http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/ Sun, 01 Aug 2010 10:07:14 +0100 MyBB http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=32 Thu, 22 Jul 2010 21:08:21 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=32 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=31 Sun, 04 Jul 2010 19:33:09 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=31
I will continue to wander and wonder through the woods and hills, when I can. Nature is there for my partner, and she gets more pleasure from nature than anything else. Nature is there for me too, as it is for all of us, it is all we need, if only more of us could see that.

I hope that some of the readers of this forum, who perhaps were not seeing it, perhaps are now. Nature, the natural world, is there for all of us, but we need to take care of it for it to take care of us. It needs us now more than ever before, as much as we need it, more than ever before.

I'd just like to thank Mark and Anabel at the Lochaline Dive Centre for allowing me the freedom to write on thier web page.

Farewell...

stephenhardy128@btinternet.com]]>
I will continue to wander and wonder through the woods and hills, when I can. Nature is there for my partner, and she gets more pleasure from nature than anything else. Nature is there for me too, as it is for all of us, it is all we need, if only more of us could see that.

I hope that some of the readers of this forum, who perhaps were not seeing it, perhaps are now. Nature, the natural world, is there for all of us, but we need to take care of it for it to take care of us. It needs us now more than ever before, as much as we need it, more than ever before.

I'd just like to thank Mark and Anabel at the Lochaline Dive Centre for allowing me the freedom to write on thier web page.

Farewell...

stephenhardy128@btinternet.com]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=30 Mon, 07 Jun 2010 18:16:53 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=30
Welcome to browse our website: http://www.JorShoes.com]]>
Welcome to browse our website: http://www.JorShoes.com]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=29 Tue, 04 May 2010 07:49:14 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=29
Do you want to know how students help themselves to write bad dissertations?

Here are some dissertation writing mistakes that help students to come up with the worst dissertation one of its own kind:

1. Surrounding themselves with in-agreement people: Doctoral students have a habit to surround themselves by like-minded people who think just like them. Although, this habit help themselves a lot in writing a dissertation but they become deprive of the views that may stand out their dissertation as a challenge to be accepted among the better ones; ultimately, their dissertation writing seems ordinary.

2. Selecting the topic just for them: Many students convince themselves about the topic they choose without bearing in mind about recent periodicals or dissertations. Who knows the topic that appears fascinating to them become out dated?

3. Continuing with a broader scope and vague terms: Many students can’t kept their breadth in a broader scope of dissertation writing as they run after more than one ideas to finish their dissertation as early as possibly without considering about the consequences.

4. Holding back the creativity by ignoring the outline: An outline serves as a roadmap to dissertation but students are used to of ignoring the dissertation outline that they don’t even think to plan their dissertation writing.

5. Confining to restricted bibliography: It appears that students refer to bibliographies that support their point of view only. They ignore that the purpose of dissertation is to study a valuable question and not meant to prove your point of view.

6. Presuming that anything not written in English worth nothing! Students don’t even try to value the literature written in any language other than English that help themselves in writing an incomplete dissertation; hence their literature review remains a mystery.

7. Declaring statements by force and not by proof: Many students don’t even think to justify their statements regarding their dissertations on the basis of proof. They think that the way to make an impressive statement is to outcry the side of evidence.

8. Why to proofread and waste your time? At times, students prefer to cut out the proofread that prevent their dissertation writing to be free of weak arguments, ideas or spelling mistakes.

9. Why should the assistance of experts be taken? It’s a general observation that the students avoid to take assistance of experts about their dissertation topics so that they can get help from them regarding the aspects of their work.

10. Proving the point at all cost: Loads of students use fake methodologies, false evidence and forced arguments to prove their point at all cost whether it’s right or wrong that lead their dissertation to be rejected.

These were the common mistakes that doctoral students make most of the times. Are you one of them?]]>
Do you want to know how students help themselves to write bad dissertations?

Here are some dissertation writing mistakes that help students to come up with the worst dissertation one of its own kind:

1. Surrounding themselves with in-agreement people: Doctoral students have a habit to surround themselves by like-minded people who think just like them. Although, this habit help themselves a lot in writing a dissertation but they become deprive of the views that may stand out their dissertation as a challenge to be accepted among the better ones; ultimately, their dissertation writing seems ordinary.

2. Selecting the topic just for them: Many students convince themselves about the topic they choose without bearing in mind about recent periodicals or dissertations. Who knows the topic that appears fascinating to them become out dated?

3. Continuing with a broader scope and vague terms: Many students can’t kept their breadth in a broader scope of dissertation writing as they run after more than one ideas to finish their dissertation as early as possibly without considering about the consequences.

4. Holding back the creativity by ignoring the outline: An outline serves as a roadmap to dissertation but students are used to of ignoring the dissertation outline that they don’t even think to plan their dissertation writing.

5. Confining to restricted bibliography: It appears that students refer to bibliographies that support their point of view only. They ignore that the purpose of dissertation is to study a valuable question and not meant to prove your point of view.

6. Presuming that anything not written in English worth nothing! Students don’t even try to value the literature written in any language other than English that help themselves in writing an incomplete dissertation; hence their literature review remains a mystery.

7. Declaring statements by force and not by proof: Many students don’t even think to justify their statements regarding their dissertations on the basis of proof. They think that the way to make an impressive statement is to outcry the side of evidence.

8. Why to proofread and waste your time? At times, students prefer to cut out the proofread that prevent their dissertation writing to be free of weak arguments, ideas or spelling mistakes.

9. Why should the assistance of experts be taken? It’s a general observation that the students avoid to take assistance of experts about their dissertation topics so that they can get help from them regarding the aspects of their work.

10. Proving the point at all cost: Loads of students use fake methodologies, false evidence and forced arguments to prove their point at all cost whether it’s right or wrong that lead their dissertation to be rejected.

These were the common mistakes that doctoral students make most of the times. Are you one of them?]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=28 Sat, 01 May 2010 16:10:29 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=28
Its reasuring, I think, that all these regulars, the familiar at the right time of year, turn up, are there when expected, come back, with all of the worries of climate change and how it may be messing with the seasons.Despite all that we continue to do, no longer blindly, we know what we are doing, nature and her seasons are still in tune with the spinning world and its position to the sun.

After the dazzlingly bright start to the month there followed a dismal day, dull, cold, grey, and then another beauty followed that, and then, a gale arrived, a southerly, accompanied by driving rain, so, an unsettled start to April.

On the morning after the grey day, I was eyeing up the sunlit snows and morning cloud around our nearest peak across the sea, when I heard those most wild of voices again, whooper swans, they sounded high up, far away, I looked up into the morning blue to find them. But they came as though from that peak and its white snow, flying towards me rather than above me, lower than I had thought. Their voices mingled with those of both a singing skylark and with the churruping calls of skylarks on the move, and these few clear sounds on this bright sunny April morning were clear voices of the spring. The line of twenty six swans appeared to pulsate, as their beating wings caught and lost the light of the sun on their upper and under sides. Iceland bound, but over which high lands will they fly, I wondered, would they fly up the coast, between the isles and the shore before leaving this land and crossing the sea? And how do they find that land of ice in that vast ocean, such wonders. That evening, through cool drizzly rain and darkness, more whooper swans passed over head, I was even more wonder filled. Over the next few days I saw more wild swans. A party of ten flying up from a large fresh water loch, pure northern white against the bare grey oak wood as they cirled to gain hight. On an upland lochan, its waters swollen by the heavy rains, four together, again, that arctic white. And a lone swan on the same loch that the ten flew from, a single swan is a lonely swan, what has happened to its mate? Why did it not go with the rest?

On my way down off the hill, into those grey oaks, I thought again about what it is about being among trees after being out in the open, and yes there is that feeling of safety and shelter, but, more than that, it is that trees are beautiful, and that beauty is hightened when suddenly you wander into and are among all of that beauty that there is in a wood, after the emptiness of the open hill. An emtiness that has its very own beauty, ofcourse. There is the quiet of the open hill, then there is the quiet stillness that eminates from trees. Some stand as natures most magnificent scultures, only living, growing, statuesque, shaped and scultored by the spaces into which they have the space to grow, by the light they grow into those spaces to reach, by storm winds, by age. I thought I had favourite trees, birch – delicate many twigged trees that display small leaves of brightess spring green or autumn yellow-gold, or in winter each twig end holds a drop of sunlit water and the whole tree becomes a tree of glittering diamonds. Larch – shapely, graceful, fine, the loveliest and often earliest of greens in the spring, thier needles turning yellow in the fall. Beech – magnificent, stunning splendid take your breath way beech. Rowans – ash of the mountains, for where you find them, often singly in special secret places among the hills. But all trees are beautiful, at all times of the year. I have though grown to admire oaks the more time that I have spent among them in the south facing oak wood that I come down into after a day on the open hill. And have grown to love oak woodland, woods, that wood, very much. It is a rench to have to leave it, especially on a bright spring day. And on a bright day, an April day, before the trees come into leaf, that bright April light shines onto one side of every tree trunk, bough, branch, twig and stem of very tree, and they all shine with it and all of them cast tree shadows onto the wood floor, shadows lost in the full dark shade of summer, and shadows that are not as strong in the low light of winter, shadows more intrcate and beautiful than any other.

These past couple of weeks, again, as in past years at this time, there have been sparrowhawks in about the gardens. A young male and a young female. Are they the same birds that were through the gadens in the autumn, I would guess so. The same questions, where did they go for the winter? Following the small birds south? I flushed the smaller male, still in his juvanile plumes, from the ground at the bottom of the garden, it dragged its catch, partly plucked, through the wire fence and flew away with it. On another occasion he crashed into a thick bush from which exploded several hiding sparrows, he chased out more that had tried to stay safe and not take flight. Across the lawn into another thick shrub after hanging just above it looking down into it before plunging down into its thick foliage, more thashing about and out with a catch. Several more times I saw the small male at the garden birds. It was easy to know when he was about, for all the garden birds either scattered and flew into higher trees or dense cover, or, if I missed that, they called in alarm at the hawks hidden presence. He had become so regularly about that I was bound at some point to get a good look at him, and did. He floated low (another hunting technique, ready to excellerate if he flushed prey) across the lawn again and landed on its edge, right in the open. For several minutes, ten, fifteen, several birds, chaffinches mainly, perched above him, 'pinking' at him. Blue tits too scolded him. But, after a while the birds quietened down and a few returned to feed on nut bags not more than five feet from the hawk. Also, across the lawn at the bird table more bird retuned to feed, siskins mainly. Things were beginning to look good for the waiting male, when all of a sudden all the birds scattered again, he hadn't moved, it was the young female, floating across the bottom of the garden, looking for an oppotunity. Things settled down again, and it was at the siskins that the hawk eventually flew, though it appeared half heartedly. He alighted on a low branch about three feet from and below the bird table and hanging feeders, though not now out in the open he was not that well hidden. I was now eye to eye with him through my telescope and could see his every subtle move. Once again, the shouting small birds, up in the higher trees, and the quiet hidden ones, came down and out and came closer to the feeders, becoming silent, closr to the hawk. All the time the hawk was watching. His appearence and posture changed with the comings and goings and nearness of his prey, from hunched and relaxed, feathers puffed up against the chill, closing his eyes, almost sleepy, at rest, slow breaths, to sleeked back plumes and tight attention, black dilated pupil enlarged in its daffodil yellow ring, fast breathed, leaning forward, glaring, staring, needle sharp talons tightly gripped, ready to go, waiting for that right moment.If it passed, the hawk relaxed again. And so it went on until several siskins had actually come down to feed, with the predator right there just three feet away, only he was facing the wrong way, and that movement to turn around would put the siskins up, and that extra second or two to do so before being able to explode at them would mean the difference between success and failure. Time passed. I could no longer watch him every moment, but returned to see him still there as often as I could, leaving him not more than a few seconds at a time. Then, a bang down stairs, I looked out from the upstairs window again from where I had been watching, the branch on which the sparrowhawk had been perched swayed from his push off, he had gone. I knew what had happened, he'd hit the downstairs window. I went down and opened the door, there he was on the path below the kitchen window, looking rather less the impressive hunter. Something made me say 'you ok mate?' I stepped outside and he flew unsteadily into a nearby bush. I left him a while then slowly appraoched, and was glad to see him ok as he flew away looking none the worse for his collision. I looked from where he had been perched at the kitchen window, and it was the birds in the rowan on the opposite side of the lawn that he had flown at, only he hadn't, he flown at the reflection of them in the glass.

Mid April, and a warm sunny settled spell, so good to feel that warmth after our cold winter. With a southerly wind came summer migrants, willow warblers on the 11th , they were everywhere the next day, cuckoo on the 13th, tree pipit on the 15th and swallow on the 17th, which was a lovely warm day. During it, I heard a call from up in the blue, and way way up they were, sea eagles, above the village. Well, one was for sure, there were five big birds, but all sea eagles, I don't know, they were so high up, so tiny, I'd have never have seen them if I had not heard that yelping cry. By the time I had got the binoculars they had split up and were lost in that vast blue space way up there. (Later in the month I saw five immature and sub-adult sea eagles together a few miles from the village, so maybe those high five where the same five eagles. The settled spell continued but it became cooler with the wind from the north, which held back summer birds. Snipe began drumming above the meadow. More peacock butterflies and bumble bees were seen, along with small tortoieshells, and I can't remember seeing quite so many moths at the window, what were they all? I managed to get a look at two, an early grey and a hebrew character.

