Wes Hobarth
Registered User
Day One
I cheered up during the drive. The further north we progressed, the more beautiful the landscape became. The coolness of the montane region intervened to reduce the temperature of my fevered brow. It was like pieces of the jigsaw of every dreamer’s golden land – that I had been eagerly expecting, that the name “Mallorca” had summoned in my head before I came. In fact I think my heart soared as my eyes grew dazed from squinting through the windscreen into the radiant Mediterranean light.
This Island has, of course, been well trod by Birders, not to mention a big number of tattooed, Sun readers. Subject to this level of mass and crass tourism, I did wonder what we would find and make of it.
We turned off the main road onto a sandy-covered lesser-metalled way. Here the leaves of the palm trees grew larger and, as if the sky were opening its robes to the mountain breeze, the light changed perceptibly. I could tell I was back on a high now as the wheels of our hire-wagon jived on the limestone gravel of the parking place adjacent to our Villa.
In fact the accommodation was a rather pleasant, very private, cottage placed in the foothills a mere six hundred kilometres, above, as we were to discover, the very Spanish town of Pollenca, beloved by Artists and the Literati of previous generations.
I said earlier that my humour had improved on the drive here. Well the day had begun with a 2.30 a.m. wake up for a 6.00 a.m. flight time Easter Saturday from Gatwick South Terminal. Enough to dull anybody’s spirit. This start was to find us late morning half-way twixt Palma and Pollenca at Inca. A county town of significance to the local agricultural community of the surrounding area. A place I found sufficiently civilised to sell a decent Burgundy and also good cooking Whisky in the Supermercado. Thus it was my humour improved. Amusements for the evening were laid in.
Having set up camp in our Villa we ventured into Pollenca in search of sustenance. Garlic prawns were to set me up for the afternoon that was to follow. Armed with Graham Hearl’s book on Bird spotting here we chose to ignore it and go to an underwatched place a few miles up the road to the north east. Cape St. Vincent. A small, quietly developing community that will cater for the more intrepid tourist was encountered. But we are here for birds, so what did we see, here goes:
Sardinian W, a good Shag, plus Cormorant, Willow W, Goldfinch, Egyptian Vulture (lifer) Woodchat shrike, Linnet, Great Tit, C Swift, Zitting C, House Sparrow, Collared Dove, Chaffinch, Yellow legged G, Yellow Wag, Greenfinch , Blackbird, Nuthatch, Kestrel, Blue Tit, Serin’s by the shedload, House Martins, Ravens, Stock and Rock Dove (pure, probably), Swallows and more Willow W’s.
As we drove back to “home” we pondered on whether this quiet start would be representative of the week to come.
Day Two and Three plus a bit more
While breakfasting al fresco on freshly baked bread, ham, Ermantal cheese, Strawberries Melon, live Yoghurt and Jasmine tea as the sun clears the mountain top and gently warms us a Sardinian Warbler flits about in the garden shrubbery. We are joined by a Corn Bunting who sings from an overhead power cable. Earlier, on a walk to buy the bread we are now ravenously consuming, the surrounding fields and trees had offered up common tits and finches along with Nightingale, Whitethroat and Serin.
Today the plan is to visit the Parc Natural at Albufera, but first we stop in Pollenca to spectate an Easter parade(gunfire and religion combine) and wander round a local farmer’s market. We buy a dozen of the largest Oranges I have ever seen for the princely sum of 1.95 Euros. They will also prove to be the most flavoursome and juicy any of us has ever eaten. Conker sized Olives mixed with chunks of Garlic also turn out to be Food of Mass Destruction.
Anyhow, after getting lost trying to negotiate a route through Alcudia to get to the Parc we finally make it and discover there is now no vehicular access to the Parc whatsoever, contrary to circumstances that obtained at the time Hearl wrote his book. We are lucky to get the last space in a small car park about a hundred yards south of the Parc entrance.
Size continues to play a part in the day, for here we have the largest expanse of reed beds I have ever encountered, about 36 square kilometres I reckon.
A canal enters the sea near the main gate. Checking the Gulls loafing about here, among the Yellow Legs are four Audouin’s. What an elegant bird. This is a life tick and a good start.
We walk about 5k, visit several hides and a mound that gives splendid views over the whole area. In essence we cover the central region of the Parc.
Birds identified were:
Nightingale, Osprey, Marsh Harrier, Grey and Purple Heron, Bittern, Yellow Wags, Fan-tailed W, Blackbird, Cattle and Little Egret, B-W Stilts, Garganey, Gadwall, Mallard, Coot, Purple Gallinule, Moorhen, Green Sand, Sardinian W, Chiffchaff, Spoonbill, Rock Sparrow, both Pochards, Little ad G-C Grebes, Stonechat, Common tern, Kentish Plover, Spotted and Common Redshank, Shoveler, Common Swifts and Swallows, Reed W,Whitethroat, Serin and Hoopoe.
The Rock Sparrow was another Lifer.
