Noticias en ‘Barcelona’
November 14th, 2008
The red squirrels (Sciurus vulgaris) of Palau de Pedralbes park stream along the branches unobserved, and build their dreys out of sight in the towering Aleppo pines, somewhere among the parakeet nests.
But sometimes they come to ground, especially in the afternoon when the army of gardeners have gone home and stopped their pruning, spraying and sweeping. Tails undulate in the grass like plumes as squirrels forage. Litter bins are investigated too, though at the moment there are plenty of seeds and nuts to gather.
Red squirrels vary in colour: those in the park tend to be a russet-brown, set off by white breasts, and black tails. At the moment their pelts are particularly lustrous, topped off by lavish ear tufts, their winter adornment.
When two squirrels meet, a helter-skelter pursuit often ensues. They scrabble noisily round and around the tree trunks, loosening a shower of bark debris. Spread eagled on opposite sides of the tree, they await each other’s next move. When one’s nerve breaks, the manic chasing resumes.
This ensures they’ll be fit for next spring, when the females go on heat and lengthy chasing begins in earnest, a prelude to mating. If climate and food supplies permit, which is surely the case in this Barcelona park, the females go on heat twice a year: between January and April, and then again between the end of May and August.
Red squirrels seem weightless as they skim through fragile canopies: the larger males reach a mere 350 grams. Other interesting anatomical features of squirrels include double-jointed ankles and long claws, permitting secure vertical descents. Like all rodents, their chiselled incisors never stop growing - about 15cm in a year. This red squirrel looks set to wear them down a little on a hard green pine cone.
Barcelona, Mammals, Palau de Pedralbes park | Tags: Barcelona parks, Red squirrel, Sciurus vulgaris|
At the road side near Vallvidrera, a cellulose gymnast was swinging through the stems. If you’ve grown up thinking of Stick insects as exotic pets kept in glass containers, it’s a thrill to find them ranging free. They look fragile, but can re-grow a damaged limb after a moult.
Another plant imitator, the Praying mantis (Mantis religiosa), is quite visible in Collserola in October. Like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, this elegant specimen couldn’t take its eyes away from the camera.
The black spots, which look eerily like pupils, are an effect of light reflecting from the compound eyes. The mantis also has three “simple” eyes between the antennae that act as an auxilliary light metre. With its swivelling neck and stereoscopic vision, there’s not much that goes on unnoticed around a Praying mantis.
From camouflage to aposematism - currently every Wild carrot nest has a Striped shieldbug (Graphosoma lineatum) inside. Experiments have confirmed that the colouring of these bugs helps predators remember their bad taste. As if testing out the theory themselves, they are often in prominent positions on the top of plants.
Its vivid red and black colouring probably saved this Firebug (Pyrrhocoris apterus) in Palau de Pedralbes park. Climbing up the rocks, it stumbled onto a sunbathing Wall lizard. After assessing the situation, it hurriedly changed direction. The lizard watched, but made no move.
Barcelona, Collserola, Insects, Mammals, Palau de Pedralbes park, Reptiles | Tags: aposematism, Barcelona, camouflage, catalan insects, firebug, graphosoma lineatum, Mantis religiosa, Praying mantis, Pyrrhocoris apterus, stick insect, Striped shieldbug|
The breeding season over for another year, by the end of August most herons have dispersed – though some will roost in the zoo during the winter. I found the plane trees deserted, with nursery activity reduced to the pines overlooking the pelicans, where young Cattle and Little egrets were still being fed. A handful of recently fledged herons also remained.
One grew tired of throat-wobbling and yakking, and crash-landed through the branches into the flamingo enclosure. The lion pen, fortunately, is quite far away. Dark and dishevelled, as if it had come through a chimney, it explored the area, not entirely sure where it was going. A more mature juvenile, sleek in morning suit-grey, exhibited the next stage of plumage in young herons.
The keeper arrived with a container of live goldfish, which he freed into the pelicans’ moat. It’s one way of stirring the hefty birds into action. They enthusiastically set about catching their lunch, casting their expandable bills sideways under water, like fishing nets. And there was plenty left for egrets and herons to practice their fishing skills too, deploying quite different strategies: the egrets would run after their prey, poised to change direction in an instant, while the herons relied on their long sinuous necks to snatch the fleeing fish. Owners of ornamental garden ponds would have had to look away.