The single whooper swan remained and remained a single swan, maybe it was unwell, but its aloneness and its slow graceful swan moves seemed to underline a sadness that drifted across the water and through and into the heart of the wood, making quieter still the quiet, as if all the wood could feel the swans sorrow.

Meadow pipts had been trickling through in small numbers all month, but I wasn't seeing the big flocks until the middle of the month. Swallows were daily and into the old steading from the third week of the month, when the single black throated diver became two. Redwing, leaving.

It became very cold again with a strong northerly wind blowing in wintry showers, spring was silenced for a few days. I went up onto the hills then, walking into the face numbing wind, glad of a sheltered burn gully with its few rowan and hazel, out of the wind the April sun was very warm, celendines and primroses brightened the moss green stream bank.. A shadow moving swiftly across the ground caught my eye, low and close over head, another sea eagle, huge, a young bird, two, three years old, it turned into the wind and powered away, effortless.

Walking back, I had snow showers at my back, engulfing the big hill behind me, and whilst the snow fell it would have been the depths of winter if it were not for the brightness of the april light and the heat in the after showers sun, the showers were inbetweened by blue sky. And then I had an encounter that made me realise a thing or two about the winter we've just had, about it and what it has been like during it on the open hills, and it made me realise also that the spring had not yet come to them.

There was a young deer, lying down at the base of a low crag, out of the wind, across the other side of a narrow riverlet from me, not more than forty feet away. It tried to stand up, but couldn't. It tried again, and again couldn't. I thought that it must have a broken leg or something, when it tried again and managed to stand. It tried to run away, managing a few tottering steps before collapsing again and lying still. Again it struggled to its feet. It was on a slope, and when it moved again that slope took the deer down towards a small stream, it didn't have the strength to go up hill. It fell at the stream, landing aukwardly across it, it would never get up from there. I went down and lifted the deer, and stood with it. It had little strength. If I were to let it go there it would not get up the slope away from the stream, so I walked it up the slope away from the water to close to the top of the rise, where the deer dropped to the ground and made no effort to get away from me. I left it there. It was not in an as sheltered spot as where I had first found it, but it was still out of that cold wind, and it would get the suns warmth when it shined. I wished that I had not come across it. I wished, later, that I had walked it back to where I had found it, as it was a more sheltered place, for if I had not disturbed it I know that it would not have left that spot, but died there. The deer, ten months old, a female, was starving. This was what the long cold winter had done to deer on the hill. I had seen and heard about it, had seen photographs of dead and dying deer, of hinds and thier calves lying dead together, but nothing had prepared me for coming face to face with it. There was nothing I could have done. If only the calf had been a few hundred feet lower it may have found new spring growth in time. But it had become too weak to move any distance, and the spring had not come in time. There was no new grass for deer on the hill, not yet, and the weakest would not survive. The late winter cold snap with its northerlies and snow was a cruel seal on this deers fate, and the same would befall others. It is nature, and nature is cruel. Although we have had a hand in this. For over decades and centuries our livestock, sheep, have grazed the hills to there present near barren state. Also, wolfless hills means too many deer, and those too many deer have not enough to eat thanks to their numbers and to those sheep. We need to get the hills back to health, which will be of benefit to all.

After strong winds, the following quiet and stillness is profound, and welcome.

I was told that the swan had died. What was its story, how old was it, was it just old? How many iceland summers had it had. How many times had it flown here and back. What did it feel when the ten other whoopers that had been on the loch flew away, leaving it. Many will say that a bird, a swan, doesn't 'feel' anything, I can't and won't believe that. It will have felt something as a swan does, not as we do, but as a swan does, and we can never know or say how that feels, just as we can never know so much that we claim we do but dont.

During the third week of the month, busy parent black birds were back and forth with food for thier brood somewhere in the white blossomed blackthorn thicket. The first fledglings of the year, siskins...so soon, it all happens so fast. Again, familiar spring happenings, whilst some birds have young already, others on the move still. A flight of fourteen whimbrel came into a greening field, surely fourteen of the forty or so that came to that very field last May. One day, in the space of just a few minutes, more flocks of pipits in a field, two or three wheatear along the stone wall around its edge, several swallows low over it, heading north, and over head calling, a tight V of ten redshank, also north bound, all going north, migrating birds, all with still some way to go, while others are there, back. Green veined white and speckled wood buttterflies that week too, along with more peacocks and a few small tortoieshell.

The sparrowhawks that for these past few weeks have had the freedom of the skies to gain that advantage on thier prey, are now harried and chased by several angry swallows whose numbers grow daily. House martins will join them, they were in on the 23rd along with whitethroat. Male redstart back at home in his wonderful wood of oak, wood warbler there also a week later just before the month was out.

Those last few days of April were as much of the month had been, unsettled, and then on the 30th, today, this afternoon, grey skies and heavy showers slowly made way for a deep blue that came in from the north west, a May blue sky with big white billowy clouds, the light so crisp, fresh, clean, clear, sharp. In the evening, this evening, a grasshopper warbler sang its summer song, that long steady realing in of a fishermans real, down on the still meadow flooded in late sunshine, and in the garden rowan, whose buds are bursting pale lime green, the male blackbird sang his beautiful melody, all else was quiet, as though spring was taking a brief breather, until first light tomorrow, the first day of May, that most glorious month of the year, when there is nowhere else in the world where I would rather be than here in the northwest among its woods and hills. All that I will want is some time to wander through them, to wonder at them.]]>
Its reasuring, I think, that all these regulars, the familiar at the right time of year, turn up, are there when expected, come back, with all of the worries of climate change and how it may be messing with the seasons.Despite all that we continue to do, no longer blindly, we know what we are doing, nature and her seasons are still in tune with the spinning world and its position to the sun.

After the dazzlingly bright start to the month there followed a dismal day, dull, cold, grey, and then another beauty followed that, and then, a gale arrived, a southerly, accompanied by driving rain, so, an unsettled start to April.

On the morning after the grey day, I was eyeing up the sunlit snows and morning cloud around our nearest peak across the sea, when I heard those most wild of voices again, whooper swans, they sounded high up, far away, I looked up into the morning blue to find them. But they came as though from that peak and its white snow, flying towards me rather than above me, lower than I had thought. Their voices mingled with those of both a singing skylark and with the churruping calls of skylarks on the move, and these few clear sounds on this bright sunny April morning were clear voices of the spring. The line of twenty six swans appeared to pulsate, as their beating wings caught and lost the light of the sun on their upper and under sides. Iceland bound, but over which high lands will they fly, I wondered, would they fly up the coast, between the isles and the shore before leaving this land and crossing the sea? And how do they find that land of ice in that vast ocean, such wonders. That evening, through cool drizzly rain and darkness, more whooper swans passed over head, I was even more wonder filled. Over the next few days I saw more wild swans. A party of ten flying up from a large fresh water loch, pure northern white against the bare grey oak wood as they cirled to gain hight. On an upland lochan, its waters swollen by the heavy rains, four together, again, that arctic white. And a lone swan on the same loch that the ten flew from, a single swan is a lonely swan, what has happened to its mate? Why did it not go with the rest?

On my way down off the hill, into those grey oaks, I thought again about what it is about being among trees after being out in the open, and yes there is that feeling of safety and shelter, but, more than that, it is that trees are beautiful, and that beauty is hightened when suddenly you wander into and are among all of that beauty that there is in a wood, after the emptiness of the open hill. An emtiness that has its very own beauty, ofcourse. There is the quiet of the open hill, then there is the quiet stillness that eminates from trees. Some stand as natures most magnificent scultures, only living, growing, statuesque, shaped and scultored by the spaces into which they have the space to grow, by the light they grow into those spaces to reach, by storm winds, by age. I thought I had favourite trees, birch – delicate many twigged trees that display small leaves of brightess spring green or autumn yellow-gold, or in winter each twig end holds a drop of sunlit water and the whole tree becomes a tree of glittering diamonds. Larch – shapely, graceful, fine, the loveliest and often earliest of greens in the spring, thier needles turning yellow in the fall. Beech – magnificent, stunning splendid take your breath way beech. Rowans – ash of the mountains, for where you find them, often singly in special secret places among the hills. But all trees are beautiful, at all times of the year. I have though grown to admire oaks the more time that I have spent among them in the south facing oak wood that I come down into after a day on the open hill. And have grown to love oak woodland, woods, that wood, very much. It is a rench to have to leave it, especially on a bright spring day. And on a bright day, an April day, before the trees come into leaf, that bright April light shines onto one side of every tree trunk, bough, branch, twig and stem of very tree, and they all shine with it and all of them cast tree shadows onto the wood floor, shadows lost in the full dark shade of summer, and shadows that are not as strong in the low light of winter, shadows more intrcate and beautiful than any other.

These past couple of weeks, again, as in past years at this time, there have been sparrowhawks in about the gardens. A young male and a young female. Are they the same birds that were through the gadens in the autumn, I would guess so. The same questions, where did they go for the winter? Following the small birds south? I flushed the smaller male, still in his juvanile plumes, from the ground at the bottom of the garden, it dragged its catch, partly plucked, through the wire fence and flew away with it. On another occasion he crashed into a thick bush from which exploded several hiding sparrows, he chased out more that had tried to stay safe and not take flight. Across the lawn into another thick shrub after hanging just above it looking down into it before plunging down into its thick foliage, more thashing about and out with a catch. Several more times I saw the small male at the garden birds. It was easy to know when he was about, for all the garden birds either scattered and flew into higher trees or dense cover, or, if I missed that, they called in alarm at the hawks hidden presence. He had become so regularly about that I was bound at some point to get a good look at him, and did. He floated low (another hunting technique, ready to excellerate if he flushed prey) across the lawn again and landed on its edge, right in the open. For several minutes, ten, fifteen, several birds, chaffinches mainly, perched above him, 'pinking' at him. Blue tits too scolded him. But, after a while the birds quietened down and a few returned to feed on nut bags not more than five feet from the hawk. Also, across the lawn at the bird table more bird retuned to feed, siskins mainly. Things were beginning to look good for the waiting male, when all of a sudden all the birds scattered again, he hadn't moved, it was the young female, floating across the bottom of the garden, looking for an oppotunity. Things settled down again, and it was at the siskins that the hawk eventually flew, though it appeared half heartedly. He alighted on a low branch about three feet from and below the bird table and hanging feeders, though not now out in the open he was not that well hidden. I was now eye to eye with him through my telescope and could see his every subtle move. Once again, the shouting small birds, up in the higher trees, and the quiet hidden ones, came down and out and came closer to the feeders, becoming silent, closr to the hawk. All the time the hawk was watching. His appearence and posture changed with the comings and goings and nearness of his prey, from hunched and relaxed, feathers puffed up against the chill, closing his eyes, almost sleepy, at rest, slow breaths, to sleeked back plumes and tight attention, black dilated pupil enlarged in its daffodil yellow ring, fast breathed, leaning forward, glaring, staring, needle sharp talons tightly gripped, ready to go, waiting for that right moment.If it passed, the hawk relaxed again. And so it went on until several siskins had actually come down to feed, with the predator right there just three feet away, only he was facing the wrong way, and that movement to turn around would put the siskins up, and that extra second or two to do so before being able to explode at them would mean the difference between success and failure. Time passed. I could no longer watch him every moment, but returned to see him still there as often as I could, leaving him not more than a few seconds at a time. Then, a bang down stairs, I looked out from the upstairs window again from where I had been watching, the branch on which the sparrowhawk had been perched swayed from his push off, he had gone. I knew what had happened, he'd hit the downstairs window. I went down and opened the door, there he was on the path below the kitchen window, looking rather less the impressive hunter. Something made me say 'you ok mate?' I stepped outside and he flew unsteadily into a nearby bush. I left him a while then slowly appraoched, and was glad to see him ok as he flew away looking none the worse for his collision. I looked from where he had been perched at the kitchen window, and it was the birds in the rowan on the opposite side of the lawn that he had flown at, only he hadn't, he flown at the reflection of them in the glass.

Mid April, and a warm sunny settled spell, so good to feel that warmth after our cold winter. With a southerly wind came summer migrants, willow warblers on the 11th , they were everywhere the next day, cuckoo on the 13th, tree pipit on the 15th and swallow on the 17th, which was a lovely warm day. During it, I heard a call from up in the blue, and way way up they were, sea eagles, above the village. Well, one was for sure, there were five big birds, but all sea eagles, I don't know, they were so high up, so tiny, I'd have never have seen them if I had not heard that yelping cry. By the time I had got the binoculars they had split up and were lost in that vast blue space way up there. (Later in the month I saw five immature and sub-adult sea eagles together a few miles from the village, so maybe those high five where the same five eagles. The settled spell continued but it became cooler with the wind from the north, which held back summer birds. Snipe began drumming above the meadow. More peacock butterflies and bumble bees were seen, along with small tortoieshells, and I can't remember seeing quite so many moths at the window, what were they all? I managed to get a look at two, an early grey and a hebrew character.

The single whooper swan remained and remained a single swan, maybe it was unwell, but its aloneness and its slow graceful swan moves seemed to underline a sadness that drifted across the water and through and into the heart of the wood, making quieter still the quiet, as if all the wood could feel the swans sorrow.

Meadow pipts had been trickling through in small numbers all month, but I wasn't seeing the big flocks until the middle of the month. Swallows were daily and into the old steading from the third week of the month, when the single black throated diver became two. Redwing, leaving.

It became very cold again with a strong northerly wind blowing in wintry showers, spring was silenced for a few days. I went up onto the hills then, walking into the face numbing wind, glad of a sheltered burn gully with its few rowan and hazel, out of the wind the April sun was very warm, celendines and primroses brightened the moss green stream bank.. A shadow moving swiftly across the ground caught my eye, low and close over head, another sea eagle, huge, a young bird, two, three years old, it turned into the wind and powered away, effortless.