The following day it was to be a trip to the Serra de Tramuntana, the northern mountain range, and the Cuber reservoir: in the Bible according to Hearl, the best Raptor site on the Island. Ten in a visit he reckons to be attainable.
Along the way we comfort break at Lluc Monastery and whilst enjoying coffee and Almond cake also enjoy views of Spotted and Pied Flycatchers from our Café table. A bit of a stroll fails to produce Crossbills, which are supposed to be in the pine trees around here. But this place being a monastery, allegedly (the atmosphere is commercial) and it being Easter Sunday, coach loads of locals are turning up. Too many people. Time to go. Ascending along a windy road we reach Cuber to find the small car park overflowing. Nowhere to park with any safety. Drive on a bit and find a viewpoint over the reservoir, with space for about three or four cars. There is a convenient protective wall on which to sit, so we decide to have our picnic lunch. Fresh bread, ham, various cheeses, rough pate, olives, tomatoes and those wonderful oranges. As we sit we constantly scan the sky and pick up Booted Eagle, Black Vulture, Common Buzzard, Kestrel and Ravens. There are Hundreds of Yellow Legs on the reservoir itself. Chaffinch, Blackcap and Blue Rock Thrush are spotted on the rocks. Human presence at this Lay By is an ever-changing sequence of hire cars.
Late afternoon we return to the reservoir car park and get a space. Setting off for a hike round the lake the weather closes in unpleasantly so we give up and go home.
Day four dawns and provides an unexpected opportunity for reflection, together with the chance to recount a so far untold, but related, incident. We travel light so it is time to do some washing. An Out-house contains a washing machine. We try to get it to work after some time spent sussing the power supply. It just won’t automate through the programs. At the end of each wash stage in the cycle it just stops and has to be manually set off again. So we are stuck with monitoring it. I sit and think while over indulging in Jasmine tea.
Time. Einstien might think its speed is absolute, but in human terms it varies with the nature of the experience being enjoyed or not. Would anyone disagree that sitting at traffic lights lasts an inordinate amount of time whereas it is but a few seconds which is the same as a decent orgasm lasts which seems to be over in the blink of an eye.
Let me expand so you may catch my drift. Generally, these days, we holiday in Europe, never go to the same place twice and only go for a week. A week in a new place is about right for an all new experience which seems to make time go slower and therefore a week away seems longer than it is in reality. Two weeks in the same place and the second week just flashes by and you feel emotionally short-changed.
Going back in time I realise that Twenty-Five years ago was when I and my Partner got hitched. Coming forward in time to our first night here it was she who brought this to my attention while looking in a Jewellers window at a Watch that had taken my fancy. She offered to buy it for me as a celebration of our continuum. I gracefully accepted.
Because it was an “unusual” transaction Norma’s Credit Card company required verbal authorisation via a telephone number our Spanish host could get no response from. Credit Card dead for the moment. Tried mine. Went through OK.I BUY MY OWN PRESENT! A day or so later I tried to buy some fags from a Tabac with my card. It too now required authorisation. The Spanish chick behind the counter was lost. So was I, so gave up.
Being without useable plastic is not unstressfull in a foreign place. It makes time drag inappropriately. For some reason I examined the back of my credit card and spotted a customer service number. Norma’s had one too. She also had a mobile that would work in Spain. Two lengthy phone calls later (in business hours) matters are sorted. Getting through security was a big pain. They wanted to know what the last three cheques I had written were for. I hadn’t a clue. A chequebook lasts me donkeys and I write one once in a blue moon these days. Fortunately I could recount Direct Debits from my current account, which seemed to clinch my bona fides. The woman I finally got through to expressed an amount of chagrin that I had not let them know I was going on holiday! For F***s sake. I mean I have had this card for over thirty years. Is that not long enough.
Anyway, that stream of consciousness was in here for the benefit of no one but me..
Back to the plot for the next piece.
Day Four
Woodchat shrike and I think Whinchat were added on the bread run today. Despite a late start the main event is to be a trip along the Formentor peninsula, the north eastern tip of the Island. This involves a drive through Port de Pollenca. It looks vaguely interesting from the car, if a bit run down and tawdry. I thought this was supposed to be a smart location to holiday. It made me wonder what places like Magaluf are like. But we are soon through it and climbing to the Mirador de Albercutx, our first stop. It is already busy with coaches when we arrive. We therefore walk the crumbling road opposite to climb to the top of the ridge and something called the Atalaya from where there are 360 degree views of natural eye candy. The walk takes about four hours. At the top we were to be blessed with Crag Martin, Black Vulture, Pallid Swift and Red-rumped Swallow together with Hirundines ordinaire. On the way up we clocked reasonable, but brief views of that Island speciality Mamora’s Warbler(Lifer). Oh, and three Bee-eater’s clearly just arrived. Two Kestrels viewed from above rather than below also made a nice change of perspective.