As they live directly underneath the heronry, and share a fish diet, the pelicans are the captives most affected by its spectacular expansion. But although their placid existence has been disrupted, this year a pelican chick was successfully hatched, a rare occurrence in the zoo.
The one-footed Malibu stork that used to share the enclosure was immediately transferred elsewhere. A tough, powerfully-billed old warrior, it would brazen it out with the herons at their most competitive, while the pelicans, overwhelmed, huddled in a corner.
The baby pelican has grown into a vast fleecy lump that spends its life on a pedestal, being fed by doting parents. It appeared quite capable of looking after itself, lunging at one of the herons when it came too near. The startled heron waited till the chick had dozed off before approaching again, seeking out any forgotten fish.
Pelicans, herons and egrets, all were in moult, with feathers sticking out at odd angles, waiting to fall. The pelicans were like shabby old eiderdowns, shedding clouds of feathers. The plane tree leaves were also drifting down, and soon the empty nests will be visible again.
Barcelona, Birds | Tags: ardea cinera, Barcelona zoo, Cattle egret, Grey heron, Little egret, pelicans|
In the narrow valley of Sant Just, sounds carry far. The whack of tennis balls on the courts under the radio transmitter of Sant Pere Màrtir is distinctly heard on the other side. This late August evening a flock of around 50 bee-eaters (Merops apiaster) fill it with their distinctive calls. They’ve congregated to feed on the insects that have risen in frenzied columns after the rain. Insubstantial fare compared to their habitual prey, bees or dragonflies, which are picked off one by one from a vantage point, but available in industrial quantities.
Unlike the swifts, who maintain an intense silence when hunting, bee-eaters communicate constantly. They glide and flutter, with acrobatic flourishes, adding tropical colour to the dried-out end-of-summer valley. I’d love to have included a photograph of their turquoise breasts, their sharply pointed wings and tails, but none came out. However, their whirling supper was impossible to miss.
The first rain in a month has also drawn out scents, dampened the dust, washed off the leaves. In the last phase of summer, one of the few plants in flower is fennel (Foeniculum vulgare), grown tall and wiry, covering the hillsides in delicate yellow filigree. The animal scats along the way are packed with seeds and remains of berries. The path is littered with gnawed pine cones – the culprit, a red squirrel (Sciurus vulgaris), gives itself away by shaking a branch overhead.
There’s not much daylight left when the bee-eaters withdraw, their calls gradually getting fainter. Alpine swifts plunge down the valley after them in a whoosh of strength. Soon it’ll be the bats’ turn to feast.
As I’m climbing up to Sant Pere Màrtir, the final outpost of the Collersola massif, the sun slips behind a cloud and then the horizon. I’m shocked to see it’s only 8.30pm - an hour of daylight has been docked since I was last up here. The low grey clouds are tinged violet, and eventually orange, as the city lights come on. Far below, the motorways are strung with golden beads, as cars pour into the city. Many people will be returning from their summer holidays.
I follow the ridge back to Vallvidrera in the dusk, bats flickering close to my head, and the pulsing crickets gaining volume. A family of boars is investigating the car park mirador. A deep grunt and they trot on, followed after a while by a tiny figure, scampering as fast as it can for fear of being left behind. This year’s boarlets have yet to experience the marvels of autumn - acorns without limit, softened earth that’s easy to dig, and muddy puddles to wallow in.
Barcelona, Birds, Collserola, Mammals, Plants | Tags: Barcelona bird watching, Bee-eaters, boars, Merops apiaster, Red squirrel, Sant Just, Sant Pere Màrtir, Sciurus vulgaris, vallvidrera|
No sign of any hoopoes, young or old. I was beginning to wonder if the nest had been deserted. No doubt I looked eccentric, sitting on the ground, staring at a tree for an hour. But another individual came along and outdid me in strangeness.
Nattily dressed for such a hot day, he was wearing a crisp orange shirt, brown trousers belted high and a blue beret positioned in horizontal perfection. He approached the hoopoe tree but wasn’t interested in the nest. Instead, he held up a tape recorder and recorded the cicadas singing. Satisfied, he played it back and went on his way.
Immediately, a hoopoe nestling peered out of the hole. This second clutch of mid-summer will have grown listening to the relentless orchestra of cicadas - briefly intensified by the man in the blue beret.
