Sunday 9th August 2020

An inspiring ecotourism project in Yunnan

In December 2019, just before the Covid crisis, I flew from Shanghai to a remote corner of south-western China, for a week of intensive birding in the Yingjiang area, right up against the border with Myanmar/Burma.

A view of one of the great rivers of Yunnan from the air

I was picked up at Tengchong airport by my guide, Du Yinlei, who does not speak any English, but who knows the birds well and who had been recommended to me by two of my birdwatching friends. He did not disappoint, and given the chance, I would certainly bird with him again. Indeed, if visas for China become easy to obtain in the future, and I am working as a tour organiser, I would love to lead a group to this fascinating area, with Du Yinlei as our local guide and ground agent. I will not give a full blow-by-blow account of the entire trip, but I would like to highlight an extraordinarily far-sighted ecotourism project in this area, which brings benefits to both local communities and birds.

An extraordinarily beautiful evening sky welcomed me to Yunnan

One of the trends in the Chinese birding world is that bird photography has become remarkably popular, and wealthy city-dwelling enthusiasts have bought expensive camera gear, and now devote themselves to travelling around China in search of ever better pictures of rare and in some cases spectacular birds. Although there is something of a rift between the “true”, more traditional bird-watchers and these camera-wallahs (partly because some of the photographers are inclined to leave piles of plastic trash wherever they set up their tripods, a habit which I personally find extraordinary as surely they themselves do not want to take pictures of birds among trash and rubbish, but partly also out of some sort of rivalry), the effects of this trend have certainly brought benefits to the birds.

Bird photography is growing in popularity in China

To cater for these photographers, a network of bird hides with pools and feeders has been set up, and the photographers pay an hourly or a daily fee to sit in these hides, which are manned by locals who keep the feeders stocked with food, venturing out when the mealworms or other delicacies have run out. As they restock the holes in the branches with wriggling bait, they whistle, which signals to the birds that more snacks have arrived. No sooner has the guard returned to the hide, than the birds hop or swoop back into view, and a barrage of machinegun-like rapid exposures are taken.

The hides are well constructed and quite comfortable

The clearings in front of the hides are well stocked with drinking and bathing areas for the birds, as well as food

Although this type of bird observation might not be to everyone’s taste, in this area of south-western China, previously poverty-stricken communities have literally been lifted out of their previously poor existences by the money that the photographers bring into the villages.

The prosperity of the area has increased, at least partly thanks to the money this type of tourism brings into the local economy

The particular area we visited is known as Hornbill Valley as it hosts no less that three species of hornbill, which have virtually disappeared in other parts of China due to the twin threats of the felling of the tall trees that they nest in holes in, and persecution (the casques of these spectacular birds are carved into intricate and expensive decorative trinkets), but here they are protected as a source of income for the villagers, as they are the flagship species that attract the photographers to the area. Ironically, none showed during my visit.

The approach to Hornbill Valley leaves one in no doubt as to which birds are the stars here

Centred around the unfortunately named village of Shiti, numerous steep tracks lead to the hides, each of which can accommodate between five and ten photographers. Low seats are laid on, and in some cases snacks are available for sale. The photographers pay the 60RMB fee, and sit down behind their cameras, huge lenses (mostly 500mm) and tripods with fluid heads, and wait. Some smoke and chat rather noisily, but eventually the birds appear, and then the atmosphere becomes electric with anticipation as to what will appear next.

Shiti village consists of attractive houses provided by the government

The photographers sit and wait

Long lenses are de rigueur here

This project is, in my view, “ecotourism” at its very best. Many of these local people now manning the hides would otherwise have trapped these birds either for food or to sell as cagebirds, but now instead they protect them. In addition, the birds’ habitat is preserved, and the villagers take pride in their wildlife. This is truly a win-win situation for all concerned. I think this model is one that could be exported to other poor regions of the World, and I hope that other regions will take it up as a way of boosting tourism and protecting their environment at the same time.

The local restaurants are decorated with posters of bird photographs

The tall trees contain the hornbills’ nests, and the project favours their protection

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Monday 6th April 2020

Orange-tips in China, and a link with my great grandfather

During the past two years or so, my website has been quiet, neglected in some ways, but this does not mean that my travels in the footsteps of my naturalist ancestors has stopped, or that I have somehow lost interest in my forefathers.