On the walk down from whatever the Atalya is we got chatting to a simpatico German couple. He was a struggling musician and she a struggling artist. His English was so good he could make decent jokes in a foreign language. We melded. At the bottom of the hill we exchanged addresses. I think something may come of this, though I know the odds are against it. He and his partner had done a where can we go tomorrow deal and ended up in Port de Pollenca. A hell-hole from what they said. To sleep at night they had to plug in their earphones and listen at loud levels of music of choice from their Walkman’s to drown out drunken, yobbish carousing in several languages from the bar below their room. I understood that English and German were the two languages that predominated from the respective ends of the shallow end of the gene pool in both cases. I think we got our mountain cottage just about perfect. I pride myself in getting the analysis right. As we go to bed there is the Sound of Scops Owl calling. Nothing else intrudes. Will we get to see one?
Not yet anyway. Next stop is the fenced in Fig-fields at Casses Velles. A migrant Honeypot Hearl tells us. How do we do? Not badly as it happens, for another Lifer is coming up.
But not before a certain strangeness in whom we were to meet here.
More Day Four and a bit of Five..
As we park at Casses Velles we observe a clump of half a dozen Birder’s already present. I say clump because they are gathered around one individual who seems to be holding court in a nervy, jerky kind of way telling those around him to look in different places in what seems like nanoseconds. I once met Lee Evans without realising it at first, when we hunted the Twyford Hoopoe a while back. This bloke is like some sort of clone. But he is almost transparent at times as if not really there. Contemporaneously, I thought it was the speed of his movements creating the effect.
We sidle up and listen in as tripod legs are extended.
Wheatear, Redstart, Pied and Spotted fly, Greenfinch, Whinchat, Stonechat, Chaffinch, Yellow Wags, Blackcap, Sardinian W, more Serins, Blackbird and common Tits were to follow. He told us where to look in the nearby Pines and Crossbills with gorgeous views were presenting. That was the Lifer. We also found our own Turtle Dove.
In the meantime some Germans had stopped and asked us whose house it was we were observing. What! It transpired they thought we were all Paperazi.
We move on to the north east tip and the Lighthouse at Formentor where we have hopes of another Island special, Eleonora’s Falcon. It seemed an endless white knuckle ride along a narrow and dangerous mountain road of infinite hair-pins. When we reach the point there must be about a thousand cars queued aspiring for one of the non-existent fifty-odd spaces potentially available. Hopeless. Despite being gridlocked, with a precipice on the right I somehow manage a thirty–point turn and negotiate a way out millimetre by millimetre for a return journey along this cnut of a road. As we pass by Calles Velles again Mr. Jerky is still there, alone, and there is no car in sight in this remote place where the only habitation is the mysterious Finca! Have we seen our first ghost?
We stop in Port de Pollenca for a reality check. The town is tawdry, tatty and actually most uninteresting. Well worth a miss.
Time for home, a glass of Scotch and then an excellent, if not un-cheap meal out. Around twenty pounds a head, wherever you eat, mostly with locals though in Pollenca itself. I do like this town.
Tomorrow adds Wryneck on the bread run. Then it is back to Albufera. This time a much pleasanter journey via back roads to the southern end of the Parc by the Depuradora De S’Illot (Water Works). Initially we stop by some rough ground nearby that looks like it was once a brown-field site that is returning to nature through the human discard factor. An odd place of free space on an otherwise controlled and owned landscape. Among the myriad Nightingales, Stonechats and Zitting Cisticolas we are to add Tawny Pipit and Cetti’s to the list. The usual finches Serin and House Sparrow go without saying.
Along a dirt track we arrive at a gate that allows views over one of the Depuradora’s pools. Another prime site according to Hearl. How will we fare?
Almost immediately we get on a Black Tern. Superb. But then there is this small distant wader. Definitely we think not a Little one, Stint that is. Notes are made before the ID guides come out. Can it be? Hearl reckons this is a scarce passage migrant. As we doubt our own eyes, another Birder drives up, who it turns out is a regular visitor to the Island. We invite him to express an opinion on our bird without saying what we think it is. “Calidris Temminckii”, he blurts. No, well actually he says, “Temminck’s Stint” as we think the Latin. What a Corker. Another Birder and his wife turn up, ostensibly for lunch, but he gets invited to the ID challenge. “Bloody Hell”, he says, so we guess he agrees with our assessment of the bird.
The first birder to turn up, told us while chatting about what we had and hadn’t seen, of a pair of owls nesting in the Guardia Civil HQ in Port De Pollenca. God, would we really have to go back there? And at dusk, when I should be mellow after a glass or two? He also mentioned a site for something else that is not easy in the UK.
But what else did the eyes enjoy through the gate?
Greenshank, and yes Little Stint, the Little Ringed, Ringed and Kentish Plover. BW Stilt, marsh Harrier, Common Sand, Yellow Wag, Coot Moorhen, Both Pochards, Shelduck, Mallard, Redshank, Cattle Egret, Little Egret, Kestrel, Audouin’s, plus Y-L and B-H Gull, common Hirundines, and wait for it, Sandwich Terns.