Walking back, I had snow showers at my back, engulfing the big hill behind me, and whilst the snow fell it would have been the depths of winter if it were not for the brightness of the april light and the heat in the after showers sun, the showers were inbetweened by blue sky. And then I had an encounter that made me realise a thing or two about the winter we've just had, about it and what it has been like during it on the open hills, and it made me realise also that the spring had not yet come to them.

There was a young deer, lying down at the base of a low crag, out of the wind, across the other side of a narrow riverlet from me, not more than forty feet away. It tried to stand up, but couldn't. It tried again, and again couldn't. I thought that it must have a broken leg or something, when it tried again and managed to stand. It tried to run away, managing a few tottering steps before collapsing again and lying still. Again it struggled to its feet. It was on a slope, and when it moved again that slope took the deer down towards a small stream, it didn't have the strength to go up hill. It fell at the stream, landing aukwardly across it, it would never get up from there. I went down and lifted the deer, and stood with it. It had little strength. If I were to let it go there it would not get up the slope away from the stream, so I walked it up the slope away from the water to close to the top of the rise, where the deer dropped to the ground and made no effort to get away from me. I left it there. It was not in an as sheltered spot as where I had first found it, but it was still out of that cold wind, and it would get the suns warmth when it shined. I wished that I had not come across it. I wished, later, that I had walked it back to where I had found it, as it was a more sheltered place, for if I had not disturbed it I know that it would not have left that spot, but died there. The deer, ten months old, a female, was starving. This was what the long cold winter had done to deer on the hill. I had seen and heard about it, had seen photographs of dead and dying deer, of hinds and thier calves lying dead together, but nothing had prepared me for coming face to face with it. There was nothing I could have done. If only the calf had been a few hundred feet lower it may have found new spring growth in time. But it had become too weak to move any distance, and the spring had not come in time. There was no new grass for deer on the hill, not yet, and the weakest would not survive. The late winter cold snap with its northerlies and snow was a cruel seal on this deers fate, and the same would befall others. It is nature, and nature is cruel. Although we have had a hand in this. For over decades and centuries our livestock, sheep, have grazed the hills to there present near barren state. Also, wolfless hills means too many deer, and those too many deer have not enough to eat thanks to their numbers and to those sheep. We need to get the hills back to health, which will be of benefit to all.

After strong winds, the following quiet and stillness is profound, and welcome.

I was told that the swan had died. What was its story, how old was it, was it just old? How many iceland summers had it had. How many times had it flown here and back. What did it feel when the ten other whoopers that had been on the loch flew away, leaving it. Many will say that a bird, a swan, doesn't 'feel' anything, I can't and won't believe that. It will have felt something as a swan does, not as we do, but as a swan does, and we can never know or say how that feels, just as we can never know so much that we claim we do but dont.

During the third week of the month, busy parent black birds were back and forth with food for thier brood somewhere in the white blossomed blackthorn thicket. The first fledglings of the year, siskins...so soon, it all happens so fast. Again, familiar spring happenings, whilst some birds have young already, others on the move still. A flight of fourteen whimbrel came into a greening field, surely fourteen of the forty or so that came to that very field last May. One day, in the space of just a few minutes, more flocks of pipits in a field, two or three wheatear along the stone wall around its edge, several swallows low over it, heading north, and over head calling, a tight V of ten redshank, also north bound, all going north, migrating birds, all with still some way to go, while others are there, back. Green veined white and speckled wood buttterflies that week too, along with more peacocks and a few small tortoieshell.

The sparrowhawks that for these past few weeks have had the freedom of the skies to gain that advantage on thier prey, are now harried and chased by several angry swallows whose numbers grow daily. House martins will join them, they were in on the 23rd along with whitethroat. Male redstart back at home in his wonderful wood of oak, wood warbler there also a week later just before the month was out.

Those last few days of April were as much of the month had been, unsettled, and then on the 30th, today, this afternoon, grey skies and heavy showers slowly made way for a deep blue that came in from the north west, a May blue sky with big white billowy clouds, the light so crisp, fresh, clean, clear, sharp. In the evening, this evening, a grasshopper warbler sang its summer song, that long steady realing in of a fishermans real, down on the still meadow flooded in late sunshine, and in the garden rowan, whose buds are bursting pale lime green, the male blackbird sang his beautiful melody, all else was quiet, as though spring was taking a brief breather, until first light tomorrow, the first day of May, that most glorious month of the year, when there is nowhere else in the world where I would rather be than here in the northwest among its woods and hills. All that I will want is some time to wander through them, to wonder at them.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=27 Sat, 03 Apr 2010 11:44:16 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=27
It was mid March before the long cold sunny spell came to an end and the wind went finally round from the northerlies and the easterlies that had been blowing, so very lightly, for many weeks, to the more familiar milder wet westerlies. Its easy to forget these long dry settled periods of weather that we do get here after just a few days rain. But what a difference it makes to our lives, all those dry days, living in this wet part of the world.

There are herons everywhere where they aren't usually,except that is at this time of year, up from the shore after those hundreds of frogs in every body of water. A feast.

A blue tit and a bullfinch, together on a blackthorn bough. One of pastel blues and yellow, bright, lively, plucky, bold for such a little fellow, bouncy, jerky, looking for insects in among the lichens. The other, smart, velvety smooth, black and dark pink with that flash of brightest white, stocky, strong and yet so very shy and so very quiet, picking off the new spring buds daintily from the ends of twigs. Two very different birds in everyway, side by side for that moment that they caught my eye.

One, two, three, four, five, six wrens, into the sparrows nest box at dusk. Six isn't many compared to the forty and more that have been known, but six little wrens in that box above our window is a nice thought, knowing they're there altogether to keep warm through the cold nights. Suprisingly late it is that they leave it before going in, nearly dark, so that they aren't seen. How do they all know where each other go? One is soon in after the other, and so on, as if all arriving at once or there abouts. I suppose as they forage about the place they come to know the best places for spending the night. Do they all get along I wonder, especially the territorial males? I guess this must mean that the sparrows, that have been already taking in nest material, aren't using the box as a roost, as I don't suppose they would share it with a bunch a wrens. I have always been curious about where birds spend the night hours, especially smaller birds. They must have to get it right, as if not it could mean that they won't see a new day, snatched in the night by that maruading pine martin, or caught in a freezing draft, or blown out in a storm that blows in after dark.

I was through and above the south facing oak wood yesterday. It was a bright day, quite warm with a light southerly wind. A few birds were singing, resident birds that will have stayed in the wood all winter, tits, wrens, chaffinches, treecreeper. (If I had to be a woodland bird, I think I'd like to be a treecreeper, how intimately they must know the trees) Blue and great tits scolded me, they will not have seen the likes of me for months I doubt. That lovely time of the year again to be in a wood, March, April, so full of light. As much as I am a lover of the open hill, after being out of the wood it is always nice to come back down into it again, there is a sense of relief, of safety, of finding shelter and being sheltered, being in and under cover, that perhaps goes back a long long time to when we were closer to nature.

Two woodcock flushed from open brackeny places close to the wood edge, a woodland bird for sure, but with the bill and legs of a wader, though it doesn't really wade any more, but walks about the wetter parts of the wood and its surrounds after dark. A night bird, by day hiding in or close to woods. And how well it hides, for its plumes are coloured with the same pallet as the wood floor, and pattened the same way too so that you wont see them until you just about stand on them. Quiet, secretive singular birds, alone in thier hiding places, staying as still as dead wood until dusk stirs them into slow skulking creeping motion, everything about the woodcock is careful, secretive, so as not to be seen. I often think too about birds and other night creatures during the daylight hours, they too have to hide well, that sleepy owl will get no peace if found by a pack of mobbing chaffinches, for example.

It is only when you finally stop, make yourself stop, as I did, sitting against a mossy oak, that the tension and stress that your body endures and excepts and puts up with day in day out ebbs away to be replaced with an overwelming tiredness, restfulness and peace. I guess it is the same for those who finally get away on holiday, traveling (and enduring yet more stress along the way) hundreds, thousands of miles to at last lay back on that sun lounger, a deep sigh of relief, knowing that you've nothing to do or worry about for a week or two before being thrown back into the fray. I'm content to walk into a wood and find a quiet place among the trees in the sun for a while, that will always do it for me. After some shut eye, you open them and see only trees, only the wood. Eyes shut and asleep or eyes wide open and awake, the same peace, the same quiet, the same restful state. There is nothing and nowhere that can provide us with these needs better than spending time with nature, in a wood, on a hill, beside the sea. And it need not be a wild remote place. You can find nature and peace, and yes wildness too, not so far away, inbetween the tarmac and concrete that we have covered so much of the land with are still little wild places, right there on your doorstep, forgotten about, unfrequented places. And even in the heart of cities, where ever there is greenery, you'll find natures peace there too. All of this, islanded, surrounded, would, given half a chance, grow over, grow through, join up and cover it all up, all that we have done, given half a chance, and given time. I found that I was still in the wood for much of the rest of the day, even after leaving it.

From mid month onwards it remained mild, with some wet days and some strong southerly gales. Now the lowland skylarks are up in the sky, singing thier long songs, facing into fresh westerly winds and rain, singing for several minutes ( up to half an hour has been known) and having to stay airbourn above thier territory must take a great deal of energy. All below and round about them, the land is changing colour and the air in which they sing is warming up ready for the that great arrival of millions of summer birds.

Speaking of bird using up thier energy, the busy caotic sqwabbling siskins on the bird feeders must burn it off as soon as they aquire it. They are absent for much of the winter, either staying in the sitka pine plantations if the cone crop is a good one, feeding also on alder and birch, or they go south, though probably not leaving the country. Then all of a sudden there are dozens of them at the nut baskets this month, all fighting for a place, flicking out thier wings and tails and threat postering with open bills, constantly changing places, off the feeders then on again, a green and yellow frenzy. They appear stroppy ill tempered little birds. Close up, and close to them you can get, for they're not shy, they are exquisitely plumed.

Although I have heard that both peacock and red admirals have been seen, it has been too cold and since too dull and wet for butterflies, and not yet the first bumble bees, but as soon as that sun comes out again for a while they'll be there. I saw today my first butterfly, the 27th, a peacock, flying along a blustery shore inbetween showers, a day whose sky was slate grey and pearl and brilliant white and blue, whilst tonight white clouds drift by a bright three quarter moon.

At the end of the month, just like last year, the winter turned vengeful, at its worst perhaps, with biting northerlies and sleat and snow, but it was short lived, the beginning of beautifully bright April was beauitfully bright with warm spring sunshine shinning on all that winter beauty. Whilst some skylarks and pipits are on territory and in song others are still moving through, the first spring primroses and lesser celendines, at last, but still no bumble bees yet, and no summer migrants yet.

Was that the same single black throated diver waiting for its mate on that fresh water loch as the one seen last year at this time on the same loch? The same birds at the same time of year, spring birds on the move, spring birds in bright dress awaiting mates, spring songs being sung in the same places by the same birds. Bright gorse yellow yellowhammers singing on bright yellow gorse. Two greenshank rise from the bank of a burn close to where it enters the sea, a pair, did they spend the winter together or apart, together again now, four whooper swans on a glittering upland lochan, on route, did they stop off there in the autumn, and last spring too, have they been stopping off there for years and years? Birds back, birds on there way through, birds that have been here before.

I am in the spring woods or on the hill when I am not, before going again, and after I have been, because I've been before, to those same woods, to those same hills, at the same times of year, seeing the familiar in the familiar, yet it is never the same and always new, each spring day, each spring, and because of being there before I can't not be there again, it becomes a longing, to go back, to be there again.

April, in the spring rush, don't rush me by.]]>
It was mid March before the long cold sunny spell came to an end and the wind went finally round from the northerlies and the easterlies that had been blowing, so very lightly, for many weeks, to the more familiar milder wet westerlies. Its easy to forget these long dry settled periods of weather that we do get here after just a few days rain. But what a difference it makes to our lives, all those dry days, living in this wet part of the world.

There are herons everywhere where they aren't usually,except that is at this time of year, up from the shore after those hundreds of frogs in every body of water. A feast.

A blue tit and a bullfinch, together on a blackthorn bough. One of pastel blues and yellow, bright, lively, plucky, bold for such a little fellow, bouncy, jerky, looking for insects in among the lichens. The other, smart, velvety smooth, black and dark pink with that flash of brightest white, stocky, strong and yet so very shy and so very quiet, picking off the new spring buds daintily from the ends of twigs. Two very different birds in everyway, side by side for that moment that they caught my eye.

One, two, three, four, five, six wrens, into the sparrows nest box at dusk. Six isn't many compared to the forty and more that have been known, but six little wrens in that box above our window is a nice thought, knowing they're there altogether to keep warm through the cold nights. Suprisingly late it is that they leave it before going in, nearly dark, so that they aren't seen. How do they all know where each other go? One is soon in after the other, and so on, as if all arriving at once or there abouts. I suppose as they forage about the place they come to know the best places for spending the night. Do they all get along I wonder, especially the territorial males? I guess this must mean that the sparrows, that have been already taking in nest material, aren't using the box as a roost, as I don't suppose they would share it with a bunch a wrens. I have always been curious about where birds spend the night hours, especially smaller birds. They must have to get it right, as if not it could mean that they won't see a new day, snatched in the night by that maruading pine martin, or caught in a freezing draft, or blown out in a storm that blows in after dark.