As many of my friends will know, I have been living and working in China since September 2017, and this has given me ample opportunities to enjoy the butterflies and birds of Jiangsu and Zhejiang Provinces, which my great grandfather’s brother-in-law J J Walker travelled extensively in while engaged in mapping the Chusan (now Zhoushan) archipelago in HM Surveying Ship Penguin in 1896. I wrote about his expedition to observe the tidal bore in the bay near Hangzhou in my post of 30th November 2018.

This post is a less direct link, but it concerns one of my favourite Spring butterflies in China, the beautiful orange-tip Anthocharis bambusarum. Many European readers will be familiar with our regular Orange-tip butterfly, Anthocharis cardamines, which occurs right across Eurasia from the British Isles to Japan, where it is only found in the Southern (Minami) Alps. In that species, only the outer half of the forewing of the male is orange, whereas in this Chinese species, almost the entire forewing is orange.

Anthocharis bambusarum, M, Zijishan, Nanjing, showing the entirely orange forewing

Anthocharis cardamines male, showing the half-orange forewing

I first encountered this springtime gem along the foot of Purple Mountain, or Zijinshan, a splendid forest-covered hill, or indeed mountain, in the city of Nanjing, in March 2018. I had travelled on the fast train from Suzhou, my home city in China, to the capital of Jiangsu Province, specifically to search for the very special Papilionid butterfly Luehdorfia chinensis (see post of 18th March 2018).

My rendezvous with the friends who were going to try to show me that species was at 12.00 noon, but I arrived too early and walked along the foot of the mountain, and almost immediately found a bright male of this delightful butterfly basking on one of its larval foodplants, the crucifer Orychophragmus violaceus, which is unusual in that it has both bluish-purple and white flowers, often appearing together. I was able to admire those bright, glowing orange forewings and familiarize myself with this butterfly, so similar in every other respect to our familiar Orange-tip of home.

Here a male Anthocharis bambusarum poses on one if the species’ larval foodplants

When both the underside and the orange can be seen, the butterfly reveals its full beauty

The orange forewings glow against the dead leaves

The underside pattern of Anthocharis bambusarum is beautifully subtle

A couple of weeks later, I encountered it again while on a hiking trip to the east of Taihu, the great round lake that sits to the west of Suzhou. The species apparently does not occur to the east of the lake, and I have never encountered one anywhere near that city (see post of 13th April 2018).

Anthocharis bambusarum seems easier to approach than its congener A. cardamines

Here a male Anthocharis bambusarum poses for a phone shot

The following year I was delighted to see it in considerable numbers on all of my three Springtime visits to the Nanjing area, which included trips to Zijinshan, Laoshan and Baohuashan, so it is clearly not rare in the Nanjing area. On one occasion I even managed to get two basking males in one camera shot, as well as a mating pair.

To find a mating pair of Anthocharis bambusarum was a stroke of luck

To get two male Anthocharis bambusarum butterflies in view at once was lucky

The female Anthocharis bambusarum lacks the orange altogether

But it is not only the beauty of this butterfly that attracts me to it. It is a link to my great grandfather that brings it alive for me. The butterfly was first described for science by his great entomologist friend Charles Oberthűr, of Rennes, France, in 1875. The Oberthűr brothers Charles (1845 – 1924) and René (1852 – 1944), as well as their father Francois-Charles Oberthűr (1818 – 1893), were renowned entomologists, and my great grandfather used to visit them at their home in Rennes, where their family printing business was one of the major industries, to exchange insect stories and material.

Charles Oberthűr

Charles Oberthűr did not visit China so could never have had the pleasure of seeing this orange-tip on the wing, but he described it and many other Chinese butterflies from specimens sent to him by collectors, in the case of this butterfly, the renowned naturalist and Catholic missionary Abbé Armand David (1826 – 1900), known today for the Père David’s Deer, or Milu in Chinese, which he first described for western science. So the link with my family is tenuous, but it is there nonetheless, and I could not help but feel a special bond with this attractive oriental creature. Sadly the Covid-19 lockdown means that I shall not have the pleasure of observing it this Spring, but I shall hope nonetheless to see its more familiar congener, Anthocharis cardamines.