A move down the track to an actual hide overlooking a second pool produced bugger all. Next venture was a move to the north eastern environs of the Parc. Here Hearl’s instructions break down completely. Development has encroached to such an extent that no meaningful access is available. Final try is the North path in by the Power Station. Locked gates that are overall rusty enough not to have been used in some time are all that is found here. A disappointment. Random drives up tracks on the way home also lead us to nothing new Avian.
We have two days left and I can tell you the bread run tomorrow will produces nothing new.
Majorka. Last slice but one
Choosing back roads and a concommitant pleasurable drive we head for destinations in the Arta peninsula on the eastern side of the Island. Stops along the way by olive groves provide Wren and Hoopoe Stonechat and Sparrow ordinaire. We arrive at a, currently, idyllic village, Colonia de Sant Pere. Freshly squeezed Orange juice is orgasmically sipped at a sea-front café as Audouin’s glide and loaf on the empty beach just feet away.
Down the road a bit it ends and becomes a track on which we intend to walk. It is hot today. Up till now it has been most acceptably warm. Walking the track it gets even hotter and there are no Birds other than a distant speck that was a Raptor sp. Bugger this. We turn back. At the car we find we are hungry. Time to find a place gemutlich as the German’s say for our pack-lunch. A wrong turn finds us in an enclave of Villa’s of, guess what, retired Germans. Further on, a track invites, it may lead to the sea. Nope. It is the beginning of a series of intertwining tracks and gravel roundabouts that presage nascent development in typical maquis vegetation. We use the concrete kerb stones that are already in place as both stools and table to eat lunch, feeling sadly troubled. Despite that wonderful late morning Audouin’s Orange juice, methinks this place has to be struck off the list of where I would like to end my days. Something that is special is being spoilt. Is that selfish or what?
Due to the lack of Birds here and Hearl’s warning that where we intend to go next is along ropey roads, after the Formentor experience the decision to call it quits is made. Albufera Central is on the way home-ish. So there we go.
There must be a big fall. In song and sight Nightingale, Cetti’s and Sedge abound and compete. Also included in the walk are Common Sand, P Gallinule, P Heron, G Heron, Osprey, Marsh Harrier, Bittern. Cisticola juncididus by the Kilo, both Pochards again plus other usuals.
The Parc had closed by the time we left and the evening was drawing in. If we must return to Port de Pollenca for the Owls now was the time. So we did. The Owls emerge at 8.46 pm except when they don’t we have been told. We have no real idea of where to go as we park at about 8.30. A local Waiter gives us doubtful directions for the type of local Fuzz building we are looking for. A visiting family of regular Sun Readers overhears and tells us where we need to go. Time is getting on. We race a bit. As we finally arrive at the building we seek, there are other birider’s about so we know we have found the right place. 8.55 they call. Being a Hi-Fi nut I am rather good at finding the spacial location of sounds and I get the pair first on telegraph poles. Two Scops Owls are in the Bins just before the light finally fades. I get the rest of the lurking Birders onto them before it is too late to see. I end the day feeling good. It was a Lifer and I got onto it first that night. Despite the Buzz I don’t think I am really Twitcher material.
Majorka Last Day
You sigh with relief, I with regret.
We decide it is going to be very hot today. So it’s up into the mountains again and another shot at the Cuber reservoir. A stop at Lluc for coffee and a stroll provides endless Spotted and Pied Flys and Nightingales plus finches and sparrows. I think we got to Cuber about noon. And was there a parking space? No. In establishing this fact I failed to coax our little Seat up a vertical ramp to the “proper” car park. The engine died at every attempt and gave off toxic smells of burnt oil from every orifice. Gave up and repeated lunch at the Viewpoint we had done earlier in the week. No birds about. Perhaps they too are sheltering from the heat. We return to the parking area and grab a space that means I don’t have to attempt another ingress to the official car park. We set off for a circular walk around the reservoir that will take about three hours. A Booted Eagle, Black Vulture and bog standard Kestrel are the only raptors sighted. So much for Hearl’s ten a visit. Crag Martins were scoped at their holes. Yellow-Legged Gs were present on the lake and in a cliff-top roost in force. We reckoned at least a thousand. Blue Rock Thrush intervened along with Willow W and a massive fall of Spotted Fly and a lone, confiding, female N Wheatear. And it was all over.
Well almost. On the drive back we stopped by a track that had been recommended by that Birder by the Water Works for something that was awkward to get in the UK. In the space of 500 metres we have at least a dozen as the sun begins to sink. Perfect views of Firecrest. A fitting end.
Dips? Apart from the Falcon, no Cirl Bunting or Moustached and Spectacled W’s were a disappointment. But we did hit a few Birds Hearl described as rare in his time of recording. Whether our sightings are fortuitous or a presage to environmental changes, who knows at this point in time?
A last meal of Fillet Steak, rare and no sauce, if you please, with a half of House Red, really concludes matters before the misty early morning drive to the Aero Porto and a fretful exposure to what work has lined up for you in the meantime.