Barcelona, Birds | Tags: Barcelona bird watching, cicadas, hoopoe, upupa epops|
Early Saturday evening, a good time to head to Collserola. If you get ensnared in its web of delights, it doesn’t matter, because the metro runs all night. The rendezvous for Nick, Monica and myself was 5.30pm outside Mundet station, one of the last stops of the green line. As you ride the escalators up to the street, you’re gliding out of the city itself.
An aim of the walk was to increase our knowledge of Collserola’s plants and trees. We went along, pooling our fragments of information and consulting a guide book. Monica tapped into a great store of knowledge acquired when studying biology at university. The further she walked, the more she remembered.
The northern part of Collserola, lying between Horta and Cerdanyola, is the most thickly wooded and least disturbed, with the greatest variety of trees. If you grow up in Britain, an oak is an oak, but here there are three: Holm, Cerrioides and Kermes.
At the side of the wide track, tall shrubs were thriving – Matabou and Matapolls – ox-killer and chicken-killer in Catalan, or Shrubby hare’s-ear, with its yellow umbels, and Flax-leaved daphne, not yet in flower.
As we walked deeper into the valley, a sparrowhawk skimmed the tree tops. Looking up among the branches, you could see alpine swifts soaring high above, reflecting the setting sun. As the woods swallowed us up, the atmosphere became more mysterious. The fading light didn’t stop the identification process.
Monica picked out a plant and held up a leaf: “This is not a leaf”, she informed. It was a stem masquerading as a leaf, with a small point in the centre – a cladode - where the flower would grow: Ruscus aculeatus or Butcher’s broom.
We passed an earthen bank riddled with holes, each entrance lined with webbing, suggesting a colony of tunnel-dwelling spiders. It emerged that two thirds of our group were arachnophobes (Nick and me). The real test would come later.
On the floor of the valley now, we were surrounded by impressively tall pines. Large bats flickered among them. The light was very poor, but it was still possible to debate the differences between hazlenut and elm leaves. Green woodpeckers flew away calling, startled by the intrusion. There was an increasing urge to speak quietly, like in church.
The route out of the valley was along a narrow path, following the rocky bed of a steep torrent, brought to life only after a storm. It was hot and tunnel-like, making us sweat (some more than others). At the top we emerged into a more sparsely wooded area: nightjar territory.
Churring filled the twilight. Then close at hand came a soft quick call, and we saw the silhouettes of a pair of nightjars. Their long wings rose and fell as they encircled us. The reason was a fledgling on the path a few metres ahead, its eye gleaming in the torch light. The parents circled us even faster, like in a playground game, clapping their wings. As we approached, the bird on the path silently flew off.
In the last hour we’d heard some rustling and grunting among the vegetation, suggesting boars. Now came a loud huffing sound, quite close, and coming straight towards us. A big man was slowly and heavily jogging through the woods, oblivious to our presence.
There was just enough light to distinguish the fox when it crossed the track, a grey shape materialising out of the darkness of the trees, and a hint of an outline against the paler background of the track. When it paused and turned, the torch picked up its eyes.
Back on the ridge, the electricity pylons - a feature of Collserola almost as much as the oaks and pines - were silhouetted against the sprawling city glitter. The lights spilled out onto the sea, from summer yachts and cargo ships moored off the coast.
A solitary bar hidden off the road, reached by a dusty track, was irresistible. We joined a small group of people eating and drinking in the cool night air. It was time to check the photos and recap what we’d seen before descending to the metro again. Three boars came trotting down the path we’d just taken. The bar owner said all his plants had been ruined. Only those in big sturdy pots were boar-proof.
Alert for boar sounds, we slowly and carefully picked our way down the steep crumbling path, fragrant with rosemary. The botanical identification didn’t lose pace: euphorbias, fragrant clematis, stonecrop, strawberry trees, lentisk. At a junction of paths, there was some lucky fox scat. Lucky for me, at least.
While we paused to prod and sniff the droppings, the torch light detected a glinting circular structure: a vast web blocking the path like a toll gate, and the owner, a fat spider waiting to seize its dues (possibly Araneus diadimatus.) As I’d been leading the way, concentrating mainly on the ground for my next foothold, or the plants at the side, my nose might have been the first contact point.
Unfortunately, there was no way round, and the web had to be partially unhooked. Adrenaline levels shot upwards at that point at the thought of what else might lie ahead.