A plate showing some Chinese butterflies sent to Charles Oberthűr by Abbé Armand David

Just as an aside, the other common orange-tip in eastern China and Japan, Anthocharis scolymus, with its hook-tipped wings, is another attractive species, and one which does occur in Suzhou, where I have even seen it on several occasions on my university campus, although the obsession that the city authorities have with constantly mowing or strimming every grassy area means that its foodplants are unable to grow tall, which limits its population, along with that of so many other insects.

The male Anthocharis scolymus has only a small patch of orange on his hooked wingtip

Anthocharis scolymus, female, showing the hooked wingtips

Anthocharis scolymus, F, laying an egg

My friend Susan took this photograph of the pupa of Anthocharis scolymus in August 2018 in Suzhou

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Friday 3rd April 2020

Aspfjäril – quest for one of Europe’s largest and most splendid butterflies, the Poplar Admiral

My wish to see one of the most magnificent, largest and most elusive of Europe’s butterflies has led me to many wild and beautiful forests across the continent, and no doubt it will continue to do so, for it would be impossible to become blasé about such a splendid creature, no matter how often one saw it.

The Poplar Admiral, Limenitis populi, is as its name suggests entirely dependent on poplar trees, in particular aspens, on which its caterpillars feed. The adult butterflies only fly for a very short period, perhaps only two weeks in length, usually in late June and July, but sometimes earlier. The females tend to remain high among the branches of wayside trees, but the males will on occasion come down to feed along forest tracks, a habit which unfortunately leads to large numbers falling victim to road traffic, in particular trucks, cars and even mountain bikes.

Occurring sparsely across northern Europe, Russia and even to Korea and Japan, the Poplar Admiral should be relatively easy to find, but it is not, perhaps due to its elusive habits, short adult flight period and its sharp decline across the western part of its range, which has rendered it a rarity in France, Belgium and Germany, all of which used to harbour strong populations.

It has fared better in Scandinavia and Russia, but as its short flight season varies from year to year, timing a visit to a favourable Poplar Admiral haunt with a strong likelihood of seeing one is extremely difficult.

My early attempts were in northern France, where the butterfly used to occur, but in my usual stamping grounds in the Avesnois, it is long extinct. Apparently the large Fôret de Mormal used to be a reliable haunt, but the Office National des Fôrets removed all the roadside aspens some years ago, aspen not being a useful timber tree, and since then no Poplar Admirals have been seen. The extensive forests in the Belgian Ardennes also seemed suitable, but despite years of searching during the flight season, I never managed to connect with one there.

In the summer of 2004, we drove all the way to the far east of Hungary in our little red Nissan Micra, and there we checked into a butterfly haven called Farm Lator, run by Dutch butterfly expert Rob de Jong and his Hungarian wife Barbara. This earthly paradise is situated on the southern slopes of the heavily forested Bükk plateau, and here indeed one should be able to find both the Poplar Admiral and another great European rarity, the Scarce Fritillary, Euphydryas maturna. Rob confirmed that they are sometimes even seen within his property, but that was a very hot summer and both of these insect gems were already over.

The butterfly-rich garden at Farm Lator

The Micra in Hungary

A Purple Emperor on the Micra’s steering wheel

The Bűkk hills are a paradise for butterflies

The quest continued, without success, and by 2009 I had almost forgotten about the mythical Poplar Admiral, or Grand Sylvain as it is known in France, the Great Forester. But forestry is in my blood, my grandfather and great uncle both having served with great distinction with the Indian Forest Service, and not being able to eventually find this great butterfly would have been a disgrace. I even have a rather poor but still impressive specimen of a female caught by my grandfather’s great butterfly-collecting friend Meynell Hackney near Maribor, Slovenia, in the summer of 1937 when he took a trans-European route on his way home on leave from India. Whenever I looked at it, my heart would miss a beat as I thought how magnificent this creature must have looked alive.

That summer of 2009, we booked a butterfly tour of south eastern Sweden with the UK wildlife tour company Naturetrek. On arrival we were met by, as he was described in the Naturetrek brochure, “your Swedish nature guide Daniel Green”. Despite his name, Daniel Green really was Swedish, and the following six days were spent scouring the forests of his home county of Västmanland in search of the wealth of butterflies, dragonflies and birds of this delightful area. We were rewarded with sightings of many wonderful species, but I gained a bit of a reputation for being a little too focused on one butterfly, the Aspfjäril, or Aspen Butterfly, as the Poplar Admiral is appropriately named in Swedish!