Wes (another from the Archive)
I cheered up during the drive. The further north we progressed, the more beautiful the landscape became. The coolness of the montane region intervened to reduce the temperature of my fevered brow. It was like pieces of the jigsaw of every dreamer’s golden land – that I had been eagerly expecting, that the name “Mallorca” had summoned in my head before I came. In fact I think my heart soared as my eyes grew dazed from squinting through the windscreen into the radiant Mediterranean light.
This Island has, of course, been well trod by Birders, not to mention a big number of tattooed, Sun readers. Subject to this level of mass and crass tourism, I did wonder what we would find and make of it.
We turned off the main road onto a sandy-covered lesser-metalled way. Here the leaves of the palm trees grew larger and, as if the sky were opening its robes to the mountain breeze, the light changed perceptibly. I could tell I was back on a high now as the wheels of our hire-wagon jived on the limestone gravel of the parking place adjacent to our Villa.
In fact the accommodation was a rather pleasant, very private, cottage placed in the foothills a mere six hundred kilometres, above, as we were to discover, the very Spanish town of Pollenca, beloved by Artists and the Literati of previous generations.
I said earlier that my humour had improved on the drive here. Well the day had begun with a 2.30 a.m. wake up for a 6.00 a.m. flight time Easter Saturday from Gatwick South Terminal. Enough to dull anybody’s spirit. This start was to find us late morning half-way twixt Palma and Pollenca at Inca. A county town of significance to the local agricultural community of the surrounding area. A place I found sufficiently civilised to sell a decent Burgundy and also good cooking Whisky in the Supermercado. Thus it was my humour improved. Amusements for the evening were laid in.
Having set up camp in our Villa we ventured into Pollenca in search of sustenance. Garlic prawns were to set me up for the afternoon that was to follow. Armed with Graham Hearl’s book on Bird spotting here we chose to ignore it and go to an underwatched place a few miles up the road to the north east. Cape St. Vincent. A small, quietly developing community that will cater for the more intrepid tourist was encountered. But we are here for birds, so what did we see, here goes:
Sardinian W, a good Shag, plus Cormorant, Willow W, Goldfinch, Egyptian Vulture (lifer) Woodchat shrike, Linnet, Great Tit, C Swift, Zitting C, House Sparrow, Collared Dove, Chaffinch, Yellow legged G, Yellow Wag, Greenfinch , Blackbird, Nuthatch, Kestrel, Blue Tit, Serin’s by the shedload, House Martins, Ravens, Stock and Rock Dove (pure, probably), Swallows and more Willow W’s.
As we drove back to “home” we pondered on whether this quiet start would be representative of the week to come.
Day Two and Three plus a bit more
While breakfasting al fresco on freshly baked bread, ham, Ermantal cheese, Strawberries Melon, live Yoghurt and Jasmine tea as the sun clears the mountain top and gently warms us a Sardinian Warbler flits about in the garden shrubbery. We are joined by a Corn Bunting who sings from an overhead power cable. Earlier, on a walk to buy the bread we are now ravenously consuming, the surrounding fields and trees had offered up common tits and finches along with Nightingale, Whitethroat and Serin.
Today the plan is to visit the Parc Natural at Albufera, but first we stop in Pollenca to spectate an Easter parade(gunfire and religion combine) and wander round a local farmer’s market. We buy a dozen of the largest Oranges I have ever seen for the princely sum of 1.95 Euros. They will also prove to be the most flavoursome and juicy any of us has ever eaten. Conker sized Olives mixed with chunks of Garlic also turn out to be Food of Mass Destruction.
Anyhow, after getting lost trying to negotiate a route through Alcudia to get to the Parc we finally make it and discover there is now no vehicular access to the Parc whatsoever, contrary to circumstances that obtained at the time Hearl wrote his book. We are lucky to get the last space in a small car park about a hundred yards south of the Parc entrance.
Size continues to play a part in the day, for here we have the largest expanse of reed beds I have ever encountered, about 36 square kilometres I reckon.
A canal enters the sea near the main gate. Checking the Gulls loafing about here, among the Yellow Legs are four Audouin’s. What an elegant bird. This is a life tick and a good start.
We walk about 5k, visit several hides and a mound that gives splendid views over the whole area. In essence we cover the central region of the Parc.
Birds identified were:
Nightingale, Osprey, Marsh Harrier, Grey and Purple Heron, Bittern, Yellow Wags, Fan-tailed W, Blackbird, Cattle and Little Egret, B-W Stilts, Garganey, Gadwall, Mallard, Coot, Purple Gallinule, Moorhen, Green Sand, Sardinian W, Chiffchaff, Spoonbill, Rock Sparrow, both Pochards, Little ad G-C Grebes, Stonechat, Common tern, Kentish Plover, Spotted and Common Redshank, Shoveler, Common Swifts and Swallows, Reed W,Whitethroat, Serin and Hoopoe.
The Rock Sparrow was another Lifer.
