Observations of Wood warblers, which breed mainly north of Iberia, are usually scarce in Catalunya.  This year, by the end of April, Ornithocat had recorded more than 200. On one of these dark rainy afternoons, I found several on Montjuic, scouring the trees along with Willow warblers. This photo was taken when the weather improved, the Wood warbler’s lemon yellow throat reflecting light under a freshly grown canopy.

Even in the gloom, the male Pied flycatchers were sharply visible. They are regular transients through Barcelona, but rarely seen in such density as this year.

On the last night of the deluge, the rain stopped just at dawn. On Montjuic, everything was steaming as the sun rose. A tremendous concentration of migrants had built up.  In the pine woods, every tree seemed to harbour a flycatcher (mainly Pied, but also Spotted), sallying out at regular intervals, gorging on the thick clouds of flies on this almost tropical morning. You could hear nightingales and Golden orioles singing, and observe many other species you might not expect to find in Barcelona, including Woodchat shrikes, whinchats, whitethroats and Common redstarts.

Even before the bad weather, I’d come across a pair of Woodchat shrikes who’d stopped to replenish forces on Montjuic. While the male sang from the top of a tree, the female tugged at a lizard impaled on an acacia thorn.

On the Cami del Mar, the Black redstarts had moved on to their breeding grounds by the start of April. Briefly in their place appeared a resplendent Common redstart.

Written by Lucy Brzoska

In Barcelona, a sign that spring isn’t far away is an intensification of twig gathering by Monk parakeets (an activity they tend to do all year round). Away from their raucous nest colonies, built high up in the towering pines of Palau de Pedralbes park, a parakeet couple were snatching some quality time together.  Snuggled up close, they were taking it in turns to preen.

Another sign of incipient spring in the city is the sound of serins singing. The jangling, irrepressible song, delivered from a suitably high spot, can be traced to a small yellow-breasted bird – Europe’s smallest finch and close relation to the canary.

In a prelude to copulation, the more discretely coloured female serin leaned over to receive her mate’s gift of food.

On Montjuic, two large fuzzy black carpenter bees flew past in an embrace – the female had been seized by the male, recognisable by its smaller size and orange-tipped antennae. When they settled on a leaf, you could see another distinguishing feature: the male’s silvery grey mesosomal hairs.

It seems that carpenter bees are prone to overheating, as they fly slowly and are black, so the pale colour is thought to be useful in reflecting away sunlight. Males spend more time out in the open – territory patrolling, looking for females, and then feeding in the afternoons, when the females are back in their shelters. (See this study for more interesting info.)

Much of the private life of the Red squirrels in Palau de Pedralbes park goes on out of sight, very high up in the trees. They come down to earth to dig up their stashed autumnal loot or explore the rubbish bins. This one was pulling up dried grass.  With a very large mouthful, it ran up an Aleppo pine to furnish its drey, where it would soon be giving birth.

Written by Lucy Brzoska

Trona means pulpit in Catalan. But the great rock bearing this name that thrusts out of the Cingles de Berti feels more like a throne. You can sit up there on great stone slabs and survey the land: the misty Valles plain stretching south towards Barcelona, the rounded peaks of Montseny across the Congost valley to the east, and the Pyrenees to the north. In winter there are Crag martins weaving around, ganging together to chase off a buzzard. Mediterranean heather is in mid-flower, droning with bees. The day I climbed up there I found ravens courting.

Ravens are a constant presence on the Cingles. At the end of the day, they sometimes assemble near the mobile mast above Aiguafreda, where they swirl round and round. On La Trona I watched a single pair: perhaps they were setting up a nest somewhere. I’d been listening to their calls as I climbed up, including bill-knocking and a low but resonant guttural sound. (Listen to a wide range of raven calls here.)

Though very large (bigger than buzzards), they are incredibly graceful birds in flight. They were completely focused on each other, moving in perfect synchrony, sometimes touching. They plummeted down and rose up again, and spun like barrels. I watched until they were swallowed up by the mist rolling from across the flat fields.

You could hear the sounds of contented chomping from a distance. The fig trees scattered around Montjuic were heavily laden this September, much to the delight of Monk parakeets and other birds.

In October Magnolia trees in the Jardins de Mossèn Cinto Verdaguer produce large pods of shiny red berries, which are particularly appreciated by Great tits and Ring-necked parakeets. Far less common than Monks in Barcelona – and far shyer – Ring-necks are distinguished by their long thin tails, and higher-pitched screech.