At the halfway mark back to Horta, where the path levels out by a spring, loud grunting and snorting were heard. We turned off our lights, climbed onto a wooden picnic table, and waited. A female boar came along, and began tossing some fallen branches, rummaging under the leaves. Like the jogger, she ignored us. We could see her in detail, from moist black nose to short hairy tail. The world was vibrating with night insects, hypnotic and calming. Midwife toads bleeped – there are water containers nearby full of their tadpoles. We stayed long after the boar went her way.
Once the descent had been resumed, the peace of the night was shattered by my ear-splitting shrieks. Nick and Monica thought I’d come face to face with an enormous boar. That would’ve been infinitely preferable to being wrapped in one of the mega-webs I’d blundered into. There was a change in walking order, with Nick bravely leading the way now. Only one more spider blocked the path, spreadeagled in the centre of its impressive domain. On this occasion there was room to carefully duck underneath. Identification continued of the different berry-bearing shrubs: elder, hawthorn, Mediterranean buckthorn and the prolific laurustinus.
Back on asphalt, we were five minutes away from the metro when a small gang of boars galloped up the steps to the university buildings. They’d been ploughing up the roundabout, tossing aside plants as they dug in the freshly irrigated earth. We decided to sit on the grass nearby in case they returned, while bats hunted by the street lights. After a while, there were rustlings from behind, and the ivy rippled. Although the hedgehog increased its pace, it couldn’t avoid being snatched up, gently jiggled so it would unroll, and be identified as a Common European hedgehog.
The last few metres to the metro escalators were uneventful, and we were home by 3.00am.
Thanks to Monica for her picture of the boar.
Barcelona, Birds, Collserola, Mammals, Plants, Trees | Tags: boar, boars in Barcelona, Caprimulgus europaeus, erinaceus europaeus, hedgehog, nightjar, oak, Spain, sus scrofa, walking in Barcelona|
Palau Reial park provides refuge from summer heat with its cool shade and water. But earlier this year, in a public display of water-saving, the fountains and pond were allowed to run dry. Gaudi’s tiny dragon drinking fountain, much loved by small birds, looked dusty and neglected. Bathing had to be done in temporary puddles or on rain-soaked leaves.
Happily, the reservoirs have reached acceptable levels again and the drought is officially over. As the pond slowly fills up, dragonflies are darting once more, and the birds are enjoying a new lido, before it gets too deep.
At midday, as the cicadas’ wall of sound intensifies, a pair of magpies (Pica pica) arrive for a dip. They’re quite tentative at first, paddling about in the shallow end, sipping the water. They seem distracted by their own reflections.
But soon they’re dunking their heads, tails tilted high. As they splash, they spread out their feathers, allowing the cool water to penetrate right to the skin. There are flashes of metallic blue among the spray.
Encouraged by the sight of splashing magpies, a pair of Monk parakeets (Myiopsitta monachus) decide to join in. I’ve never observed any friction between these two highly gregarious species, the most ubiquitous birds in the park. The magpies and blackbirds have a more prickly relationship, perhaps because blackbirds are often energetically rummaging through the dry leaves and pine needles on the ground, and the magpies fear they’ll uncover a buried stash.
The parakeets sit motionless, nestling side by side in the water, looking rather shy. At moments like this, you can almost forgive them all the screeching and forget about the destructive raids on crops. The pair gradually lose all inhibition. Just like the magpies, they ruffle their plumage and bathe head-first.
Two soggy green clumps of feathers surprisingly can still fly, and repair to the trees to dry off.
Barcelona, Birds, Palau de Pedralbes park | Tags: Gaudi, magpie, Monk parakeet, Myiopsitta monachus, Palau Reial, parakeets in Barcelona, Pica pica|
The city doesn’t get more pristine than this. It’s the middle of July, typically a month of stagnant heat, when the sky is discoloured by smog. But in today’s diaphanous atmosphere, Barcelona is visible in intricate detail and the sea is like deep blue silk. After yesterday’s torrential storm, there’s a mountain freshness in the air that promises a good night’s sleep. The soaring swifts take your heart that little bit higher.
I’m in the southern part of Collserola, after catching the funicular to Vallvidrera, where rich Barcelona citizens used to retire for the summer, in the days when people didn’t travel far for their holidays. Once you leave the houses behind, you can follow the ridge to Sant Pere Màrtir, the last hill before the Sierra de Collserola drops down to the Llobregat river plain. There used to be an ermita here, before they tore it down in the 1930s and put up a red and white radio transmitter. Only the name remains, and the stunning views, as the hill falls abruptly away to the city.