I was through and above the south facing oak wood yesterday. It was a bright day, quite warm with a light southerly wind. A few birds were singing, resident birds that will have stayed in the wood all winter, tits, wrens, chaffinches, treecreeper. (If I had to be a woodland bird, I think I'd like to be a treecreeper, how intimately they must know the trees) Blue and great tits scolded me, they will not have seen the likes of me for months I doubt. That lovely time of the year again to be in a wood, March, April, so full of light. As much as I am a lover of the open hill, after being out of the wood it is always nice to come back down into it again, there is a sense of relief, of safety, of finding shelter and being sheltered, being in and under cover, that perhaps goes back a long long time to when we were closer to nature.

Two woodcock flushed from open brackeny places close to the wood edge, a woodland bird for sure, but with the bill and legs of a wader, though it doesn't really wade any more, but walks about the wetter parts of the wood and its surrounds after dark. A night bird, by day hiding in or close to woods. And how well it hides, for its plumes are coloured with the same pallet as the wood floor, and pattened the same way too so that you wont see them until you just about stand on them. Quiet, secretive singular birds, alone in thier hiding places, staying as still as dead wood until dusk stirs them into slow skulking creeping motion, everything about the woodcock is careful, secretive, so as not to be seen. I often think too about birds and other night creatures during the daylight hours, they too have to hide well, that sleepy owl will get no peace if found by a pack of mobbing chaffinches, for example.

It is only when you finally stop, make yourself stop, as I did, sitting against a mossy oak, that the tension and stress that your body endures and excepts and puts up with day in day out ebbs away to be replaced with an overwelming tiredness, restfulness and peace. I guess it is the same for those who finally get away on holiday, traveling (and enduring yet more stress along the way) hundreds, thousands of miles to at last lay back on that sun lounger, a deep sigh of relief, knowing that you've nothing to do or worry about for a week or two before being thrown back into the fray. I'm content to walk into a wood and find a quiet place among the trees in the sun for a while, that will always do it for me. After some shut eye, you open them and see only trees, only the wood. Eyes shut and asleep or eyes wide open and awake, the same peace, the same quiet, the same restful state. There is nothing and nowhere that can provide us with these needs better than spending time with nature, in a wood, on a hill, beside the sea. And it need not be a wild remote place. You can find nature and peace, and yes wildness too, not so far away, inbetween the tarmac and concrete that we have covered so much of the land with are still little wild places, right there on your doorstep, forgotten about, unfrequented places. And even in the heart of cities, where ever there is greenery, you'll find natures peace there too. All of this, islanded, surrounded, would, given half a chance, grow over, grow through, join up and cover it all up, all that we have done, given half a chance, and given time. I found that I was still in the wood for much of the rest of the day, even after leaving it.

From mid month onwards it remained mild, with some wet days and some strong southerly gales. Now the lowland skylarks are up in the sky, singing thier long songs, facing into fresh westerly winds and rain, singing for several minutes ( up to half an hour has been known) and having to stay airbourn above thier territory must take a great deal of energy. All below and round about them, the land is changing colour and the air in which they sing is warming up ready for the that great arrival of millions of summer birds.

Speaking of bird using up thier energy, the busy caotic sqwabbling siskins on the bird feeders must burn it off as soon as they aquire it. They are absent for much of the winter, either staying in the sitka pine plantations if the cone crop is a good one, feeding also on alder and birch, or they go south, though probably not leaving the country. Then all of a sudden there are dozens of them at the nut baskets this month, all fighting for a place, flicking out thier wings and tails and threat postering with open bills, constantly changing places, off the feeders then on again, a green and yellow frenzy. They appear stroppy ill tempered little birds. Close up, and close to them you can get, for they're not shy, they are exquisitely plumed.

Although I have heard that both peacock and red admirals have been seen, it has been too cold and since too dull and wet for butterflies, and not yet the first bumble bees, but as soon as that sun comes out again for a while they'll be there. I saw today my first butterfly, the 27th, a peacock, flying along a blustery shore inbetween showers, a day whose sky was slate grey and pearl and brilliant white and blue, whilst tonight white clouds drift by a bright three quarter moon.

At the end of the month, just like last year, the winter turned vengeful, at its worst perhaps, with biting northerlies and sleat and snow, but it was short lived, the beginning of beautifully bright April was beauitfully bright with warm spring sunshine shinning on all that winter beauty. Whilst some skylarks and pipits are on territory and in song others are still moving through, the first spring primroses and lesser celendines, at last, but still no bumble bees yet, and no summer migrants yet.

Was that the same single black throated diver waiting for its mate on that fresh water loch as the one seen last year at this time on the same loch? The same birds at the same time of year, spring birds on the move, spring birds in bright dress awaiting mates, spring songs being sung in the same places by the same birds. Bright gorse yellow yellowhammers singing on bright yellow gorse. Two greenshank rise from the bank of a burn close to where it enters the sea, a pair, did they spend the winter together or apart, together again now, four whooper swans on a glittering upland lochan, on route, did they stop off there in the autumn, and last spring too, have they been stopping off there for years and years? Birds back, birds on there way through, birds that have been here before.

I am in the spring woods or on the hill when I am not, before going again, and after I have been, because I've been before, to those same woods, to those same hills, at the same times of year, seeing the familiar in the familiar, yet it is never the same and always new, each spring day, each spring, and because of being there before I can't not be there again, it becomes a longing, to go back, to be there again.

April, in the spring rush, don't rush me by.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=26 Tue, 09 Mar 2010 22:26:46 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=26
This winter though, for me, and the days and weeks of it, have passed like snow flakes in a blizzard, all lost and as one. This blizzard, as brief as a passing shower, a flurry even, this winter, and its days, are as lost to me as one snow flake in a snow storm. Months, a season, can go by un noticed until a moment of beauty, that seems to last longer than all those lost days and weeks, brings you back to where you are and where you should be, to awareness. Even living here in such a beautiful quiet out of the way place, you can become lost in your room, that room that we all have inside of us in which we spend too much of our time, looking inwards, into it and at all that we put inside it, our everyday cluttered to dos, worries and busy ness, focussing on ones self and ones thoughts and ones voice and those of others talking all the time, ceaselessly going from one concern to the next and not seeing anything outside of ourselves, shoe gazing in a sense. For me it has only ever been nature that has opened the doors and windows to my room and reached me inside, making me look up from my thoughtful down ward, inward gaze, to look out at or to listen to or feel that what it was that touched me, reached me, those moments of beauty.

I had been away for nearly a month, and was walking through a sea side wood on a sunny day in early January and it appeared ,all of a sudden to me, making me look up, lighter, brighter...why was this, had someone been felling trees in the wood, letting in more light? It was only after a few moments that I realised that it simply was brighter, the sun was higher, and only then did I realise that a month had gone by, and during this time the shortest day had been and gone, I realised that the dark days of November and December were behind us, that Spring was just around the corner, and I had not seen it coming! That was one moment that lasted longer, or so it seemed, than the month gone that it made me think about. There were others, (many, I'm sure) but it seemed weeks , months, in between them. Those moments, and those longer times spent aware, with nature, are stored in our rooms too, always there to draw on when needed, keeping us right until we can be there again, looking out, not looking in.

I went away, down south, just after the snow came and then froze in mid December, that same snow and ice was still there on my return, and the whole country, north to south, was white. A day or two before leaving I came across a dead ram half submerged in the shallow waters at the edge of a loch, close to it perched a sea eagle, a young female. She flew away down the loch, putting up another previously unseen male sea eagle, which circled out from and back into loch side oaks above the carcass, but wasn't seen again. The young female was caught up with, further along the loch shore, perched in an ash tree, she was a huge magnificent predator, and one that I got closer to than I ever had before, we were just about beneath her tree, as was the bridge we needed to cross, before she flew off, back towards the dead animal. I wondered, during the days that followed and whilst away, what went on at the loch side, especially once the long freeze came, who else visited to the carcass, and how did they all interact with one another, predators and scavengers, during what would have been hungry times. Hungry times for most, but maybe not for predators and scavengers

I have no tales to tell though, of days out in the icy hills, didn't see how the life that stays in the winter hills or indeed the white woods and fields and frozen sea shore, coped with the long cold.

And now it is spring...it is spring! The winter has passed quietly, like its many still days, like the quiet of falling snow. Then one early March morning, as if within a vast winter cathedral whose doors had been left open through the night letting in the cold and the frost, turning the great domed ceiling blue, and like crystalline instruments being played amidst pillars of ice, birds had come in too to sing clear songs of spring in the crisp sharp air as the sun shone in through the open doors, warming the great hall and the new day.

And since then, chasing and rising and falling and calling in the brown fields, there buff bodies and transparent cream plumes caught and lit by the suns rays as they twist and turn, skylarks. When they move on, it is northwards that they go. I don't suppose many will know these delightful bringers of spring that in just a few weeks will sing in the summer hills, or the pipits among them, or the small group of golden plover, or that lone lapwing in display. (or the muscle bound peregrine, eyeing them all up) More perhaps will see and know the frogs spawn in pools and ponds, the blooming of snow drops, will feel that warming sun, hear the singing of birds, and know what it all means, that it is spring. I would hope though that these cheerful little parties of birds are noticed, and wondered about, and enjoyed, as they and all that they are and do, embody the joy of spring.

I cannot help each early March to smile and feel elated when I see and hear the skylarks back. This wonderful winter has passed me by I feel, in a moment of beauty, but spring skylarks have not, nor ever will.

(I have just stepped outside, and flying and calling over head...whooper swans! It really seems no time at all ago when I heard then flying south)

Sorry again for the long wait!]]>
This winter though, for me, and the days and weeks of it, have passed like snow flakes in a blizzard, all lost and as one. This blizzard, as brief as a passing shower, a flurry even, this winter, and its days, are as lost to me as one snow flake in a snow storm. Months, a season, can go by un noticed until a moment of beauty, that seems to last longer than all those lost days and weeks, brings you back to where you are and where you should be, to awareness. Even living here in such a beautiful quiet out of the way place, you can become lost in your room, that room that we all have inside of us in which we spend too much of our time, looking inwards, into it and at all that we put inside it, our everyday cluttered to dos, worries and busy ness, focussing on ones self and ones thoughts and ones voice and those of others talking all the time, ceaselessly going from one concern to the next and not seeing anything outside of ourselves, shoe gazing in a sense. For me it has only ever been nature that has opened the doors and windows to my room and reached me inside, making me look up from my thoughtful down ward, inward gaze, to look out at or to listen to or feel that what it was that touched me, reached me, those moments of beauty.

I had been away for nearly a month, and was walking through a sea side wood on a sunny day in early January and it appeared ,all of a sudden to me, making me look up, lighter, brighter...why was this, had someone been felling trees in the wood, letting in more light? It was only after a few moments that I realised that it simply was brighter, the sun was higher, and only then did I realise that a month had gone by, and during this time the shortest day had been and gone, I realised that the dark days of November and December were behind us, that Spring was just around the corner, and I had not seen it coming! That was one moment that lasted longer, or so it seemed, than the month gone that it made me think about. There were others, (many, I'm sure) but it seemed weeks , months, in between them. Those moments, and those longer times spent aware, with nature, are stored in our rooms too, always there to draw on when needed, keeping us right until we can be there again, looking out, not looking in.

I went away, down south, just after the snow came and then froze in mid December, that same snow and ice was still there on my return, and the whole country, north to south, was white. A day or two before leaving I came across a dead ram half submerged in the shallow waters at the edge of a loch, close to it perched a sea eagle, a young female. She flew away down the loch, putting up another previously unseen male sea eagle, which circled out from and back into loch side oaks above the carcass, but wasn't seen again. The young female was caught up with, further along the loch shore, perched in an ash tree, she was a huge magnificent predator, and one that I got closer to than I ever had before, we were just about beneath her tree, as was the bridge we needed to cross, before she flew off, back towards the dead animal. I wondered, during the days that followed and whilst away, what went on at the loch side, especially once the long freeze came, who else visited to the carcass, and how did they all interact with one another, predators and scavengers, during what would have been hungry times. Hungry times for most, but maybe not for predators and scavengers

I have no tales to tell though, of days out in the icy hills, didn't see how the life that stays in the winter hills or indeed the white woods and fields and frozen sea shore, coped with the long cold.

And now it is spring...it is spring! The winter has passed quietly, like its many still days, like the quiet of falling snow. Then one early March morning, as if within a vast winter cathedral whose doors had been left open through the night letting in the cold and the frost, turning the great domed ceiling blue, and like crystalline instruments being played amidst pillars of ice, birds had come in too to sing clear songs of spring in the crisp sharp air as the sun shone in through the open doors, warming the great hall and the new day.

And since then, chasing and rising and falling and calling in the brown fields, there buff bodies and transparent cream plumes caught and lit by the suns rays as they twist and turn, skylarks. When they move on, it is northwards that they go. I don't suppose many will know these delightful bringers of spring that in just a few weeks will sing in the summer hills, or the pipits among them, or the small group of golden plover, or that lone lapwing in display. (or the muscle bound peregrine, eyeing them all up) More perhaps will see and know the frogs spawn in pools and ponds, the blooming of snow drops, will feel that warming sun, hear the singing of birds, and know what it all means, that it is spring. I would hope though that these cheerful little parties of birds are noticed, and wondered about, and enjoyed, as they and all that they are and do, embody the joy of spring.

I cannot help each early March to smile and feel elated when I see and hear the skylarks back. This wonderful winter has passed me by I feel, in a moment of beauty, but spring skylarks have not, nor ever will.

