By Hamish Brown

Jean Louis did not read the card for long enough, for his connection with Painted Ladies was to take him to unimagined countries of the mind and it was a long time before he came down to earth again.

But to revert to the Bristol gang in the Adas. After that first successful day their two weeks of waiting was soon forgotten. They were run off their feet chasing and 'spotting' the butterflies. From seven sites they marked 22,000 Painted Ladies (and 3,000 Bath Whites) of which about 148 were recovered in England. The statistical analysis and all the other studies need not concern us. It was a highly successful expedition. There was just one disappointment.

They had planned to spend up to two weeks camping at two places on the coast, Mogador and Oulidia, to see if there was a separate migration round, as well as over, the Atlas. Their earlier lack of success meant that this part of the study had to be abandoned and they doubted if it would be followed up, for the regular British reason -- the department was skint.

Jean Louis at once cried that this was not good enough. He would go, forthwith, to Oulidia (it would be too late for Mogador, further south) and carry on the programme. "I am, what you say 'hooked' on these little beauties. I live butterflies. I dream butterflies. I will watch for the Painted Ladies."

After an outrageously enjoyable traditional Moroccan dinner in the richly-decorated Foucauld, he saw the party off on their Marrakech-Casa.-London flight, still talidrig nineteen-to-the dozen and shouting "Up the Painted Ladies" across the barriers, to the bewilderment of more staid British tourists.

Jean Louis then sped to Oualidia and set up camp by the shore: a mix of jagged reefs and miles of sand backed by salt lagoons, much favoured by godwit, stilt and flamingo. Blind to the ornithological richness he paced the days through on his dedicated entomological search. No flutter of a butterfly wing escaped his eye, and every night, all night, he dreamed of Painted Ladies.

On the third night he scared the wits out of the two local boys he'd employed to guard camp and cook for him. They heard him "roaring like a lion" and when they peered out of their tent they saw a near-naked figure rushing around with a great, white, round banner crying a phrase over and over again. In a few days they would imitate Jean Louis's cry of 'Painted Ladies, Painted Ladies' and snigger together over the stove.

Lying on his camp bed Jean Louis would gaze up into the white dome of his mosquito net and imagine he was the Painted Lady and the mosquito net was the butterfly net about to descend on him. His dreams became nightmares as the days passed and there were still no Painted Ladies. He was probably not helped by accepting the kif pipe his camp followers produced after supper each night. He roamed the dunes for miles each day, walking which became more and more frenzied. He never left the butterfly net behind, nor a tube of the Reeve's vermilion which would be the first colour code he'd use on his Painted Ladies. It took about two weeks for enthusiasms to become obsession. His frightened boys then vanished, taking half the camp equipment with them. Jean Louis hardly noticed. He barely ate. Life crystallised (or should we say chrysalised?) to the idée fixe of a huge butterfly, a magic painted Lady. "C 'est moi, un papillon merveilleux."

To be continued.

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