November sees the climax of the acorn crop in Palau Reial Park. Along with Wood pigeons, red squirrels and jays, Monk parakeets are to be found either foraging on the ground under the oaks, or up in the tree tops. No stashing away for the winter though, the acorns are gobbled up on the spot.

Written by Lucy Brzoska

I half-glanced at the orange butterfly, expecting to see a Wall (Lasiommata megera), an abundant species on Montjuic. After a double-take, I realised it was something else altogether. Having looked wistfully at so many photographs of this species, recognition was instant. I was moving carefully forward with the camera, when a jogger pounded past, and the Plain Tiger was gone.

But a quick scramble up the slope, behind a bush of broom, revealed large clusters of Coronilla de Fraile (“Friar’s pate” – Globularia alypum), and there, feeding calmly, were three Plain Tigers.

D. chrysippus is an extremely common butterfly species in Africa and Asia, but a recent arrival in Iberia. A strong migrator, after emerging, each generation moves on.  Well-established in Andalucia, they have been recorded all along the Mediterranean coast as far north as Roses on the Costa Brava. JM Sesma of Biodiversidad Virtual suggests the ones I saw were the progeny of Tigers recorded in the Delta del Ebro two months previously.

The Plain Tiger is a cooperative butterfly to photograph.  Rather than erratic flight, or camouflage, it protects itself by toxicity, so readily displays its colours to potential  predators. The Tiger’s wings, with a range of tones – from orange to russet and brown – sharply outlined in black, are beautiful, but best of all, in my opinion, is the body and head, covered in striking white polka dots.  The males are distinguished by a prominent white spot on the  hind underwing, edged in black, which is a concentration of scent scales used for mating.

Interestingly, the spread of D. Chrysippus in Iberia has been abetted by the widespread invasion of a garden escapee, Gomphocarpus fruticosus, a member of the Milkweed family.  Danaid caterpillars feed on Milkweed plants, storing up the toxic alkaloids from their milky sap, enough to make an unwary predator vomit.

I watched Marcus disappear upwards through the gap. He was on his way to the summit of the vertiginous Peña Ubiña, a thin grey wedge of a mountain, one of the highest (2,417 m) of the Cantabrian Cordillera. I had a 2-hour wait ahead on this rocky crag on my own.

We’d started climbing early to avoid the heat of the day. The path, beginning in Torrebarrio, is unrelentingly steep.  Floating over the mountain side came a song reminiscent of a blackbird’s:  it was from a Rufous rock thrush perched on a boulder. A small band of migrating Common swifts flew overhead.

Though rated as a relatively easy climb, the exposed Peña Ubiña makes my head spin.  But I always look forward to reaching a citadel about 250 metres from the top, the last place I can get to without my legs turning to jelly. Through the ramparts on one side, I can see Babia, and the valley of San Emiliano.

Bells ring out as a long line of sheep are being herded down from mountain pasture.  The grass at the end of a dry summer has been bitten to the quick, and the flock is on its way to the river valleys.  They are accompanied by mastiffs, an ancient breed of livestock guardians, who wear metal collars and have thick dewlaps to protect their throats from wolves.

On the other side, the view is towards Asturias, the source of a thick white mist that is perpetually rising and threatening to maroon us on the mountain. I watch as the mist submerges the cattle on the plain below, before withdrawing again.

On the Babia side, the precipices of the Ubiña Massif rise severely from skirts of scree.  The boulder-scattered grass runs out at 2,000 meters. This is the realm of kestrels, who rise up and turn to ride the wind.  In my vantage point, I’m sheltered from the violent gusts, which hiss through the sharp pinnacles.  It seems the choughs and Alpine accentors might be dashed to pieces, but they are at home here.

A flash of colour appears among the grey, as an Iberian rock lizard emerges from a crevice, showing a lime green throat.

There are several moths fluttering about the seeding rock plants.  I notice a strange cluster of minute golden balls, shiny and identical, stuck to a rock. Later I find out they are moth eggs.

I’m at eye level with vultures.  They’re all heading southwards.  I wonder if they are going to the area in the south of Leon badly affected by wildfire. Below, large end-of-summer flocks of choughs scatter across the plain, and rise up against the rocks. Time flies, and Marcus reappears at the gap, summit done. Time to pack up and go down.

This photo of the Ubiñas (Grande y Pequeña) was taken 5 years ago.  Little has changed, although a couple of mobile phone masts have been added to the landscape since then. Sadly, this disturbed a nesting site of Egyptian vultures, who are no longer regularly to be seen in the San Emiliano valley.

