EXTREMADURA
The Spanish hinterland of Extremadura is well known for spring birding, particularly its displaying bustards. But those in the know consider it to be even better in winter
A Spanish region well known for spring birding, particularly its raptors and displaying bustards
In how many ways can Extremadura’s wintering Cranes inspire joy? Despite becoming accustomed to enjoying Cranes since moving to Norfolk five years ago, nothing prepared me for the variety of experiences watching these statuesque creatures barely three hours drive from the Spanish capital of Madrid.
Typically, your ears detect Cranes before your eyes. And even if you have never heard them previously, you somehow know what they are. For there is no mistaking a Crane’s call. Fragile, forlorn and imbued with otherness, for me it is more resonant of a reedy, rippling oboe than the usual comparison with a bugle. Nor is there even the faintest possibility of remaining unbewitched by the chorus of thousands that resounds over Extremadura’s rice fields and traverses its open, cork-oak forests.
Each winter, Europe’s mightiest congregation of Cranes shapes the soundscapes of central-west Spain. “Regular co-ordinated counts”, says my guide Martin Kelsey of Birding Extremadura, “reveal in excess of 130,000 birds are here between November and early February”. That population has more than doubled in barely a decade – a sure sign that grullas are faring well overall and liking Extremadura.
Yet it is not merely the numbers that mesmerise, but the myriad ways to experience Cranes’ lissome, ruffled forms. Martin and I watch a pair yodelling to one another, heads cocked back to free the larynx of impediment. Nearby a small group sashays through maize stubble, supermodels on a spiky catwalk. We observe a family – mum, dad and two nippers – tiptoeing through viscous mud near a farmstead outside Madrigalejo village.
We spot a gaggle stuttering nervously through a rice field, youngsters whistling for reassurance from their elders. We ascend an order of magnitude by admiring a congregation of hundreds slouching and striding – alternately grump and grace – beneath silvery-green, Afro-coiffured holm oaks stippling plains at Moheda Alta. If we waited here until dusk – at an environmental-education centre spreading love for these measured, yet emotive birds – we could gawp at thousands seeking sanctity in a communal roost. So many Cranes; so many ways to appreciate them. “I can’t imagine ever tiring of Cranes,” Martin says. “I feel bereft when they depart.”
The Cranes are reason enough to visit Extremadura during the colder months – but here you never seem short of reasons to linger. As we sidle beside a saturated rice field, where gloopy mounds of mud protrude above the watery sheen, we notice passerines thronging the weedy roadside
ditches. Chiffchaffs congregate furtively. A sad wheeze alerts us to a bandit-masked Penduline Tit flustering a reedmace. Bluethroats flirt with us, flashing russet tail bases before belting into the undergrowth. Among the House and Spanish Sparrows, there are exotic songbirds, too – passerines that shouldn’t be here, yet most definitively are. Red Avadavats shock with their strawberry bills – and this even before the male has moulted into his nuptial scarlet robes. Common Waxbills, another African, non-native, fidget buzzily.
Behind one field, a cloud of waxbills, sparrows and avadavats billows upwards, their midst punctured by a sharp-winged Merlin. It transpires that the falcon was slipstreaming a male Hen Harrier, seeking to pick off any disoriented passerine missed by the primary attacker. Martin has often seen these two species hunt in tandem; for me, the association is new. “In Extremadura”, Martin jokes, “we have big birds and little birds, and we have big birds eating little birds”.
Kite confession
Genial and generous, Martin Kelsey has a somewhat bookish air – somewhere between a gentleman birder and indulgent professor. After careers in tropical conservation and overseas development, Martin and his Colombian wife, Claudia, moved to Extremadura. They learnt their new trades as ecotourist guide and hotelier rapidly; I suspect nobody knows more about the region’s birds than Martin. And, thanks to his impish sense of humour and delicately guarded caffeine addiction, I doubt there is anyone more fun with whom to bird there.
En route from Madrid, while nattering about all things ornithological, ecological and cultural, I confess to Martin that I have never seen Black-winged Kite in Europe and that I have only seen a single Little Bittern. I am here for cranes, eagles and bustards; I harbour no pretensions of rectifying those sorry stories during this trip. Kelsey thinks differently – and acts swiftly.