I turn inland, where the slopes are more gradual and there’s a labyrinth of paths among pines, small holm oaks and broom. There’s a restlessness about the landscape. A considerable part of Barcelona’s swift population are also spending their Sunday evening on Collserola and the hillsides are swarming with them.
Mainly Common swifts (Apus apus), but the majestic Alpine swifts (Apus melba) stand out with their gleaming white breasts. Their wingspan approaches that of the approaching kestrel, who suddenly accelerates and takes a swoop at one of the house martins mingling in the crowd, making it yelp in alarm.
The path takes me to one of the deepest recesses, where Fragrant clematis (Clematis flammella) has run amok, smothering other plants and bushes with white flowers. The swifts are here too, swishing past, cutting the air to ribbons.
I start climbing up among oak trees, and the swifts cast their shadows on the path. There must be hordes of insects after yesterday’s rain, and they’re intent on hoovering the lot up. The only sound is the slash of their narrow, flexible wings, interrupted by the cheerful gossip of some passing swallows.
Up the grassy slopes, nearly back to the top of the ridge, the density of swifts is even greater. They pass very close, turning incredibly tight circles at relentless speed, weaving intricate flight paths. My camera can only capture them as flickering symbols.
Most of the city is now in shadow, as the sun sets. Only the part nearest the coast still glows. To the north, powerful storm clouds have risen, reflected in the sea.
When the sun has gone down, the swifts ease up, and begin to drift back towards the city. Perhaps some will be going back to their nest holes, even though the breeding season is virtually over. The Alpines are here till October but the Common swifts only stay for three months a year. Each one is linked to a particular barrio, street, unobtrusive hole.
The orange horizon behind them, the swifts float out into the dusk. It’s a vertiginous thought that they’ll be on the wing non-stop till next spring. And those who survive their first migration have 2 or 3 years of flight ahead.
Excellent website about swifts:
http://www.commonswift.org/common_swift.html
Barcelona, Birds, Collserola | Tags: alpine swift, apus apus, apus melba, swift, swift migration, vallvidrera|
A woman comes out on the fire escape to smoke a cigarette. Nearby there’s a Judas tree - it’s seen better days and bears little foliage now, only on the highest branches. The woman stands and talks on her mobile. She’s unaware that on the other side of the tree, there’s movement and two eyes appear at a hole.
Undeterred by the proximity of the office block, hoopoes (Upupa epops) have nested inside the tree. People are constantly walking to and fro, but it doesn’t bother them. Perhaps because these eye-catching birds have also perfected the art of melting into the background. In flight they’re a flurry of black and white, and uncertain zigzag direction. But on the ground they blend in with the dust of the paths or the dappled shadows under the trees.
The hollow tree is conveniently surrounded by excellent foraging ground, with scattered pines and sparse grass. I watched the parents walk about probing for bugs in the soft earth, unnoticed by busy passers-by. Whenever they returned to the nest, an item of food held fast at the tip of their long pincer-like bills, they were greeted by their hissing young.
Hoopoe nests are so renowned for their stink that it was disappointing to find no evil odour emanating from the hole. It was too high to look into or, for that matter, to receive a faceful of noxious nestling fluid, another defensive measure they employ.
A week later, the young hoopoes were no longer content to sit still in the protective darkness of their tree. Leaning out inquisitively, they would look in all directions – at the sky, neighbouring trees, at me. If I took a step too near, then the faces would disappear inside and remain hidden.
It was no surprise to find the nest deserted the following week. And no sign of the family. Despite its plentiful food supply, this small park has an important drawback for tender young hoopoes taking their first forays into the world: a colony of cats, who can be seen crouching, hypnotised by the busy tree creepers.
Nearly a month later, when the parents were busy with a second clutch, I found a young hoopoe dozing on a branch. It was in another park, but very near, so there’s a chance it was one of the brood, now fending for itself. It looked rather vulnerable, with soft downy breast feathers. Luckily, it had found a place where cats are actively discouraged.
The next day the fledgling was still there, but this time bright-eyed and awake. It studied me, and decided I wasn’t a danger, allowing me to observe a curious episode. In the full noonday sun, it snuggled into the loose sand of the path, burrowing down till its tail was grey with dust. Sitting there like a brooding hen, it occasionally shuffled itself further into the hollow. There was none of the vigorous dust-flinging that goes on when a sparrow takes a dust bath, nor any attempt to preen. It merely stretched its neck, with a tentatively flickering crest, and its bill began to gape.
