am off to check on the progress of the Telephone Box being installed outside the house.

 

Speedos. Get the look.

The last time I wore Speedos in anger was in 1997. Then, as now, I was in France. I had just purchased a ten-swim pass for the swimming pool in Montpellier in another vain attempt to become lithe and fit. Proudly recalling my 2000m swimming certificate from yesteryear, I was looking forward to burning a few calories. I can't jog, I certainly can't run, I detest gyms, but swimming I don't mind. Popped the old swimshorts on, walked through the shower, then through the freezing little pool of foot detergent, and was about to lower myself into the pool when a shout of "Ah non, monsieur! called me back. "Oui?" I replied to the lifeguard/style policeman.

To cut a long story short, or perhaps to cut a shorts story shorter (and tighter), my trusty swimshorts were interdit. If I wanted to swim, I had to be wearing Speedos. I looked around. Everyone, well, the men anyway, were all wearing miniscule Speedos. I was doomed. Now I have no qualms about being slightly fat, nor exposing my wobbly tummy in public. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter, as someone once said. No, a body is merely a shell. On the outside I might be pale and flabby, but on the inside I glow. Warmth positively emanates. But wearing Speedos is different. I am British, and British people do not strut about displaying their packages in extremely small and tight-fitting swimming trunks. Or at least, not sensible ones. But at that particular moment I wanted to go swimming, so some minute Speedos were duly purchased at the front desk, where they kept a supply specially for naive tourists.

My swim-pass ran out with nine unused sessions.

I forgot all about this disturbing incident, and that pair of Speedos have been consigned to dustbin of history. In fact I probably threw them out that same day, knowing I would never wear them again. So packing for France, I threw my trusty swimshorts in the suitcase, and thought nothing of it. Mrs L, supposedly the better of the two us at packing, forgot to pack her bikini, so as our visit to the pool at Narbonne approached, we reaslised we needed to go and buy one for her. An Intersport shop was spotted close-by, but we thought that before splashing out, so to speak, we should check that the pool was at least open. Mrs L popped in, and came back with good news and bad news.

The good news; the swimming pool was open. The kids were immediately cheered. The bad news (delivered with a smirk I might add); we were both going shopping....swim-shorts were "interdit!" Gah! It all came flooding back to me. But we had to go swimming, the kids were desperate, and this pool had slides and everything. I spent the drive to Intersport cursing France and everything French.

The choice of Speedos was astonishing, there is clearly a large market. I bet that if you went to a sports shop here though, you would be hard-pressed to find even a single pair. I chose the cheapest ones, still eight euros, and conservatively went for "L" in the vain hope that it might preserve some of my anglo-saxon modesty. Fat chance. To give you an idea of quite how little material is used in these things, here they are in an espresso cup.



The kids had a wonderful time, however for reasons I cannot fathom, I did not enjoy it. The lady at the desk told me that swim-shorts were interdit because they couldn't be sure that people hadn't been wearing them outdoors, and so to preserve hygiene standards (and this coming from a nation that still has holes in the ground instead of toilets) they insist that people wear Speedos, which obviously people would never be seen dead in outdoors. A cunning strategy, except that French men probably wear Speedos at all possible opportunities. Dominique Strauss-Khan was almost certainly wearing Speedos in New York recently, but I digress. We were at the swimming pool for about an hour, and although I didn't get any comments, I knew it was not a good look. Nonetheless, in all good conscience I cannot conclude this post without a photograph of me modelling them.

You are invited to look away now, however, for the more curious amongst you, scroll down.....





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Des Lacs, Des Grues, Du Boursin

Just returned from France and am wiped out. Birding dawn til dusk, staying at the finest hotels known to man, and eating extremely well. Destination les departements de l'Aube and du Marne/Haute Marne - lakes and forests. Cranes and Woodpeckers. I will provide a link to a trip report in due course, what follows is not intended to be one.

A great deal on Eurotunnel is what swung this trip. Only fifty quid on this particular weekend, and the region in Champage-Ardennes, broadly south-east of Paris, is only about four hours by car. Twenty-thousand wintering Common Cranes and the possibility of various european Woodpeckers were the main draw, but there was plenty more besides. Hawfinches, for example, are about as common as Chaffinches, Willow and Marsh Tits breed side by side, and more generally the countryside is alive with birds. Oh, and the food is great - if you can manage to avoid McDonalds.