CINEREOUS VULTURES HEIGHTENED THE SPECTACLE, BARGING MEEKER GRIFFONS OUT OF THE WAY
He pulls off the motorway near Saucedilla. We are barely free of the slip road before a pale apparition ghosts into view. The Black-winged Kite then hovers, just as they are meant to do, before disapparating, as is seemly for a phantom. Its departure leaves me smiling. Scant minutes later, we draw up at Arrocampo Reservoir. Our stroll from car park to waterbody hems a nice-looking reedbed. “I never fail to see Little Bittern, here”, Martin says by way of implicit pledge. “I always fail to see Little Bittern”, I counter – listing my dozen Europe-wide dips of this reclusive heron. Even my sole success, a female on the outskirts of London, took two attempts. I am not hopeful. My glumness is alleviated by the clattering of Purple Gallinules. Chiffchaffs zip and dip everywhere, Bluethroats flash briefly and Penduline Tits confess their presence. It is exciting stuff – but of a Little Bittern there is, predictably, no more than the odd frog-like croak from a reclusive male.
To heal my hurt, Martin treats me to Monfragüe National Park the following day. I have fond (if distant) memories of this craggy garrigue – all rocks and boldness and sheerness. I spent my 21st birthday here, alone save for hundreds of Griffon Vultures that scrutinised me while hunched sulkily on the Peña Falcón escarpment, or whooshing past in preposterous proximity.
Mesmerising spectacle
Twenty-three years later, the Griffon experience was no less intense. Mating vultures roared with vitality, shaking the enormous duvet of their wings and transporting sticks between their mandibles to construct enormous nests. Cinereous Vultures heightened the spectacle, one bounding along a cliff ledge, barging meeker Griffons out of the way until it laid claim to a suitable pinnacle.
I could barely take my eyes off the spectacle, whatever a palate of Blue Rock Thrushes, Rock Buntings, Black Redstarts, Firecrests and Iberian Magpies (the lovechild of a Magpie and Jay, I conjectured) might intend. It was only the lure of one of the world’s rarest raptors that dragged us away.
“With luck”, said Martin, “the local pair of Iberian Imperial Eagles might be nestbuilding”. Inevitably, he was right. These mighty eagles were impressively close – we could even hear the pair barking to one another. Winter is the best time to watch these raptors, Martin thinks, as this is the season when they sky-dance, nest-build and mate. They are an unabashed conservation success story. From a nadir of 30 pairs in the 1960s (all in Spain), Martin says, “there are now just shy of 500 pairs across Iberia”.
We started our final day on the grassy plains between Trujillo and Cáceres. In spring, these are regular stomping grounds for lovers of larks, sandgrouse stalwarts and bustard buffs. But these pseudosteppes – dry, rolling, mainly agricultural plains – are just as fine for such birds in winter.
Modern farming practices have so tarnished the landscape that the heyday of a special denizen, Little Bustard, is long gone. Nevertheless, Kelsey is confident that we will bump into a small flock as we scout vast tawny fields west of La Aldea del Obispo. And, of course, he is right. A flurry of snowy wings heralds their arrival – and, all too soon, their departure beyond a sheep-grazed ridge.
We listen here, too. A purring signals Pin-tailed Sandgrouse whirring overhead; a nasal whine announces the arrival of Black-bellied Sandgrouse. Flocks angle down to the parched earth then hide in plain sight. Easier on the ear if not the eye are the larks. Crested Larks sing in abundance, head tilted back and punk-crest thrusting skywards. My favourite, though, is the butch Calandra Lark.
But the bird I am keenest to see in this swooping landscape is Europe’s heaviest flying bird. Great Bustard is easier to encounter in Extremadura than its smaller relative. Even so, Martin and I inadvertently seek to outdo each other in giggle-worthy incompetence. I manage to overlook the first Great Bustards we see, having forgotten how immense they are (“Where are they from the sheep, Martin?”… “Err, those ‘sheep’ are bustards, James.”). Later we pull up at a hide, apparently erected specifically for watching Great Bustards.
“I’ve hardly ever seen Great Bustards here”, Martin warns. “I can’t see why this particular location was chosen for the hide.” We enter the wooden box regardless and fling open the windows. Just shy of a hundred Great Bustards are on parade. Martin is gobsmacked, but delighted. The winter wonderland of Extremadura can surprise even the experts.