The following day it was to be a trip to the Serra de Tramuntana, the northern mountain range, and the Cuber reservoir: in the Bible according to Hearl, the best Raptor site on the Island. Ten in a visit he reckons to be attainable.
Along the way we comfort break at Lluc Monastery and whilst enjoying coffee and Almond cake also enjoy views of Spotted and Pied Flycatchers from our Café table. A bit of a stroll fails to produce Crossbills, which are supposed to be in the pine trees around here. But this place being a monastery, allegedly (the atmosphere is commercial) and it being Easter Sunday, coach loads of locals are turning up. Too many people. Time to go. Ascending along a windy road we reach Cuber to find the small car park overflowing. Nowhere to park with any safety. Drive on a bit and find a viewpoint over the reservoir, with space for about three or four cars. There is a convenient protective wall on which to sit, so we decide to have our picnic lunch. Fresh bread, ham, various cheeses, rough pate, olives, tomatoes and those wonderful oranges. As we sit we constantly scan the sky and pick up Booted Eagle, Black Vulture, Common Buzzard, Kestrel and Ravens. There are Hundreds of Yellow Legs on the reservoir itself. Chaffinch, Blackcap and Blue Rock Thrush are spotted on the rocks. Human presence at this Lay By is an ever-changing sequence of hire cars.
Late afternoon we return to the reservoir car park and get a space. Setting off for a hike round the lake the weather closes in unpleasantly so we give up and go home.
Day four dawns and provides an unexpected opportunity for reflection, together with the chance to recount a so far untold, but related, incident. We travel light so it is time to do some washing. An Out-house contains a washing machine. We try to get it to work after some time spent sussing the power supply. It just won’t automate through the programs. At the end of each wash stage in the cycle it just stops and has to be manually set off again. So we are stuck with monitoring it. I sit and think while over indulging in Jasmine tea.
Time. Einstien might think its speed is absolute, but in human terms it varies with the nature of the experience being enjoyed or not. Would anyone disagree that sitting at traffic lights lasts an inordinate amount of time whereas it is but a few seconds which is the same as a decent orgasm lasts which seems to be over in the blink of an eye.
Let me expand so you may catch my drift. Generally, these days, we holiday in Europe, never go to the same place twice and only go for a week. A week in a new place is about right for an all new experience which seems to make time go slower and therefore a week away seems longer than it is in reality. Two weeks in the same place and the second week just flashes by and you feel emotionally short-changed.
Going back in time I realise that Twenty-Five years ago was when I and my Partner got hitched. Coming forward in time to our first night here it was she who brought this to my attention while looking in a Jewellers window at a Watch that had taken my fancy. She offered to buy it for me as a celebration of our continuum. I gracefully accepted.
Because it was an “unusual” transaction Norma’s Credit Card company required verbal authorisation via a telephone number our Spanish host could get no response from. Credit Card dead for the moment. Tried mine. Went through OK.I BUY MY OWN PRESENT! A day or so later I tried to buy some fags from a Tabac with my card. It too now required authorisation. The Spanish chick behind the counter was lost. So was I, so gave up.
Being without useable plastic is not unstressfull in a foreign place. It makes time drag inappropriately. For some reason I examined the back of my credit card and spotted a customer service number. Norma’s had one too. She also had a mobile that would work in Spain. Two lengthy phone calls later (in business hours) matters are sorted. Getting through security was a big pain. They wanted to know what the last three cheques I had written were for. I hadn’t a clue. A chequebook lasts me donkeys and I write one once in a blue moon these days. Fortunately I could recount Direct Debits from my current account, which seemed to clinch my bona fides. The woman I finally got through to expressed an amount of chagrin that I had not let them know I was going on holiday! For F***s sake. I mean I have had this card for over thirty years. Is that not long enough.
Anyway, that stream of consciousness was in here for the benefit of no one but me..
Back to the plot for the next piece.
Day Four
Woodchat shrike and I think Whinchat were added on the bread run today. Despite a late start the main event is to be a trip along the Formentor peninsula, the north eastern tip of the Island. This involves a drive through Port de Pollenca. It looks vaguely interesting from the car, if a bit run down and tawdry. I thought this was supposed to be a smart location to holiday. It made me wonder what places like Magaluf are like. But we are soon through it and climbing to the Mirador de Albercutx, our first stop. It is already busy with coaches when we arrive. We therefore walk the crumbling road opposite to climb to the top of the ridge and something called the Atalaya from where there are 360 degree views of natural eye candy. The walk takes about four hours. At the top we were to be blessed with Crag Martin, Black Vulture, Pallid Swift and Red-rumped Swallow together with Hirundines ordinaire. On the way up we clocked reasonable, but brief views of that Island speciality Mamora’s Warbler(Lifer). Oh, and three Bee-eater’s clearly just arrived. Two Kestrels viewed from above rather than below also made a nice change of perspective.
