Seymour, Compo, Foggy & Clegg go mad in Provence (with apologies to everyone 
)
A trip booked entirely on t' Internet is full of potential pitfalls and surprises, especially as we intrepid three had no confirmation from our rural hotel and had visions of sleeping in the car. As it turned out, that particular location was perhaps the best for lots of reasons, not least for the hospitality received and our host's genuine interest in our photographs. I fear we did nothing to dispel the image that the English are an eccentric bunch; yet we felt proud too, to continue the tradition of Aurelians past; only we were armed with cameras, not nets. Clegg, single-handedly, took it as his own personal mission to improve the entente cordiale by charming every French lady he met, with his rugged good looks, debonair manner and his grasp of the French language. Interestingly, our ability to speak French improved in proportion to the amount of alcohol we consumed in the evenings, so that by the end of most nights, we were all fluent. Compo was the model of decorum and politeness and a real gentle giant; he is also a useful person to be walking with, late at night in the wrong part of town, looking for a restaurant or bar. His trainers developed an interesting affinity with Roqueforte, or so it seemed, as well as an uncanny ability to appear at his whistle. Foggy remained so for the duration of the trip, hidden behind a cloud of cigarette smoke, pierced occasionally by a lens, accompanied by a series of curses as the AF got confused at some vital moment. Clegg and Compo said they hadn't brought enough brown trousers for Foggy to drive again, despite the fact that non-one died!
The plan had been to meet-up with Seymour and his good wife, down in Provence, who would help us locate sites of interest. Seymour has developed some French characteristics, such as a relaxed attitude to starting times, since," ...the butterflies don't wake up too early down here". Eager to have an opportunity to visit some places at this time of year, Seymour reeled-off a string of potential species and numbers we were likely to see. At that point the heavens opened, lightening forked, and a torrent of water descended on the fearless four, forcing them to retreat to Seymour's holiday home, drink cups of tea provided by Seymour's wife and watch the drips. In a brief rainless interlude we did see our first butterflies; it looked good for the rest of the trip. Clegg, not a man without gadgets, had loaded his Tom-Tom and GPS with the appropriate maps so that navigation became a joy and driving a pleasure, except for Compo and Clegg when Foggy drove. With the basics covered, the trip developed a routine of early rising, driving to sites, catching the basking butterflies in the best light and waiting for Seymour to arrive, camera, sandwiches and tripod at the ready.
Our starting base was a few miles inland from the coast, where Compo discovered that not only did Clegg play the mouth organ, he did so in his sleep, without the instrument in question! Vocal and nasal gymnastics aside, we were all so tired after hours of walking through fields of aromatic bushes and herbs, filled with flowers, birds and butterflies ( ...and tics, as we later discovered), that we fell asleep immediately our heads hit the pillow. Foggy ran out of cigarettes, triggering a twitchy few hours before a service-station gave access to some under-the-counter packs. Supermarkets are not allowed to sell them and cigarettes must be kept out of sight unless in a Tabac, where it is OK to openly ask for tobacco, without triggering furtive glances down under the counter. Foggy expected at any time to be asked if he wanted them in a brown paper bag...
For the next few days, the weather settled into a pattern - sunny mornings, clouding over, with a shower or two in the afternoons and evening and we switched base to a place further inland. There, Seymour lead us to sites in the foothills of the coastal mountains, up and down tracks and unmarked roads, to old quarries and gravel workings, road-side and river-side meadows and woodland droves. Chasing the weather become something of a sport; Clegg driving around and away from the nasty black clouds and pulling-up at lay-byes to explore new areas when the sun appeared, however briefly. By this time, Compo had picked up some nasty little infection and was quaffing anti-biotics, and the first ominous signs of tics made themselves present in Foggy's arm. Clegg remained mysteriously free of any ailments, putting it down to the relatively small amount of blood in his alcohol-stream. We did re-discover a site for Provencal Hairstreak, that, subsequently, Seymour found had no record since 1997; of that we were all pleasantly surprised and justifiably pleased, though Mr Hairy-Legs was not well-groomed when we saw him.
The last couple of days were spent in a little village halfway up the Alpes Maritime, where we had gone hoping to find some species that had already passed their peak elsewhere or had missed, as well as more alpine specialists. We arrived to find the sun on strike and hotel closed. Compo's and Foggy's enquiries at the local bar indicated it did not open until 6:00pm, so we settled in for some sustenance waiting for a gap in the clouds that never came. By the time the hotel opened, Clegg was engaged to the proprietress of the bar, Compo had discovered the local liqueur and Foggy was explaining why three Englishmen had descended on their village out of nowhere armed with cameras. It must have worked; every time we went out in the street, people pointed at us and crossed the road.....
Our base for those last two nights was an interesting warren of apartments, created from a large, crumbling house. The "hotel" was on the top floor, up 6 flights of stairs - no lift and those lights that are timed to just not let you get the key in the door before they go out. Clegg, surprisingly, got a double room to himself, with balcony, whilst Compo & Foggy shared a similar room, without. Foggy woke at 5:30am the next morning to the sound of running water and birdsong; the village was in a natural amphitheatre and, as the light rose, so other birds joined-in from the steeply wooded valley sides above. Foggy dimly took this all in as he partook of his early-morning ritual, before disappearing under his customary cloud.
By this time, our host - a jolly, rotund man, who resembled a pin in the bowling alley, with small feet and a large head - had prepared petit dejeuner; a large cup of rocket-fuel coffee and some bread from the baker down the road with butter and jam. Compo, despite it being so early in the day, conversed with our patron and paid for our rooms; our host had simply given us the keys and left us to it when we "checked-in" the night before. Our last full day - and it was cloudy - so we went up the mountain to see the snow & watch birds. Clegg proved he could have been a rally-driver as he threw out the back-end of our front-wheel drive hire-car and drifted round the bends. "Hire-cars can do that", he explained . Handbrake turns were subsequently banned. Descending, with an eye on the temperature, we pulled-in to explore an old section of road. Compo kicked a skipper from its hiding place, before a hole appeared in the clouds and the sun broke through for 20 minutes. Enough time for all manner of butterflies to start emerging including, later, a Queen of Spain Fritillary.
All too quickly the sun disappeared behind the clouds and it started to rain; we retired to Clegg's fiancée's bar for a final meal and drink. Compo and Clegg went out for a walk when it stopped raining. The sun came out; Foggy drifted up the side of the valley, cigarette in hand, and butterflies started appearing. From his vantage point above the valley, he observed the spectacle of two grown men crawling around on their hands and knees in the middle of a small meadow across the river. Descending and crossing the bridge, Foggy didn't have time to speak before Clegg shouted: "...Get your camera; and bring mine, and Compo's tripod! Weavers underside, Chequered Blue, err, err...". That little meadow was perhaps the most satisfying place to have found, despite it being so late in the day. It was a perfect end to the holiday, to finally find a Chequered Blue for Compo!
It has been rumoured that Seymour, without whose help and generosity this trip would not have been half as successful, has never been seen in the same room as his Swiss counterpart, Alvin. We can now say, having met both, that is a slanderous lie; Alvin has less hair!