Sufficiently baked, the hoopoe finally moved into the shade, where conveniently an irrigation sprinkler had just been turned off. After drinking from the rivulet of fresh water, the young bird flew a short distance for some vigorous foraging among tree roots. That’s when it gave me a clue to its activity. Without warning, its crest stood on end, and tail and wing feathers were splayed out. It seemed to have received an electric shock. Or been stung by an insect.
Then I remembered the “anting” activity that some birds perform - active anting, which involves capturing ants and placing them inside the plumage, or passive anting, which hoopoes are known to do. They can adopt quite dramatic postures spreadeagled on the ground, making it easy for the insects to hop on board. Anting is not fully understood: the formic acid secreted in ant bites might help control parasites. Or maybe the sensation of ants among feathers is soothing, especially during a moult. Regardless, anting and related activities like dusting and sunbathing, give birds great pleasure. A new urban activity can be added to the list: massage by air-conditioning.
The young hoopoe continued foraging, its crest still restless. Finally, it flew up to a branch, and settled down for a siesta.
Barcelona, Birds | Tags: anting, barcelona birdwatching, hoopoe, upupa epops|
Packed tight between the mountains and the sea, Barcelona is a noisy, densely populated city. Any visitor who climbs Montjuic or Tibidabo for an overall view will immediately be struck by the absence of green space. The nearest most people have to a garden is a few plant pots on a balcony. Yet in the heart of this intensely urban environment, there is a spectacular birding experience to be had.
I stood watching as the man swung his bucket, scattering silvery fish through the air and an extraordinary balletic display commenced. Tall gangling birds pranced across the grass, jostling in competition. Crests were cocked in excitement. Raucous cries rang out. Vast wings were spread like grey capes, as strong orange beaks grasped their catch. Long, sinuous necks bulged as it was swallowed.
The scene was Barcelona zoo, and the birds putting on the show were Grey herons (Ardea cinerea). Common enough species but rarely seen in such quantities and proximity. The zoo has over 200 of them, nesting high in the tree tops: the largest urban heronry in Europe.
The herons are sometimes mistaken by visitors as another exhibit, a decorative extra thrown in for the price of the ticket, like the peacocks who have the run of the place. But they are wild birds who have chosen to live in close proximity to man. When hunting for food outside the zoo grounds, they revert to extreme wariness, fleeing at the slightest human intrusion. Inside, other rules apply, providing a tremendous opportunity to observe them close up.
Walking through the zoo on a mild April morning, I spotted a heron in a palm tree snaking its neck to pluck some likely nesting material. Another had alighted in a plane tree to present a long twig to its mate. The pair raised their crests in greeting and exchanged raucous ruarks. Over by the penguin pool, herons kept guard, glassy eyes giving nothing away as they waited for feeding time.
Like Barcelona itself, the zoo can be noisy and crowded. A pretend train laden with visitors was winding along the paths, its bell ringing incessantly. The Cuban flamingos were in display mode, trumpeting in formation. Peacocks were screaming. Children on a school trip were shouting “Baloo! Baloo!” at a pair of slumbering Spanish brown bears. Adding to the congestion were lines of wide-eyed tiny-tots hanging onto long ropes. Dodging all these obstacles were the zoo staff, mounted on bikes.
The heronry adds a few more decibels to the general cacophony. As I approached the pelican and gorilla enclosures, a sign instructed me to look up. Overhead, in the towering plane trees, was the hub of the colony, where the large nests are packed close together and the whiff of a barnyard hangs in the air. Also emanating from above was a peculiar racket.
Scanning the boughs to find its source, I saw that several nests were already occupied by goggle-eyed spiky heads. The relentless nattering was the sound of ravenous heron chicks, leaning out precariously, wobbling their throats and demanding food.
Although still weeks away from acquiring the sleek elegance of their parents, some of the chicks were already quite grown, a sign of the colony’s success. Mild Barcelona weather and an ample food supply encourage early breeding. A record was set in 2007, after a particularly balmy winter, when the first chick hatched on January 8th. With such favourable conditions, some herons undertake two broods a year.
For more information I consulted Josep Garcia, an ornithologist who has studied Barcelona’s herons for more than 20 years. Spring is his busiest time as he monitors the entire heron population of Catalonia, wading unsteadily through lagoons, and climbing shaky ladders to peer at nests and ring chicks. In the zoo he has the amenities of a city at hand, and glides smoothly upwards in a tree pruner’s lift.