On the walk down from whatever the Atalya is we got chatting to a simpatico German couple. He was a struggling musician and she a struggling artist. His English was so good he could make decent jokes in a foreign language. We melded. At the bottom of the hill we exchanged addresses. I think something may come of this, though I know the odds are against it. He and his partner had done a where can we go tomorrow deal and ended up in Port de Pollenca. A hell-hole from what they said. To sleep at night they had to plug in their earphones and listen at loud levels of music of choice from their Walkman’s to drown out drunken, yobbish carousing in several languages from the bar below their room. I understood that English and German were the two languages that predominated from the respective ends of the shallow end of the gene pool in both cases. I think we got our mountain cottage just about perfect. I pride myself in getting the analysis right. As we go to bed there is the Sound of Scops Owl calling. Nothing else intrudes. Will we get to see one?
Not yet anyway. Next stop is the fenced in Fig-fields at Casses Velles. A migrant Honeypot Hearl tells us. How do we do? Not badly as it happens, for another Lifer is coming up.
But not before a certain strangeness in whom we were to meet here.
More Day Four and a bit of Five..
As we park at Casses Velles we observe a clump of half a dozen Birder’s already present. I say clump because they are gathered around one individual who seems to be holding court in a nervy, jerky kind of way telling those around him to look in different places in what seems like nanoseconds. I once met Lee Evans without realising it at first, when we hunted the Twyford Hoopoe a while back. This bloke is like some sort of clone. But he is almost transparent at times as if not really there. Contemporaneously, I thought it was the speed of his movements creating the effect.
We sidle up and listen in as tripod legs are extended.
Wheatear, Redstart, Pied and Spotted fly, Greenfinch, Whinchat, Stonechat, Chaffinch, Yellow Wags, Blackcap, Sardinian W, more Serins, Blackbird and common Tits were to follow. He told us where to look in the nearby Pines and Crossbills with gorgeous views were presenting. That was the Lifer. We also found our own Turtle Dove.
In the meantime some Germans had stopped and asked us whose house it was we were observing. What! It transpired they thought we were all Paperazi.
We move on to the north east tip and the Lighthouse at Formentor where we have hopes of another Island special, Eleonora’s Falcon. It seemed an endless white knuckle ride along a narrow and dangerous mountain road of infinite hair-pins. When we reach the point there must be about a thousand cars queued aspiring for one of the non-existent fifty-odd spaces potentially available. Hopeless. Despite being gridlocked, with a precipice on the right I somehow manage a thirty–point turn and negotiate a way out millimetre by millimetre for a return journey along this cnut of a road. As we pass by Calles Velles again Mr. Jerky is still there, alone, and there is no car in sight in this remote place where the only habitation is the mysterious Finca! Have we seen our first ghost?
We stop in Port de Pollenca for a reality check. The town is tawdry, tatty and actually most uninteresting. Well worth a miss.
Time for home, a glass of Scotch and then an excellent, if not un-cheap meal out. Around twenty pounds a head, wherever you eat, mostly with locals though in Pollenca itself. I do like this town.
Tomorrow adds Wryneck on the bread run. Then it is back to Albufera. This time a much pleasanter journey via back roads to the southern end of the Parc by the Depuradora De S’Illot (Water Works). Initially we stop by some rough ground nearby that looks like it was once a brown-field site that is returning to nature through the human discard factor. An odd place of free space on an otherwise controlled and owned landscape. Among the myriad Nightingales, Stonechats and Zitting Cisticolas we are to add Tawny Pipit and Cetti’s to the list. The usual finches Serin and House Sparrow go without saying.
Along a dirt track we arrive at a gate that allows views over one of the Depuradora’s pools. Another prime site according to Hearl. How will we fare?
Almost immediately we get on a Black Tern. Superb. But then there is this small distant wader. Definitely we think not a Little one, Stint that is. Notes are made before the ID guides come out. Can it be? Hearl reckons this is a scarce passage migrant. As we doubt our own eyes, another Birder drives up, who it turns out is a regular visitor to the Island. We invite him to express an opinion on our bird without saying what we think it is. “Calidris Temminckii”, he blurts. No, well actually he says, “Temminck’s Stint” as we think the Latin. What a Corker. Another Birder and his wife turn up, ostensibly for lunch, but he gets invited to the ID challenge. “Bloody Hell”, he says, so we guess he agrees with our assessment of the bird.
The first birder to turn up, told us while chatting about what we had and hadn’t seen, of a pair of owls nesting in the Guardia Civil HQ in Port De Pollenca. God, would we really have to go back there? And at dusk, when I should be mellow after a glass or two? He also mentioned a site for something else that is not easy in the UK.
But what else did the eyes enjoy through the gate?
Greenshank, and yes Little Stint, the Little Ringed, Ringed and Kentish Plover. BW Stilt, marsh Harrier, Common Sand, Yellow Wag, Coot Moorhen, Both Pochards, Shelduck, Mallard, Redshank, Cattle Egret, Little Egret, Kestrel, Audouin’s, plus Y-L and B-H Gull, common Hirundines, and wait for it, Sandwich Terns.