(I have just stepped outside, and flying and calling over head...whooper swans! It really seems no time at all ago when I heard then flying south)

Sorry again for the long wait!]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=24 Fri, 19 Feb 2010 21:40:11 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=24 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=23 Tue, 10 Nov 2009 14:52:29 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=23
It was fifty five days in the end, about eight weeks, between one full dry day and the next. These days were from sometime in late July to sometime in early September. Not then the best of summers. The weather was that bad that our summer swallows and house martins just didn’t hang around, normally we can enjoy them well into September and I have known there to be young house martins still in the nest in October. House martins had a terrible year up here, what with the late cold wet spring holding them back and then that long wet spell during the summer months, but maybe they managed to get the one brood away during sunny June and early July. I missed the swallows in September, they should have been there, but had had enough. (OK so there was the odd one, but not the family groups hawking about the sunny September meadows like there should have been). Not a good breeding season all round, from eagles failing due to cold wet and windy weather to butterflies having a very poor year.

Do I get fed up with all the rain, of seeing on the weather charts the whole country bathed in sunshine except for us here in the northwest time and again, sometimes, but here is where I am, in the northwest highlands of Scotland, and that sounds good just saying it, it is a place that I would like to be, and am. Yes, it is one of the wettest places on earth, but the rains stop, the clouds lift from the hills by the sea, the sun shines through them and onto the tattered shreads of all of that breaking up cloud blown on by fresh sea winds, and the sky becomes blue before the rains come again. During all of that the light that shines on and through the clouds and onto this sealand is like no other and is so of the west coast. I have met people here who unlike me have been all over this incredible, stunning, mind blowingly amazing planet who have said that the west coast of Scotland is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and part of it and what makes it so is its climate. Those who come and know and expect that climate are rewarded with being in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and those who don’t, well, let them go to their sun drenched crowded beaches abroad. There are beaches here, wild ones that you’ll have to walk to and find, and if you do then you’ll likely find that the beach is all your own, and, you might even get drenched in sunshine too, if you’re lucky, but if not, beautiful all the same.

Going back to the very end of August and on the 31st, flying into warm southerly winds and drifting curtains of drizzly rain, is that you again, back from your summer up north, whimbrel? I wasn’t sure at first, whimbrel or curlew, so tried to call them with as best a whimbrel trill as I could muster, good enough, a whimbrel reply, lovely birds, lovely calls. More northern upland waders in early August, golden plover in fields by day and by night flying south and calling over head, you can’t help but look up, thinking you might see them, instead, stars, the moon, and we’ve had some beautiful moonlit nights. I try to imagine being a bird flying along side others up in the cold night sky, try to feel the wind and cold air on my face and body as they would, to hear the beating of wings right beside mine, to see the moon above and its light on the sea below, to hear those piercing contact calls right there in my ear. Another wader, redshank, also on route from the north calling in the dark of night, their calls reminding me of Norfolk and the salt marshes there. One night, on opening the door those most evocative of northern voices came out of the black sky, whooper swans, all thoughts and intentions in that moment and for a few more until I could hear them no more were lost as once more I was up there and away with them. Away with the fairies…away instead with wild swans by the light of the moon. Another night bird that’s very vocal in the autumn that I try to be with in my minds eye when I hear it in its secret woodland home, perched on a gently swaying bough, do you turn your great round soft feathered head and gaze up at passing swans through the tree tops with those big round brown tawny owl eyes before casting them back down to the ground in search of night mice?

An early autumn gale caught the trees still wearing a full and heavy summer dress of leaves, tearing a few branches from them, and, old oak, clad also in ivy, too much for you this time, down you fell leaving a space now that you have slowly grown old in and filled these past one hundred and fifty to two hundred years. I’ve known you a while, walking past you among all those others, but maybe I didn’t really notice you until now that you’ve left that space in the wood. It’s sad that you have fallen, but you have let in the light and where your shadow has been for decades now there will be light and sunshine on the wood floor, for flowers, for bees and butterflies, and perhaps for another young oak that will grow into and take your place.

After so much rain, so much greyness, when the sun does come out again everything seems all the more beautiful. A September meadow full of the blue globes of devils bit scabious, each one with a deep blue heart and a lighter bright blue edge when looking at them against a low autumn sun. And every single hair on every bee feeding on them, and every single blade of grass and grass stem, and every single head of seed, and every thread of spiders web, and every drifting dust mote and the beating of every tiny insect wing above the meadow, all shining, all aglow with golden gilded September sunlight. At the side of a track, its verge full again with blue blooms, and on them, amazing, perfect, even after so much rain, four peacock butterflies, so close…look at them, how can anyone walk by such beauty, how and from where did they get those colours, those patterns, that perfect form. Hawking a mountain pool, back and forth, back and forth, the water and its shining wings all a glitter in the warm sun, common hawker dragonfly, how different that vision is to the one of the golden ringed dragonfly half submerged and holding onto life in the rain and cold in the summer, that dragonfly had not found a good sheltered place to sit out the weather, whereas the hawker had.

I’ve had a few days on the hill, finding them never more peaceful than during September. I often wonder about the hills at this time of the year and in winter. A wood and its trees, they sleep, you can sense that, feel it, but when in the hills sometimes I struggle to sense anything, they are not dead or lifeless, but to and from them life returns in the spring and autumn. They are so very very old, the hills. On that sloping granite slab, those stones sit and have there sat ever since the very last millimetres of glacial ice melted away beneath them, and they have not moved since. What changes those stones have seen to the hills, the wild wood coming and going, the footfall of lynx and bear, and of wolf packs, all gone…it is of these losses that the silent hills speak, their silence shouts out across the open spaces of all that is lost that should still be. Two young golden eagles were low over head, a second year bird, and a third or fourth year bird. They seemed to be hanging around, sorry, I have no gun and I’ll not be shooting any deer today, (and not ever) that’s what they were hoping I’m sure, and down and at the gralloch they would have been. Hard hungry times ahead for young eagles. Another raptor, seen most often here during the autumn, little kestrels, fly by then a short rise and a turn, there they stop, literally, pinned to the sky they hover.

By the sea, along the narrow strip wedged between it and the land that on this day was where the light fell and no where else, the water and the land was grey and dull to either side of this silvery sea edge, and into its dazzling brilliance flew from the waters edge turnstone and ringed plover, not seen for the bright light until they rose and called, flying a circle and landing again to resume their busy low tide feeding. The same sea side, a different day, two buzzards kept their distance from but kept with two sea eagles to see that they went away. They drifted slowly from east to west, into the wind without a single beat of their immense wings. One, the leading bird, angled back those wings and accelerated away, the following bird seemed less sure of its self, and struggled with that wind, and so instead it gave up trying to follow and turned and let the wind take it inland rather than along the coast, a youngster still with a lot to learn about winds and flying. The sun was out now and then that day, and when it was I spotted the tiniest of butterflies among the short grasses and flowers that grow at the back of the stony beach, seen once in a while here and usually by the sea, a real gem, the small copper.

Into October, a real gale, those sea horses have been waiting somewhere, now they speed down the sound spurred on by that rushing sea wind, so white they are on the deepest of blues. Red admirals graced the garden in October sunshine, another perfect butterfly beauty, amazing. Descending a steep slope, coming back into the trees at the top of the wood, flying past below at speed with the sun on their backs, mistle thrushes, one after the other, onto a rowan bursting with ripe red berries, and among them, the first winter redwing, glad to see them. Many more followed later in the month, along with fieldfare. Although I’ve seen neither in quite the big flocks that can occur, there have been those autumn thrush days, when it seems that almost every where and in every bush and tree there are redwings and fieldfare, with mistle and song thrush and blackbirds among them. I love it too when parties of redwing fly from trees like leaves in a gusty wind. And love it when you hear the chack-chack of fieldfare and look about for them, then find them tumbling from the sky as though that were from where they had come. Nice to have singing birds at this time of the year after the quiet of late summer. Robins in their winter gardens, and wrens, visiting cheerful coal tits, a great tit too sang a few notes and starlings are singing thier entertaining songs from the rooftops, even both song and mistle thrushes have sang for brief spells on mild bright days. And heard above the sound of rushing water along a swollen river, hidden on an alder bough inches above the black turbulent depths, a most summer like song, like a summer reed warbler, a dipper. Into those rushing waters it drops and floats like a little duck, before disappearing to seek out its food in the lee of rocks on the stream bed.

A late October hill day, cold, still, but sunny, beautiful light, a golden eagle fell from a cliff edge into a wide corrie and then glided across its wide open mountain space… see you, maybe, over the winter months. Beautiful light too on those so very very beautiful autumn trees, a single sunlit golden yellow leaf on the end of a twig is as beautiful as that whole tree, as that whole hill side full of trees full of autumn colour. You just have to get in among the trees at this time of year.

I have to say, I’m glad the wet summer is gone, and glad that it is winter now, glad of the winter sun and the winter light, to see again lingering winter sunsets. Winters here in recent years have been better than the summers. (Whose to say though that this winter will be the same, I may wish yet that it was still summer time) And in just a few short weeks, the first signs of spring. Just like the sea winds bring white horses, the warming climbing sun will bring us the spring.

Seems that there is more to the marsh fritillary buttefly story, for whilst walking across the meadow where I saw that worn individual back in June, I noticed a small web dome on the ground, then another, and another, and on them, tiny caterpillars. These are the larval webs of the marsh fritillary, and in these webs the small caterpillars will spend the winter. I was delighted to find them and very pleased to think that I should be able to look forward to seeing this butterfly again next year. Those tiny caterpillars there, now, on the cold wet winter meadow, and what they will become encapsulates all of that new life….waiting.

Other sightings that I’ve been told about, male hen harrier, otters, pine martins, dolphins, basking sharks, and…and...on the 1st of November, a swift!

Stephen_hardy@hotmail.co.uk]]>
It was fifty five days in the end, about eight weeks, between one full dry day and the next. These days were from sometime in late July to sometime in early September. Not then the best of summers. The weather was that bad that our summer swallows and house martins just didn’t hang around, normally we can enjoy them well into September and I have known there to be young house martins still in the nest in October. House martins had a terrible year up here, what with the late cold wet spring holding them back and then that long wet spell during the summer months, but maybe they managed to get the one brood away during sunny June and early July. I missed the swallows in September, they should have been there, but had had enough. (OK so there was the odd one, but not the family groups hawking about the sunny September meadows like there should have been). Not a good breeding season all round, from eagles failing due to cold wet and windy weather to butterflies having a very poor year.

Do I get fed up with all the rain, of seeing on the weather charts the whole country bathed in sunshine except for us here in the northwest time and again, sometimes, but here is where I am, in the northwest highlands of Scotland, and that sounds good just saying it, it is a place that I would like to be, and am. Yes, it is one of the wettest places on earth, but the rains stop, the clouds lift from the hills by the sea, the sun shines through them and onto the tattered shreads of all of that breaking up cloud blown on by fresh sea winds, and the sky becomes blue before the rains come again. During all of that the light that shines on and through the clouds and onto this sealand is like no other and is so of the west coast. I have met people here who unlike me have been all over this incredible, stunning, mind blowingly amazing planet who have said that the west coast of Scotland is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and part of it and what makes it so is its climate. Those who come and know and expect that climate are rewarded with being in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and those who don’t, well, let them go to their sun drenched crowded beaches abroad. There are beaches here, wild ones that you’ll have to walk to and find, and if you do then you’ll likely find that the beach is all your own, and, you might even get drenched in sunshine too, if you’re lucky, but if not, beautiful all the same.

Going back to the very end of August and on the 31st, flying into warm southerly winds and drifting curtains of drizzly rain, is that you again, back from your summer up north, whimbrel? I wasn’t sure at first, whimbrel or curlew, so tried to call them with as best a whimbrel trill as I could muster, good enough, a whimbrel reply, lovely birds, lovely calls. More northern upland waders in early August, golden plover in fields by day and by night flying south and calling over head, you can’t help but look up, thinking you might see them, instead, stars, the moon, and we’ve had some beautiful moonlit nights. I try to imagine being a bird flying along side others up in the cold night sky, try to feel the wind and cold air on my face and body as they would, to hear the beating of wings right beside mine, to see the moon above and its light on the sea below, to hear those piercing contact calls right there in my ear. Another wader, redshank, also on route from the north calling in the dark of night, their calls reminding me of Norfolk and the salt marshes there. One night, on opening the door those most evocative of northern voices came out of the black sky, whooper swans, all thoughts and intentions in that moment and for a few more until I could hear them no more were lost as once more I was up there and away with them. Away with the fairies…away instead with wild swans by the light of the moon. Another night bird that’s very vocal in the autumn that I try to be with in my minds eye when I hear it in its secret woodland home, perched on a gently swaying bough, do you turn your great round soft feathered head and gaze up at passing swans through the tree tops with those big round brown tawny owl eyes before casting them back down to the ground in search of night mice?

An early autumn gale caught the trees still wearing a full and heavy summer dress of leaves, tearing a few branches from them, and, old oak, clad also in ivy, too much for you this time, down you fell leaving a space now that you have slowly grown old in and filled these past one hundred and fifty to two hundred years. I’ve known you a while, walking past you among all those others, but maybe I didn’t really notice you until now that you’ve left that space in the wood. It’s sad that you have fallen, but you have let in the light and where your shadow has been for decades now there will be light and sunshine on the wood floor, for flowers, for bees and butterflies, and perhaps for another young oak that will grow into and take your place.