Howard, Bradders and I left really late on Friday night, and drove through the night to the Foret d'Orient near Troyes. We found the forest track we were aiming for at around 4am, noted for being overrun with Woodpeckers, and attempted to sleep in the car. I'm not sure this worked, but I didn't actually feel too terrible at first light, so set out to explore. The forest was heaving with birdlife. Hawfinches overhead, Siskins, Crested Tit, Short-toed Treecreepers, Goldcrests - and Woodpeckers. It took about an hour or so to locate our first Middle Spotted Woodpecker - and they showed superbly, if quite high up. Proved almost impossible to photograph, but that is the case with most Woodpeckers so I wasn't too upset - seeing them was the main thing. We continued to bird the area, and on the point of leaving two Black Woodpeckers started up with their strange mournful - well I don't know what to call it - a kind of mewing drawn out "clee-eeeeeew". Despite the birds being relatively close, and extremely large like Crows, we couldn't find them.

The day passed in a blur of sites around the impressively large Lac d'Orient, and included Whooper and Bewick's, White-fronts and Beans, Hen Harrier and White-tailed Eagle. We birded until our eyes hurt, and then found our luxurious Formule 1 hotel, had a bite to eat and went to bed at the rock and roll time of 7pm. Went to sleep dreaming of Black Woodpeckers.



Next morning we were at a different lac, the Lac du Der-Chantecoq, only a short way north-east. The birding Gods must have seen my dreams, as Howard picked up a Black Woodpecker in flight before we had even got out of the car. Although we saw the general area where it had gone, and heard it call several times, we couldn't find it again - they're tough! We spent the day birding around the Lac du Der, the main attraction being the hundred upon hundreds of Common Cranes. If you're so inclined, you can go to Norfolk and see a handful of Common Cranes. My typical experience is at Stubb's Mill watchpoint - you see the birds fly into roost, perhaps twenty, and that is that. In France, they fly in great vees across the open skies, and replace sheep in the landscape. And the sound, the bugling, well, there is nothing I can say that adequately describes it, especially when coming from flights of birds. Simply brilliant.






Great White Egrets everywhere, a stonking female Goshawk sitting in a tree being massive, flocks of Goosander - the birding in the area has a lot going for it. Perhaps most interesting was the extreme paleness of a large number of the Common Buzzards in the area. Why birds round here should be so absurdly (and confusingly) pale is anyones guess, but I'd never seen birds like them, and indeed when we drove further north they reverted to being brown and normal-looking.

By mid-afternoon we were flagging, so a pick-me-up was called for - a French Cafe beckoned. It has been several years since I have been to a cafe in France, and I must confess I was looking forward to it. It being Sunday we struggled with everything being closed but eventually found one in a small town called Vitry le Francois. If you fancy being humiliated by a french Waiter, I can heartily recommend the Bar Maxime in Vitry. The waiter did a superb job of patently ignoring us. I'll wait it out, I thought, but a full fifteen minutes after we had sat down he still showed no sign at all of coming over. Meanwhile of course, every other table in the place was enjoying nice fresh coffee and cold beer. Had I not been birding, and daylight not been quite so critical, I would have sat it out, but with time pressing I could wait no longer, and was forced to drag myself to the bar to order our coffees. Crushing. There was a modicum of enjoyment gained from startling the guy by ording in faultless french, but let that take nothing away from his victory, which was complete. I left a tip of 10 euro cents, which I felt likely he would understand to mean that we understood that he had won convincingly.

Victorious waiter with someone else's coffee.

Under cover of darkness we drove to Compiegne, about half-way to the coast, and north of Paris. This is where the Armistice was signed in 1918, but has more appeal for birders by virtue of its large forest teeming with Woodpeckers, or so we hoped. H aimed the car at a McDonalds, but I was able to wrestle the steering wheel from his grasp and he missed it. We ended up in centre ville and at a Brasserie that Cafe Rouge had likely modeled itself on. Superb in every respect.

Especially this respect...

The following morning, after another night in a luxurious and well-appointed hotel, we found ourselves in Compiegne forest. We heard two Black Woodpeckers more or less immediately, but it took another hour and a half to actually see one, and once again it was a flight view only as it lazily flopped over a track and disappeared. We were booked onto a lunchtime train back though, and could not tarry. I hope to go back for better views another time, but I'm still very pleased with what was a successful, cheap, and easy trip.