One characteristic of the Poplar Admiral of which one needs to be aware when searching for it is that, unlike most butterflies, it does not normally visit flowers, gaining instead most of its sustenance by sucking up mineral-laden moisture from the forest tracks that cross its habitat, or rather less attractively by sucking the juices from half-rotten carrion or dung. Daniel was fully prepared for this, and he had brought along a couple of tins of a particularly pungent form of pickled, fermented herring.

Late that afternoon, we were taken to a beautiful, open forest track with some stands of aspen along the sides, and Daniel informed us that he had seen a Poplar Admiral here the previous summer. The moment of truth arrived when we opened the tins of foul-smelling fishy matter, and indeed the stench had to be smelled to be believed. The first of the tins caused gasps of disgust from some group members when opened in the minibus, and which made us wonder how Swedish people could possibly derive pleasure from consuming such a horrific concoction. We spooned out the mixture, spiced up with some old stout beer, onto the road verge and some tree stumps, and left for the night. The following morning, under bright sunshine and in perfect Aspfjäril conditions, we returned with our hearts pounding in anticipation of finding a veritable fleet of admirals feasting on the pungent provisions, but not an admiral was to be seen. The pickled herring was still there, its odour having dissipated overnight, and there was much joking among the British participants that even the local foxes must have turned up their noses at what one would have expected them to lap up with gusto.

Prime Poplar Admiral habitat in Sweden

The rest of the holiday progressed with no sign of the great butterfly, until the penultimate day, when we headed to a reserve where the target butterfly was the rare and endangered Woodland Brown, Lopinga achine. After a long hot afternoon of searching, with no sign of the brown, the patience of some of the tour group members was wearing thin, and Hélène had decided to amuse herself by trying to add some common bird species to her Swedish birdlist. Her attention was drawn to a Blue Tit that flew up into a low tree.

Suddenly, she uttered a piercing and far-carrying cry of “Poplaaaaaaar Admiraaaaal!” While following the Blue Tit, she had suddenly found herself looking up at a magnificent female Poplar Admiral that was gliding around the tree. I have rarely run so fast, and I managed to reach the spot in time to see the sunlight shining through the white patches on the huge wings of this long searched-for empress as she glided majestically around the tree before powering away over the treetops, not to be seen again. There was no time to even lift my camera, but at least all the members of the group saw the butterfly, and Hélène at once became the heroine of the group.

In subsequent years all my searches were in vain, until finally on 29th May 2011 (coincidentally my birthday), at the end of a long, tiring day of butterfly-watching in the Viroinval in the south of Belgium, I decided to make my way home by driving on some little-used backroads through the large and relatively unfrequented forests to the south of the picturesque river valley that I often visit.

As I slowly drove up the narrow road in the late afternoon, I suddenly saw a huge, apparently almost black butterfly wheeling and gliding over a patch of wet gravel by the side of the road. Thinking it must be a Camberwell Beauty, Nymphalis antiopa (also an extreme rarity in those parts), I brought the car to a rapid halt, scrambled out and ran to the spot. The butterfly was still sailing around at high speed, and I could not get a clear look at it until finally, with a flourish of its great wings, it landed and started sipping at the wet gravel.

I soon realised that I was not looking at a Camberwell Beauty, but rather at a magnificent male of the rare dark form of the Poplar Admiral, Limenitis populi f tremulae, named for the Latin name of the aspen, Populus tremula, whose leaves seem to tremble characteristically with only the slightest breath of wind.

Astonished, I rushed back to the car to grab my camera, but I was spoilt for choice on this account as I had three to choose from! Eventually, as the butterfly had settled down and was sipping the moisture calmly, and allowed me to approach and savour this unexpected birthday present, and photograph and film it with each of my three cameras.

Limenitis populi, southern Belgium

Since then, I have failed to find another Poplar Admiral at that spot, but I did manage to see two others flying at high speed along a forest drive on the Franco-Belgian border in the extensive forests on either side of the Botte de Givet, the strange finger of France that juts northwards into Belgium along the Meuse.

Perhaps this year, if the Covid restrictions are lifted in time, I may have a chance to check the aspens in Sweden again, and who knows, perhaps the splendid Aspfjäril will find its way onto my 2020 butterfly list!

Limenitis populi f tremulae, Belgium

Limenitis populi f tremulae in Belgium

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