“You’ve visited the oldest Catalan heronry,” he explained, giving me a quick history lesson. “It was founded over thirty years ago in 1974 by captive birds with clipped wings. Two of their offspring were given their freedom, surprising everyone by returning to the zoo to breed.” Other herons passing on migration were attracted by the nests they spotted below.
“This year we might get as many as 130 nests,” says García, astounded by the prospect himself “Which is probably saturation point. The Barcelona heronry will be playing an important role in reinforcing or establishing new colonies as herons disperse. In the next few years, the Catalan colonies will acquire a great strategic importance as a nexus between heronries of southern France and the Mediterranean basin.” This has always been the role of Catalonia, to act as a bridge between Europe and Spain.
A benign climate is not the only advantage for Barcelona’s herons. In the centre of the city they have few predators to worry about. The principle danger for the chicks is falling from the nest or being pushed by a rival sibling. Conditions are much harsher in the Llobregat Delta by Barcelona airport, where herons nest among reeds. García explains that these “suffer intense predatory pressure from the introduced American mink and disturbance from boars [whose population has exploded in Catalonia in recent years]. Besides having to contend with the more “normal” predators such as the Marsh harrier and other raptors like the Bonelli’s eagle.”
Just as my neck was staring to ache from so much tree-top gazing, a keeper approached the pelican enclosure and the herons began parachuting down. I felt the turbulence generated by a 1.75 metre wingspan as one settled by my elbow. Ignoring me, it only had eyes for the bloke with the bucket.
The heron is an adaptable bird and some have learnt to take advantage of the zoo’s resources. As feeding time is short and competition fierce, their typical hunting techniques, based on patience and stealth, are of little use. Smaller and more nimble rivals, such as Yellow-legged gulls and Little egrets, send tension levels even higher.
A stressed heron is an electrical sight, as its most decorative feathers rise to the occasion. As they gathered nervously in the pelicans’ moat, long black head plumes were springing up like antennae and white neck fringes spiking out. When fish were flung their way, tugs of war erupted. One intrepid individual managed to poach an entire trout, which it slowly engulfed, like a python. The long neck, so useful for harpooning fish in shallow water, also came in handy when accepting an offering directly from the keeper’s hand, keeping him safely “at neck’s length”.
When nerves and feathers had subsided, the herons reverted to more archetypal behaviour, stalking the area with measured calm in search of forgotten morsels. Soon the grassy arena of earlier feeding battles was taken over by picnicking families.
I reflected on how much the flamboyant herons have transformed the zoo, by providing a counterbalance to the captive animals. They are now part of an increasingly valued biodiversity within its grounds. A wintering kingfisher has been known to slip into the aquarium through an open window. Unique in the city, a population of hedgehogs has been discovered, survivors of a pre-urban era. Six species of butterfly have been identified and three amphibians: the Iberian Water Frog, Midwife toad and Stripeless Treefrog. Adjacent to the Parc de la Ciutadella, (Citadel Park ) the zoo has an impressive collection of 96 species of trees. While it is acknowledged that modern zoos work hard at conservation on a global scale, linking up to form a worldwide network, they have another role to play: providing an oasis for local wildlife and encouraging visitors to appreciate it.
Later that week, when walking down Barcelona ‘s expensive central shopping boulevard, Passeig de Gracia, at twilight, I was thrilled to see the instantly recognisable silhouettes of two herons. Curved necks tucked in, broad wings steadily beating, they were heading home.
Facts:
- The zoo heronry was founded in 1974.
- Until 1992 it was the only stable heron breeding colony in Catalonia.
- In 1997 the herons were joined by two other members of the ardeidae family: the Cattle egret and Little egret.
- Landmark years in the colony’s growth were 1997, when 21 new pairs swelled the number of nests to 62, and 2003, when they reached 106.
- The breeding period in the zoo can begin from the end of December until the end of July or beginning of August. This year the first egg hatched on February 14th. In 2007 it was as early as January 8th.
- On average 4 eggs are laid per nest, and only 1 or 2 chicks survive.
- Between 20 and 30% of the colony is resident. The others begin leaving in August, and return in February
Barcelona, Birds | Tags: Ardea cinerea, Barcelona zoo, Grey heron, heronry|