After so much rain, so much greyness, when the sun does come out again everything seems all the more beautiful. A September meadow full of the blue globes of devils bit scabious, each one with a deep blue heart and a lighter bright blue edge when looking at them against a low autumn sun. And every single hair on every bee feeding on them, and every single blade of grass and grass stem, and every single head of seed, and every thread of spiders web, and every drifting dust mote and the beating of every tiny insect wing above the meadow, all shining, all aglow with golden gilded September sunlight. At the side of a track, its verge full again with blue blooms, and on them, amazing, perfect, even after so much rain, four peacock butterflies, so close…look at them, how can anyone walk by such beauty, how and from where did they get those colours, those patterns, that perfect form. Hawking a mountain pool, back and forth, back and forth, the water and its shining wings all a glitter in the warm sun, common hawker dragonfly, how different that vision is to the one of the golden ringed dragonfly half submerged and holding onto life in the rain and cold in the summer, that dragonfly had not found a good sheltered place to sit out the weather, whereas the hawker had.

I’ve had a few days on the hill, finding them never more peaceful than during September. I often wonder about the hills at this time of the year and in winter. A wood and its trees, they sleep, you can sense that, feel it, but when in the hills sometimes I struggle to sense anything, they are not dead or lifeless, but to and from them life returns in the spring and autumn. They are so very very old, the hills. On that sloping granite slab, those stones sit and have there sat ever since the very last millimetres of glacial ice melted away beneath them, and they have not moved since. What changes those stones have seen to the hills, the wild wood coming and going, the footfall of lynx and bear, and of wolf packs, all gone…it is of these losses that the silent hills speak, their silence shouts out across the open spaces of all that is lost that should still be. Two young golden eagles were low over head, a second year bird, and a third or fourth year bird. They seemed to be hanging around, sorry, I have no gun and I’ll not be shooting any deer today, (and not ever) that’s what they were hoping I’m sure, and down and at the gralloch they would have been. Hard hungry times ahead for young eagles. Another raptor, seen most often here during the autumn, little kestrels, fly by then a short rise and a turn, there they stop, literally, pinned to the sky they hover.

By the sea, along the narrow strip wedged between it and the land that on this day was where the light fell and no where else, the water and the land was grey and dull to either side of this silvery sea edge, and into its dazzling brilliance flew from the waters edge turnstone and ringed plover, not seen for the bright light until they rose and called, flying a circle and landing again to resume their busy low tide feeding. The same sea side, a different day, two buzzards kept their distance from but kept with two sea eagles to see that they went away. They drifted slowly from east to west, into the wind without a single beat of their immense wings. One, the leading bird, angled back those wings and accelerated away, the following bird seemed less sure of its self, and struggled with that wind, and so instead it gave up trying to follow and turned and let the wind take it inland rather than along the coast, a youngster still with a lot to learn about winds and flying. The sun was out now and then that day, and when it was I spotted the tiniest of butterflies among the short grasses and flowers that grow at the back of the stony beach, seen once in a while here and usually by the sea, a real gem, the small copper.

Into October, a real gale, those sea horses have been waiting somewhere, now they speed down the sound spurred on by that rushing sea wind, so white they are on the deepest of blues. Red admirals graced the garden in October sunshine, another perfect butterfly beauty, amazing. Descending a steep slope, coming back into the trees at the top of the wood, flying past below at speed with the sun on their backs, mistle thrushes, one after the other, onto a rowan bursting with ripe red berries, and among them, the first winter redwing, glad to see them. Many more followed later in the month, along with fieldfare. Although I’ve seen neither in quite the big flocks that can occur, there have been those autumn thrush days, when it seems that almost every where and in every bush and tree there are redwings and fieldfare, with mistle and song thrush and blackbirds among them. I love it too when parties of redwing fly from trees like leaves in a gusty wind. And love it when you hear the chack-chack of fieldfare and look about for them, then find them tumbling from the sky as though that were from where they had come. Nice to have singing birds at this time of the year after the quiet of late summer. Robins in their winter gardens, and wrens, visiting cheerful coal tits, a great tit too sang a few notes and starlings are singing thier entertaining songs from the rooftops, even both song and mistle thrushes have sang for brief spells on mild bright days. And heard above the sound of rushing water along a swollen river, hidden on an alder bough inches above the black turbulent depths, a most summer like song, like a summer reed warbler, a dipper. Into those rushing waters it drops and floats like a little duck, before disappearing to seek out its food in the lee of rocks on the stream bed.

A late October hill day, cold, still, but sunny, beautiful light, a golden eagle fell from a cliff edge into a wide corrie and then glided across its wide open mountain space… see you, maybe, over the winter months. Beautiful light too on those so very very beautiful autumn trees, a single sunlit golden yellow leaf on the end of a twig is as beautiful as that whole tree, as that whole hill side full of trees full of autumn colour. You just have to get in among the trees at this time of year.

I have to say, I’m glad the wet summer is gone, and glad that it is winter now, glad of the winter sun and the winter light, to see again lingering winter sunsets. Winters here in recent years have been better than the summers. (Whose to say though that this winter will be the same, I may wish yet that it was still summer time) And in just a few short weeks, the first signs of spring. Just like the sea winds bring white horses, the warming climbing sun will bring us the spring.

Seems that there is more to the marsh fritillary buttefly story, for whilst walking across the meadow where I saw that worn individual back in June, I noticed a small web dome on the ground, then another, and another, and on them, tiny caterpillars. These are the larval webs of the marsh fritillary, and in these webs the small caterpillars will spend the winter. I was delighted to find them and very pleased to think that I should be able to look forward to seeing this butterfly again next year. Those tiny caterpillars there, now, on the cold wet winter meadow, and what they will become encapsulates all of that new life….waiting.

Other sightings that I’ve been told about, male hen harrier, otters, pine martins, dolphins, basking sharks, and…and...on the 1st of November, a swift!

Stephen_hardy@hotmail.co.uk]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=22 Sun, 30 Aug 2009 18:22:10 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=22
Two and a half months ago (two and a half months!) I was waiting for my first sighting of a common blue butterfly, and there he was, a bright new blue male on the 24th June. Seeing him told me that it was summer, always has done, don’t know why but they always appear around that third week of June, and spring lasts until about then, I think anyway, and he is such a summery butterfly, as blue as a summer sky, as blue as July harebells.

If you think of the summer in terms of sunshine, then our summer this year lasted about a week, the week following the appearance of the common blue. Our summer was June really, this year, that was when we had summer temperatures and lots of sunny days. After that…July, which on the whole was drab, dull and often wet with here and there a sunny end to a wet day, or a sunny start to a wet day. And August, well, we may as well write August off, an awful month of rain and more rain and then very heavy rain, with even less sunshine.

Back in June, the summer was beginning; now, it has gone, and so has a year gone, it is a year ago more or less when I first started to write this ‘wildlife diary’, and all that was going on then is going on again now, as this great globe has tilted us once more that bit further away from the sun and cool autumn winds speak of the approaching winter.

The last time there were pipits and skylarks in the fields they were northbound, bound for the uplands and bringing with them the spring. They’re back in the fields again now, only this time they are leaving as they feel and sense the coming cold. It’s nice to have these hill birds so close by that have been good company over the spring and summer months up on the high ground, but unlike in the spring when they are just arriving and you know you’ll be seeing and hearing them over the coming weeks and months, now you know that that is them leaving, they’re on their way. Autumn is all about departures, endings; autumn is an ending, the end of a year. I’ll miss them, miss them on the hills and miss them over the winter months, which make it all the more of a joy to see them again each spring.

And just as last year when the hill birds came down from the hills, again there are goldfinch charms feeding on thistle and knapweed on the meadow, again local (not yet will we see geese southbound from the very far north) greylag geese are back in their wintering fields, again woodland birds band and roam together through their wonderful realm of trees, and again as last year the wet august is seeing many of our summer swallows leave early, and I don’t blame them for going. There are sparrowhawks about again too, this time two beautiful young females have been at the birds in the gardens. Last years single young female did well and I think would have made it through the winter, how will these two fair in the coming weeks?

All these goings on that happen at this particular time of the year are predictable, expected, just as are the cooler days and colouring up of the trees, as is the rowan and blackberry crop, and the browning of the fields, and the falling of seeds that spring flowers began, geese back in their fields and waders moving along the shores, and the earlier ends to days. But there are always surprises in nature, always something new, and always all of these nature happenings intermingle and interplay in different, unexpected and unpredictable ways. Add to all of that the different light, the rain the wind the sun, and add still the way that all of these things touch us in different ways, how seeing and being with nature makes us feel on different days at different times of the year, like the pipits bringing gladness in the spring, and going away with sadness in the autumn. No two days are ever the same in nature, be them just days apart or from the same time of year a year ago.

So what about all those weeks between the end of June and now? More summer butterflies appeared not long after the common blue, big showy dark-green fritillaries, such strong flyers, and brown meadow browns on more buoyant wings bounced about the meadows. And scarce mountain butterflies, large heaths. More painted ladies, an exceptional year for them across the whole country. Brand new peacocks before July was out, thanks to those that made it through the winter. Only the odd sighting of oak top dwelling purple hairstreaks, the weather during their flight period has been awful, again, it can’t be doing the local population of this species any good. Over all, a very poor year for butterflies, in fact out of the seventeen years of monitoring butterflies here this is going to be the third or forth worst year on record.

Not a great year for dragons and damsels either, except for those fortunate enough to be on the wing in sunny June. I came across a golden ringed dragonfly, still attached to the grass stem that it had decided to cling to until the sun came again to warm it into mobility, only the sun hadn’t come again, instead cold heavy rain had pounded the vegetation and the insect down toward the wet ground and into water running off the hill. It was holding on to the grass stem, and to life, just. I helped it out of the water and moved it to where the wind might dry it out, but it would need the sun, and I don’t think it would have got any in time to save it. That encounter kind of summed up the summer for me.

Then came one of those surprises, a butterfly surprise that I would have missed had I walked to the shop down the road instead of across the field. Its weak flight (a characteristic weak flight) and its longish wings, and it just looking different, caught my eye. A closer look, marsh fritillary! Dashed back to the house for the camera, and found it again, a beauty. What was it doing here? I know that they are on neighbouring Mull, and Lismore, but I have not seen them or known of them being here before. It was quite pale and worn looking. Quite a flight for this species, if it had come from either of those nearest places, for they are weak flyers and don’t go far anyway, being a sedentary species, normally staying put. A rare species too, so I was pleased to see it. I later reported the sighting to the local moth and butterfly recorder and it was a first record for Morvern, so I was even more pleased.

(I couldn’t help thinking of the marsh fritillary as a thank you. I was given a tatty display case of pinned butterflies that must have been decades old some time ago. I had never had it on show; it lay in a cupboard in the dark, gathering dust. I didn’t want it, but didn’t want to throw it out either. So I decided that I’d let them go, the butterflies. Years went by until last year I finally got round to it. One sunny afternoon I took the box down onto the meadow below the house, and opened it up. I tried to carefully remove the pin from the first butterfly, but its body just turned to dust between my fingers. Its wings though, caught in the breeze, blew about the inside of the display case as though wanting out, so I turned the box on its side and the wind took them, and the butterflies wings flew once more, for one last time, settling among the grasses and flowers looking beautiful again in the sun. The rest went the same way, free at last and where they belong, in the sun and open air. It was around about that spot that I found the marsh fritillary)

That same day, in the afternoon, another surprise, a magnificent great northern diver on a fresh water loch, what was it doing here, in June? Many winter around our shores, but only a few stay for the summer. A species out of place, or rather in the right place at the wrong time (although they do prefer the sea around here to fresh water). But think of the bird not as a species but as an individual, what is its story? Where did it hatch out of the egg, Iceland, Greenland? How many summers has it spent in those northern climes among snowy owls, gyr falcons and arctic foxes? What extreme weather has it been through at sea wintering around the coasts of Scotland and northern Scandinavia? What’s it like, great northern diver, diving beneath the waves to chase and catch fish and search for molluscs on the sea bed?

There have been three jays around about the woods of Morvern for a few years now, but only this year did they find there way into the wood above the loch where they spent most of the summer, and it was nice to hear their harsh calls and glimpse their creamy pink and black and white and blue plumes through the oak trees now and then, reminding me of home. But my days out in the woods and on the hills during this summer have been fewer than I would have liked. Although just one or many, they are all special in some way, there is always something to remember. A flight of Golden plover lit by the sun shining through lifting cloud on a mountain top, and the sudden view, familiar, yet in that instant after seeing nothing but white mist for hours, stunning, taking my breath away. And quietly sitting, watching, tired after play, like a puppy dog, all thick legs and fluff, fox cub, out on the grass among the boulders of its mountain home. (Yes, that lady fox did have cubs). How will your story go little fox, good luck.

I do love these cool, refreshing end of summer days, the autumn for me is a little bit sad in many ways, time to think about the seasons of the year, to wonder about how they are doing and how they will get on, all those birds and animals that you spent time with, to ponder about the coming winter, we are nearing an ending, but nature never comes to a stop. Just as the spinning world will bring us another day following a night it will after another winter spin another spring our way again next year… the merry pipits and skylarks will come back and bring it with them.]]>
Two and a half months ago (two and a half months!) I was waiting for my first sighting of a common blue butterfly, and there he was, a bright new blue male on the 24th June. Seeing him told me that it was summer, always has done, don’t know why but they always appear around that third week of June, and spring lasts until about then, I think anyway, and he is such a summery butterfly, as blue as a summer sky, as blue as July harebells.