A move down the track to an actual hide overlooking a second pool produced bugger all. Next venture was a move to the north eastern environs of the Parc. Here Hearl’s instructions break down completely. Development has encroached to such an extent that no meaningful access is available. Final try is the North path in by the Power Station. Locked gates that are overall rusty enough not to have been used in some time are all that is found here. A disappointment. Random drives up tracks on the way home also lead us to nothing new Avian.
We have two days left and I can tell you the bread run tomorrow will produces nothing new.
Majorka. Last slice but one
Choosing back roads and a concommitant pleasurable drive we head for destinations in the Arta peninsula on the eastern side of the Island. Stops along the way by olive groves provide Wren and Hoopoe Stonechat and Sparrow ordinaire. We arrive at a, currently, idyllic village, Colonia de Sant Pere. Freshly squeezed Orange juice is orgasmically sipped at a sea-front café as Audouin’s glide and loaf on the empty beach just feet away.
Down the road a bit it ends and becomes a track on which we intend to walk. It is hot today. Up till now it has been most acceptably warm. Walking the track it gets even hotter and there are no Birds other than a distant speck that was a Raptor sp. Bugger this. We turn back. At the car we find we are hungry. Time to find a place gemutlich as the German’s say for our pack-lunch. A wrong turn finds us in an enclave of Villa’s of, guess what, retired Germans. Further on, a track invites, it may lead to the sea. Nope. It is the beginning of a series of intertwining tracks and gravel roundabouts that presage nascent development in typical maquis vegetation. We use the concrete kerb stones that are already in place as both stools and table to eat lunch, feeling sadly troubled. Despite that wonderful late morning Audouin’s Orange juice, methinks this place has to be struck off the list of where I would like to end my days. Something that is special is being spoilt. Is that selfish or what?
Due to the lack of Birds here and Hearl’s warning that where we intend to go next is along ropey roads, after the Formentor experience the decision to call it quits is made. Albufera Central is on the way home-ish. So there we go.
There must be a big fall. In song and sight Nightingale, Cetti’s and Sedge abound and compete. Also included in the walk are Common Sand, P Gallinule, P Heron, G Heron, Osprey, Marsh Harrier, Bittern. Cisticola juncididus by the Kilo, both Pochards again plus other usuals.
The Parc had closed by the time we left and the evening was drawing in. If we must return to Port de Pollenca for the Owls now was the time. So we did. The Owls emerge at 8.46 pm except when they don’t we have been told. We have no real idea of where to go as we park at about 8.30. A local Waiter gives us doubtful directions for the type of local Fuzz building we are looking for. A visiting family of regular Sun Readers overhears and tells us where we need to go. Time is getting on. We race a bit. As we finally arrive at the building we seek, there are other birider’s about so we know we have found the right place. 8.55 they call. Being a Hi-Fi nut I am rather good at finding the spacial location of sounds and I get the pair first on telegraph poles. Two Scops Owls are in the Bins just before the light finally fades. I get the rest of the lurking Birders onto them before it is too late to see. I end the day feeling good. It was a Lifer and I got onto it first that night. Despite the Buzz I don’t think I am really Twitcher material.
Majorka Last Day
You sigh with relief, I with regret.
We decide it is going to be very hot today. So it’s up into the mountains again and another shot at the Cuber reservoir. A stop at Lluc for coffee and a stroll provides endless Spotted and Pied Flys and Nightingales plus finches and sparrows. I think we got to Cuber about noon. And was there a parking space? No. In establishing this fact I failed to coax our little Seat up a vertical ramp to the “proper” car park. The engine died at every attempt and gave off toxic smells of burnt oil from every orifice. Gave up and repeated lunch at the Viewpoint we had done earlier in the week. No birds about. Perhaps they too are sheltering from the heat. We return to the parking area and grab a space that means I don’t have to attempt another ingress to the official car park. We set off for a circular walk around the reservoir that will take about three hours. A Booted Eagle, Black Vulture and bog standard Kestrel are the only raptors sighted. So much for Hearl’s ten a visit. Crag Martins were scoped at their holes. Yellow-Legged Gs were present on the lake and in a cliff-top roost in force. We reckoned at least a thousand. Blue Rock Thrush intervened along with Willow W and a massive fall of Spotted Fly and a lone, confiding, female N Wheatear. And it was all over.
Well almost. On the drive back we stopped by a track that had been recommended by that Birder by the Water Works for something that was awkward to get in the UK. In the space of 500 metres we have at least a dozen as the sun begins to sink. Perfect views of Firecrest. A fitting end.
Dips? Apart from the Falcon, no Cirl Bunting or Moustached and Spectacled W’s were a disappointment. But we did hit a few Birds Hearl described as rare in his time of recording. Whether our sightings are fortuitous or a presage to environmental changes, who knows at this point in time?
A last meal of Fillet Steak, rare and no sauce, if you please, with a half of House Red, really concludes matters before the misty early morning drive to the Aero Porto and a fretful exposure to what work has lined up for you in the meantime.
Wes (another from the Archive)