Photograph by  Inma Sáinz de Baranda in La Vanguardia

Savage wildfires have raged across northern Catalonia in the Alt Empordà, the land of the Tramuntana.  This fierce NW wind contributed to the terrifying speed with which the fire spread. It was the reason why on Monday July 25, people in Barcelona, 150 km away, woke to the strong scent of wood smoke. Only when the wind died down could the situation be brought under control. The landscape now smoulders, pallid with ash, filled with the blackened remnants of trees.

The villages caught up in the inferno fought bravely to protect themselves.  The young mayor of Darnius remembers his fear when the Tramuntana was driving the flames, comparing the sound to a savage lion-like roaring, and the fire’s implacable advance.

“Trees that had taken decades to grow were burnt down before you could count to three.”

A group of shepherds recounted how they had fled with the flames at their heels, desperately trying to save their flocks.  But the sheep became paralysed with fear, and the shepherds saved themselves by jumping into the river.

 “You can’t imagine what it was like. It was raining fire. With the sparks, the explosions, and the flames, there was fire everywhere.”

Incredibly, the explosions they referred to were caused by the detonation of at least four bombs, lying abandoned on the hillsides since the Civil War.

Ironically, all the herds of goats and flocks of sheep that perished were part of a traditional system of fire-prevention.  But few people make a living from grazing animals or forestry these days, and the unchecked spread of woodland, particularly the fire-loving Aleppo Pine, in a hot dry Mediterranean climate is a disaster waiting to happen. A pertinent article in El Pais by Benigno Varillas calls for more herbivores and the management of a more mosaic type of landscape as a preventative strategy.

In its climate Spain is more Africa than Europe. The savannah woodland teeming with wildlife is more like a dehesa than a dense forest.

For 2 or 3 weeks a year, when the Montjuic peregrine falcons fledge, you can watch incredible displays as they practice their flight skills.  Often you get very close views as they pass close to the hillside.

But it’s not often you find one sitting on the ground in the middle of the Cami del Mar. I could see its heavily stippled breast – these markings turn into lightly spotted horizontal bars in the adults.

On my approach, the falcon flew up to the wooden fence, scanned the sky for its siblings and went back up to join them.

All three were out flying, constantly tilting at each other, raising their talons. You could see one was smaller – the only male.  Sometimes they chase each other low down, skimming the slopes, negotiating the pine trees.  They practice stoops, wings held stiffly at the sides, transformed into missiles.  They sometimes break off to go after a seagull or unwary magpie.

The week before, I’d watched a gull lunge at one of the young falcons, briefly grasping it on the back.  The juvenile raptor screamed and feathers floated down. Yellow-legged gulls are large, with wingspans of up to 140 cm. The Peregrines seem much smaller alongside them, more compact, a female wingspan reaching 113 cm. The gulls are aggressive, and saturate the air space over the Montjuic cliffs.

A week of experience later, and the falcons are outmanoeuvring the gulls with ease. A flicker and they’re out of reach. They go after the gulls and make them squeal.  The play is still very gentle.

One of the falcons comes to rest in a nearby pine tree, wings outstretched.  It looks straight at me, with enormous dark eyes, and moves to a branch a little further away.  They haven’t learnt to be fully afraid of us yet.

Peregrine falcons have become urban birds, encouraged to nest on buildings with specially installed boxes. Barcelona has several pairs, most famously in the Sagrada Familia.  You could describe those on Montjuic as semi-urban, as they nest in a scrap of inaccessible wilderness, but when they take to the air, they are soaring over cranes, heavy traffic, and ship containers.

Wild weather of recent years has opened up Collserola’s woods, and one of the most rapid colonisers of the new clearings has been the rock rose, especially Sage-leaf Cistus.  This May everywhere you look, hundreds and hundreds of white flowers are shining in the sunlight.

The yellow base of each petal emphasizes the thick clump of stamen, creating a densely yellow heart.

Insects are drawn to the rich, easily accessible supplies of pollen. As well as bumblebees and white-spotted rose beetles I found this male Anthaxia hungarica, with enormous black eyes and green metallic sheen, dining in radiant surroundings.

Another member of the Rock rose family was in flower, Tuberaria guttata, with a strongly marked red-brown ring to guide pollinators to their target.

While holm oaks and pines predominate, in the north of Collserola there are many deciduous oaks. Here, under the shade of the new canopy, Granny’s Nightcaps (Aquilegia vulgaris) are blooming.  The elaborately structured flowers hang down, and the nectar is stowed deep within, at the end of narrow, neatly coiled spurs. Bumble bees were out foraging, but instead of disappearing inside the flower in search of their booty, and emerging dusted in pollen, they were settling on top.  Each spur had a small hole bitten out: the flowers were being cleaned out by backdoor thieves!