If you think of the summer in terms of sunshine, then our summer this year lasted about a week, the week following the appearance of the common blue. Our summer was June really, this year, that was when we had summer temperatures and lots of sunny days. After that…July, which on the whole was drab, dull and often wet with here and there a sunny end to a wet day, or a sunny start to a wet day. And August, well, we may as well write August off, an awful month of rain and more rain and then very heavy rain, with even less sunshine.

Back in June, the summer was beginning; now, it has gone, and so has a year gone, it is a year ago more or less when I first started to write this ‘wildlife diary’, and all that was going on then is going on again now, as this great globe has tilted us once more that bit further away from the sun and cool autumn winds speak of the approaching winter.

The last time there were pipits and skylarks in the fields they were northbound, bound for the uplands and bringing with them the spring. They’re back in the fields again now, only this time they are leaving as they feel and sense the coming cold. It’s nice to have these hill birds so close by that have been good company over the spring and summer months up on the high ground, but unlike in the spring when they are just arriving and you know you’ll be seeing and hearing them over the coming weeks and months, now you know that that is them leaving, they’re on their way. Autumn is all about departures, endings; autumn is an ending, the end of a year. I’ll miss them, miss them on the hills and miss them over the winter months, which make it all the more of a joy to see them again each spring.

And just as last year when the hill birds came down from the hills, again there are goldfinch charms feeding on thistle and knapweed on the meadow, again local (not yet will we see geese southbound from the very far north) greylag geese are back in their wintering fields, again woodland birds band and roam together through their wonderful realm of trees, and again as last year the wet august is seeing many of our summer swallows leave early, and I don’t blame them for going. There are sparrowhawks about again too, this time two beautiful young females have been at the birds in the gardens. Last years single young female did well and I think would have made it through the winter, how will these two fair in the coming weeks?

All these goings on that happen at this particular time of the year are predictable, expected, just as are the cooler days and colouring up of the trees, as is the rowan and blackberry crop, and the browning of the fields, and the falling of seeds that spring flowers began, geese back in their fields and waders moving along the shores, and the earlier ends to days. But there are always surprises in nature, always something new, and always all of these nature happenings intermingle and interplay in different, unexpected and unpredictable ways. Add to all of that the different light, the rain the wind the sun, and add still the way that all of these things touch us in different ways, how seeing and being with nature makes us feel on different days at different times of the year, like the pipits bringing gladness in the spring, and going away with sadness in the autumn. No two days are ever the same in nature, be them just days apart or from the same time of year a year ago.

So what about all those weeks between the end of June and now? More summer butterflies appeared not long after the common blue, big showy dark-green fritillaries, such strong flyers, and brown meadow browns on more buoyant wings bounced about the meadows. And scarce mountain butterflies, large heaths. More painted ladies, an exceptional year for them across the whole country. Brand new peacocks before July was out, thanks to those that made it through the winter. Only the odd sighting of oak top dwelling purple hairstreaks, the weather during their flight period has been awful, again, it can’t be doing the local population of this species any good. Over all, a very poor year for butterflies, in fact out of the seventeen years of monitoring butterflies here this is going to be the third or forth worst year on record.

Not a great year for dragons and damsels either, except for those fortunate enough to be on the wing in sunny June. I came across a golden ringed dragonfly, still attached to the grass stem that it had decided to cling to until the sun came again to warm it into mobility, only the sun hadn’t come again, instead cold heavy rain had pounded the vegetation and the insect down toward the wet ground and into water running off the hill. It was holding on to the grass stem, and to life, just. I helped it out of the water and moved it to where the wind might dry it out, but it would need the sun, and I don’t think it would have got any in time to save it. That encounter kind of summed up the summer for me.

Then came one of those surprises, a butterfly surprise that I would have missed had I walked to the shop down the road instead of across the field. Its weak flight (a characteristic weak flight) and its longish wings, and it just looking different, caught my eye. A closer look, marsh fritillary! Dashed back to the house for the camera, and found it again, a beauty. What was it doing here? I know that they are on neighbouring Mull, and Lismore, but I have not seen them or known of them being here before. It was quite pale and worn looking. Quite a flight for this species, if it had come from either of those nearest places, for they are weak flyers and don’t go far anyway, being a sedentary species, normally staying put. A rare species too, so I was pleased to see it. I later reported the sighting to the local moth and butterfly recorder and it was a first record for Morvern, so I was even more pleased.

(I couldn’t help thinking of the marsh fritillary as a thank you. I was given a tatty display case of pinned butterflies that must have been decades old some time ago. I had never had it on show; it lay in a cupboard in the dark, gathering dust. I didn’t want it, but didn’t want to throw it out either. So I decided that I’d let them go, the butterflies. Years went by until last year I finally got round to it. One sunny afternoon I took the box down onto the meadow below the house, and opened it up. I tried to carefully remove the pin from the first butterfly, but its body just turned to dust between my fingers. Its wings though, caught in the breeze, blew about the inside of the display case as though wanting out, so I turned the box on its side and the wind took them, and the butterflies wings flew once more, for one last time, settling among the grasses and flowers looking beautiful again in the sun. The rest went the same way, free at last and where they belong, in the sun and open air. It was around about that spot that I found the marsh fritillary)

That same day, in the afternoon, another surprise, a magnificent great northern diver on a fresh water loch, what was it doing here, in June? Many winter around our shores, but only a few stay for the summer. A species out of place, or rather in the right place at the wrong time (although they do prefer the sea around here to fresh water). But think of the bird not as a species but as an individual, what is its story? Where did it hatch out of the egg, Iceland, Greenland? How many summers has it spent in those northern climes among snowy owls, gyr falcons and arctic foxes? What extreme weather has it been through at sea wintering around the coasts of Scotland and northern Scandinavia? What’s it like, great northern diver, diving beneath the waves to chase and catch fish and search for molluscs on the sea bed?

There have been three jays around about the woods of Morvern for a few years now, but only this year did they find there way into the wood above the loch where they spent most of the summer, and it was nice to hear their harsh calls and glimpse their creamy pink and black and white and blue plumes through the oak trees now and then, reminding me of home. But my days out in the woods and on the hills during this summer have been fewer than I would have liked. Although just one or many, they are all special in some way, there is always something to remember. A flight of Golden plover lit by the sun shining through lifting cloud on a mountain top, and the sudden view, familiar, yet in that instant after seeing nothing but white mist for hours, stunning, taking my breath away. And quietly sitting, watching, tired after play, like a puppy dog, all thick legs and fluff, fox cub, out on the grass among the boulders of its mountain home. (Yes, that lady fox did have cubs). How will your story go little fox, good luck.

I do love these cool, refreshing end of summer days, the autumn for me is a little bit sad in many ways, time to think about the seasons of the year, to wonder about how they are doing and how they will get on, all those birds and animals that you spent time with, to ponder about the coming winter, we are nearing an ending, but nature never comes to a stop. Just as the spinning world will bring us another day following a night it will after another winter spin another spring our way again next year… the merry pipits and skylarks will come back and bring it with them.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=21 Thu, 18 Jun 2009 15:08:12 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=21
And there they were, the very next day, which was one of those perfect glorious pristine dazzling May days, those spring butterflies I had been expecting before then, little green hairstreaks and orange pearl-bordered fritillaries, as new and perfect as all life appears in the Spring on a sunny day. And that never ceases to amaze me, after the cold and dark and wet of winter that things as bright and delicate and beautiful as a butterfly can come out of it. Not just butterflies, everything seems, is, so bright and fresh and new in spring, all the more so in May sunshine.

The green hairstreak will have spent almost ten long months in the chrysalis stage of its life cycle. The adult butterfly is on the wing usually from late April (late then this year) until late June here in the northwest, during this time the eggs are laid and the caterpillar will hatch and feed for about three short weeks before finding a place on the ground among stones or moss and leaves at the base of a tree or among the leaves of its larval host plant where it will then spend those long months in its protective chrysalis.

Pearl-bordered fritillaries spend the winter, and the summer and the autumn, eleven months altogether, as a caterpillar. It is therefore, here in the northwest anyway, a truly spring butterfly, coming out of hibernation in the early spring to feed on the leaves of violets and to bask in the sun for a short while before becoming a chrysalis, emerging as an adult butterfly usually in early May. They are on the wing also into mid June. Just for those six weeks or so of spring are these two butterflies butterflies.

How can we take for granted something as amazing and magical as that transformation that occurs from a caterpillar into a butterfly? How can any one not be in awe of nature.

As I walk into a place of nature, say a wood, whatever I had in my head, which is all too often far too much, and whatever purpose I have ahead of me, nature soon has cast her spell and all becomes only what is there, nothing more, as I wander in wonder, the calm and peace of nature replaces all thoughts and all sense of self, you are in the wood and the wood is in you, there is nothing else, just the here and now of nature. How can anyone not feel and benefit from being enveloped in natures peace. It is like a drug, and it is the only drug that I need. All those voices and pictures in your head, all of our self made worries and trivial concerns and desires are replaced, gone, all of your senses are gently assailed by all that is there, the wood, the trees, bird song, the song of streams, the songs of the trees. All that you can see is within the wood, and all of the wood is within you. And it is the same if on the side of a mountain, or on the bank of a river, or by the sea.

I wrote of how quickly the spring passes, and that has been so again this year. I was out today, it was blustery, with showers. A clouds shadow raced across the field I was in, followed by the sun. The winter passes like that cloud, as quickly, and the spring follows like the sun that came after it. And another cloud will see the sun on its way as quickly again, and so on.

It has been two seasons again, spring and at the same time summer. The freshness of spring, I always think, lasts until about now, the third week of June, then it is summer time truly. I have not yet seen that little gem of a summer butterfly, the common blue, when I do, I always know then that summer is here.

How can I write in a few short paragraphs what has gone on these past few weeks, how can I remember all that I’ve seen, I can’t. May was as the rest of the spring has been, unsettled. But all that is needed for May to shine, and it does shine, it is as though all that bright new life and all the land and even the blue sky and white cloud had been polished, is the sun, and there were sunny days, just not strung together like last years May that was almost flawlessly blue and sunny throughout.

In the woods, as though made of May, made for May, bright green, white and yellow wood warblers. Males sing and perform fluttering song flights beneath the oak wood canopy. And what a song, sung in two parts, and I’m not sure which part I love the most. It has the most amazing loud sharp metallic pulsating trill that starts slowly and accelerates to a sudden end. Described in one guide book as being like a spinning coin on a marble slab, but I prefer the description a friend once gave it, which I can’t remember exactly , but it was something like that it is like a glass marble being dropped onto a mirror. This vibrant trill that the bird seems to put every fibre of its body into is followed by the softest, sadness sweetest series of whistled notes, like a kind of melancholy song of pleading, teoo-teoo-too-too-too-too. A true beauty of the oak wood. As is the more flamboyantly plumed redstart, brick red, jet black and smoke grey with a striking white eye stripe. Males sing from prominent song posts up on the wood roof, and although his song always starts the same, it always seems to end with a different flurry of notes. Wood warbler and redstart, two summer migrants.

A relative of the redstart, lichen grey, black and white, sings his scratchy song among the bouldery places and rocky slopes around the bases of the hills, high above the moors, wheatears. Here too, twite, little finches. And mountain wrens, and mountain pipits. And there, watching me, I see you, lady fox, have you cubs among the rocks, you did last year. High above on the mountains flat top, shylark rise higher still to sing in the sky, as they do. And nervous golden plover call out at you from prominent knolls, they want you to see them and hear them there, because that’s where they are, but not where their nest is.

On upland lochans, mallard and teal with broods of ducklings, noisy common sandpipers around the shores, common gulls sitting on tiny rock islet nests. And just this week, now the second week of June, what luck, what good timing, a greenshank mother with four tiny mobile chicks, perhaps just two or three days old, and I’d come especially to see them too, so was delighted. She stayed close to her brood, whilst the male was kept busy keeping out of his territory another pair of greenshank from a neighbouring lochan. Had they bred and failed? Whatever, they were making a nuisance of themselves. Lovely elegant vocal charismatic moorland waders, a favourite.

June then, and beautiful damsels and emerald dragons. Along sunny hill streams, in narrow river ravines, full of light, what was that, what are they, fluttering butterfly like, looking like…fairies? You might think so, and might like to think so, why not. But they are damselflies, the biggest we have in this country, beautiful demoiselles. The males are the most amazing dark blue colour, and have an amazing metallic sheen. Females are equally spectacular, but are a metallic green. And the dragons…rare northern emerald dragonflies, I see just a few each year, and some years none at all, so it is nice when you go out looking for them and find them. There are other dragonflies on the wing, four-spotted chasers, and golden ringed, and keeled skimmers – the males a lovely pale blue. And other damsels too, large red and common blue. But fewer this year, a poor year for both them and butterflies, a poor spring any way, a late spring.

The weather has been better this month so far, though with some very heavy down pours – how did that mother greenshank manage to shelter her little brood, how do butterflies and delicate damsels survive in such weather? Otherwise much more sunshine.

There are now young birds everywhere, some you see and hear more of than others. Noisy starlings join together and fly about as one big family, they have had a good year in the village. There are families of blue tit and great tit about, and I have seen the young of both on their own and independent already. Before long they will band together along with the young of other species and roam about in big groups for the rest of the summer and into the autumn. Mother eiders in twos and threes herd their fluffy brown youngsters into big crèches, I’m always amazed to see these plucky little ducklings diving at such a young age. A fine female goosander led her brood away from the lochshore when I came across her suddenly, nine pretty babies, that also disappeared under the water when their parent dived.

The singing is almost over again, the sparrows outside our window at 4am or earlier…chip-chup-chirp-chup-chup-chip-chip-churp-chirp…and so on and on and on and on, they have gone quiet, as have most other birds, and all will by the end of this month.

What else…a rare bird, maybe two, with a lovely song that drew attention to it being here, male scarlet rosefinch. One spent ten days or so in and around the village, with another, or the same bird, about four miles away. A pair of black throated divers, they are really handsome graceful birds, perhaps they bred and failed, and are down from their breeding loch early. An otter along a sparkling sea shore, and sea eagles, one along the same shore putting up the gulls, and two adults up in the blue one afternoon.

So, spring has gone again, almost, and summer is here, just about. One season again, for just a few weeks, that’s all. There are summer butterflies on the wing, small pearl-bordered fritillaries, small heath, with others to come soon, like meadow brown and dark-green fritillaries, among others (though not yet any common blues), and spring butterflies are almost at an end. And there have been many painted ladies too, a good year for them throughout Britain.

The rush is almost over, though not for all, some birds are still building their first nests, like house martins, that were late, but for most the rush is over. It will settle down now as we drift into the fullness of summer. If a year were a day, then it is mid day, and we are heading into the early afternoon, summer is like that time of the day.]]>
And there they were, the very next day, which was one of those perfect glorious pristine dazzling May days, those spring butterflies I had been expecting before then, little green hairstreaks and orange pearl-bordered fritillaries, as new and perfect as all life appears in the Spring on a sunny day. And that never ceases to amaze me, after the cold and dark and wet of winter that things as bright and delicate and beautiful as a butterfly can come out of it. Not just butterflies, everything seems, is, so bright and fresh and new in spring, all the more so in May sunshine.

The green hairstreak will have spent almost ten long months in the chrysalis stage of its life cycle. The adult butterfly is on the wing usually from late April (late then this year) until late June here in the northwest, during this time the eggs are laid and the caterpillar will hatch and feed for about three short weeks before finding a place on the ground among stones or moss and leaves at the base of a tree or among the leaves of its larval host plant where it will then spend those long months in its protective chrysalis.

Pearl-bordered fritillaries spend the winter, and the summer and the autumn, eleven months altogether, as a caterpillar. It is therefore, here in the northwest anyway, a truly spring butterfly, coming out of hibernation in the early spring to feed on the leaves of violets and to bask in the sun for a short while before becoming a chrysalis, emerging as an adult butterfly usually in early May. They are on the wing also into mid June. Just for those six weeks or so of spring are these two butterflies butterflies.

How can we take for granted something as amazing and magical as that transformation that occurs from a caterpillar into a butterfly? How can any one not be in awe of nature.

As I walk into a place of nature, say a wood, whatever I had in my head, which is all too often far too much, and whatever purpose I have ahead of me, nature soon has cast her spell and all becomes only what is there, nothing more, as I wander in wonder, the calm and peace of nature replaces all thoughts and all sense of self, you are in the wood and the wood is in you, there is nothing else, just the here and now of nature. How can anyone not feel and benefit from being enveloped in natures peace. It is like a drug, and it is the only drug that I need. All those voices and pictures in your head, all of our self made worries and trivial concerns and desires are replaced, gone, all of your senses are gently assailed by all that is there, the wood, the trees, bird song, the song of streams, the songs of the trees. All that you can see is within the wood, and all of the wood is within you. And it is the same if on the side of a mountain, or on the bank of a river, or by the sea.

I wrote of how quickly the spring passes, and that has been so again this year. I was out today, it was blustery, with showers. A clouds shadow raced across the field I was in, followed by the sun. The winter passes like that cloud, as quickly, and the spring follows like the sun that came after it. And another cloud will see the sun on its way as quickly again, and so on.

It has been two seasons again, spring and at the same time summer. The freshness of spring, I always think, lasts until about now, the third week of June, then it is summer time truly. I have not yet seen that little gem of a summer butterfly, the common blue, when I do, I always know then that summer is here.

How can I write in a few short paragraphs what has gone on these past few weeks, how can I remember all that I’ve seen, I can’t. May was as the rest of the spring has been, unsettled. But all that is needed for May to shine, and it does shine, it is as though all that bright new life and all the land and even the blue sky and white cloud had been polished, is the sun, and there were sunny days, just not strung together like last years May that was almost flawlessly blue and sunny throughout.

In the woods, as though made of May, made for May, bright green, white and yellow wood warblers. Males sing and perform fluttering song flights beneath the oak wood canopy. And what a song, sung in two parts, and I’m not sure which part I love the most. It has the most amazing loud sharp metallic pulsating trill that starts slowly and accelerates to a sudden end. Described in one guide book as being like a spinning coin on a marble slab, but I prefer the description a friend once gave it, which I can’t remember exactly , but it was something like that it is like a glass marble being dropped onto a mirror. This vibrant trill that the bird seems to put every fibre of its body into is followed by the softest, sadness sweetest series of whistled notes, like a kind of melancholy song of pleading, teoo-teoo-too-too-too-too. A true beauty of the oak wood. As is the more flamboyantly plumed redstart, brick red, jet black and smoke grey with a striking white eye stripe. Males sing from prominent song posts up on the wood roof, and although his song always starts the same, it always seems to end with a different flurry of notes. Wood warbler and redstart, two summer migrants.

A relative of the redstart, lichen grey, black and white, sings his scratchy song among the bouldery places and rocky slopes around the bases of the hills, high above the moors, wheatears. Here too, twite, little finches. And mountain wrens, and mountain pipits. And there, watching me, I see you, lady fox, have you cubs among the rocks, you did last year. High above on the mountains flat top, shylark rise higher still to sing in the sky, as they do. And nervous golden plover call out at you from prominent knolls, they want you to see them and hear them there, because that’s where they are, but not where their nest is.

On upland lochans, mallard and teal with broods of ducklings, noisy common sandpipers around the shores, common gulls sitting on tiny rock islet nests. And just this week, now the second week of June, what luck, what good timing, a greenshank mother with four tiny mobile chicks, perhaps just two or three days old, and I’d come especially to see them too, so was delighted. She stayed close to her brood, whilst the male was kept busy keeping out of his territory another pair of greenshank from a neighbouring lochan. Had they bred and failed? Whatever, they were making a nuisance of themselves. Lovely elegant vocal charismatic moorland waders, a favourite.

June then, and beautiful damsels and emerald dragons. Along sunny hill streams, in narrow river ravines, full of light, what was that, what are they, fluttering butterfly like, looking like…fairies? You might think so, and might like to think so, why not. But they are damselflies, the biggest we have in this country, beautiful demoiselles. The males are the most amazing dark blue colour, and have an amazing metallic sheen. Females are equally spectacular, but are a metallic green. And the dragons…rare northern emerald dragonflies, I see just a few each year, and some years none at all, so it is nice when you go out looking for them and find them. There are other dragonflies on the wing, four-spotted chasers, and golden ringed, and keeled skimmers – the males a lovely pale blue. And other damsels too, large red and common blue. But fewer this year, a poor year for both them and butterflies, a poor spring any way, a late spring.

The weather has been better this month so far, though with some very heavy down pours – how did that mother greenshank manage to shelter her little brood, how do butterflies and delicate damsels survive in such weather? Otherwise much more sunshine.

There are now young birds everywhere, some you see and hear more of than others. Noisy starlings join together and fly about as one big family, they have had a good year in the village. There are families of blue tit and great tit about, and I have seen the young of both on their own and independent already. Before long they will band together along with the young of other species and roam about in big groups for the rest of the summer and into the autumn. Mother eiders in twos and threes herd their fluffy brown youngsters into big crèches, I’m always amazed to see these plucky little ducklings diving at such a young age. A fine female goosander led her brood away from the lochshore when I came across her suddenly, nine pretty babies, that also disappeared under the water when their parent dived.

The singing is almost over again, the sparrows outside our window at 4am or earlier…chip-chup-chirp-chup-chup-chip-chip-churp-chirp…and so on and on and on and on, they have gone quiet, as have most other birds, and all will by the end of this month.

What else…a rare bird, maybe two, with a lovely song that drew attention to it being here, male scarlet rosefinch. One spent ten days or so in and around the village, with another, or the same bird, about four miles away. A pair of black throated divers, they are really handsome graceful birds, perhaps they bred and failed, and are down from their breeding loch early. An otter along a sparkling sea shore, and sea eagles, one along the same shore putting up the gulls, and two adults up in the blue one afternoon.

So, spring has gone again, almost, and summer is here, just about. One season again, for just a few weeks, that’s all. There are summer butterflies on the wing, small pearl-bordered fritillaries, small heath, with others to come soon, like meadow brown and dark-green fritillaries, among others (though not yet any common blues), and spring butterflies are almost at an end. And there have been many painted ladies too, a good year for them throughout Britain.

The rush is almost over, though not for all, some birds are still building their first nests, like house martins, that were late, but for most the rush is over. It will settle down now as we drift into the fullness of summer. If a year were a day, then it is mid day, and we are heading into the early afternoon, summer is like that time of the day.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=20 Sun, 10 May 2009 19:18:30 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=20
Slow down, slow down, where’s it going, the spring, where did April go? But that’s always been the way of it, spring always was such a rush. That great green surging tide, that crashing wave, is suddenly there and before you know it the winter is no more, and its waters will spread out and remain for the summer, until they recede again in the autumn. No hanging about in the spring, all the growing and courting and singing and displaying and breeding and nesting has to be got on with. Male migrants arrive and straight away there they are singing for a mate, setting up territories. In come the females over whom and for the males will sing and fight, and then will court with. Then it’s on with it, building nests in between more singing to hold to and announce that this is now ‘our’ territory, and more courting and of course the all important romantic interludes…the result of which and before you know it there are young mouths to feed, everywhere, round the clock, parents rushing here and there, back and forth, back and forth, from dawn til dusk, day in day out, whilst all around the trees get greener, the grass and bracken thicker and taller, flowers come into bloom and go back again, their seeds ready to be sown in the summer and nourished in the autumn, ready for the spring of next year. It’s all such a dashing, mad rush, and it passes by so fast.

April was unsettled, but there was plenty of sunshine, and when the sun shines in April then the place to be is the woods, before the light is lost as the wood roof closes over in a few short weeks. Light that shines on woodland flowers and early butterflies. I said it before, but it is, it is a beautiful bright full of light month. And that bright, fresh new brilliant dazzling glittering time carries on throughout the following month of May.

And April showers, yes, and longer spells of rain, after one of these I went to see a waterfall, one that is not high and it doesn’t have much of a drop either, but the river suddenly takes a sharp right angled turn and the bed rock narrows and drops, through which all that water from the wider river above is forced. You can hear it and feel it a along way before you reach it, a very impressive roaring rumbling seething crashing thunderous rush of white water and splash and spray. There is that unnerving feeling, standing close by it, telling you to take a step back, it’s such an impressive force of nature. But April is not about rain, it’s about sunshine, and spring time.

Those on the move pipits, skylarks and pied wagtails were still on the move even towards the end of the month, and I was surprised to see skeins of geese north bound quite late in the month too. Migrants arrived pretty much when expected with none being especially early or late, although I didn’t see or hear wood warbler or redstart until early May. I don’t know when the sand martins and wheatears arrived, by the time I caught up with them they would already have been here a few days. Willow warblers were in on the 11th April, swallows on the 16th, tree pipit and common sandpiper the next day (the sandpipers straight away fighting over a stretch of lochshore), cuckoo on the 20th, grasshopper warbler 22nd, house martin 24th, whitethroat 26th, sedge warbler 28th, and redstart and wood warbler on May 2nd.

There doesn’t seem to be many swallows around as I write, I’m hoping there are more to come, and that the lack of them is to do with the last week of wet weather and quite cold temperatures, and not to do with the fact that a third of the old barn in which local birds breed has been knocked down and much of what remains boarded up. (The rest is to get knocked down later this year, where will they go next spring, a great shame, but who cares about a dozen pairs of swallows). Perhaps there are other migrants too that aren’t here in their full numbers yet, many birds are still on the move, moving through, pushing further north. Today, the 9th of May, I saw wheatear where you wouldn’t expect to see them, birds on the move, and in a field, where over the past couple of weeks I’ve been seeing and enjoying a few curlew that appear to be hanging around before moving on, a flock of around fifty whimbrel. Here in the northwest you will only see them in May and on their way south again in September, and actually you don’t see them, not often, but hear them instead and only high above, on passage. So that was quite a treat, a favourite bird too, even though I rarely see them. They are a favourite because of those high illusive calls, one of if not my very favourite bird call, evocative of the far north, a loud, clear, far carrying, fast rippling whistling pu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu, I love it. They all went up when a buzzard came down from the woods, and the sun was on their backs and their shadows sped across the green green May fields and over yellow gorse covered knolls, with the silver sea beyond as sunlit showers fell on distant black hills like showers of pearls, circling they came back to their field to resume their on route feeding. Nice to see you whimbrel, and very special to hear you again too. The curlew too have treated me to their stunning singing, is there any better? (18 whimbrel remained the next day)

Other birds still not there yet, greenshank, either lone males, or pairs courting around the edges of larger loch before heading up to their upland breeding lochans. Black-throated divers doing the same. And a yearling sparrowhawk, in and around the gardens and at the garden birds, (Including lots of siskins that don't appear until the late winter / early spring) you made it, made it through the winter, where did you go to spend it? What a predator she is, a stunning hunting bird. She nearly hit me once as I was about to step across the gap between the house and the shed, when through that gap she came like a bullet just a split second later and…well, no she would not have hit me, she can fly and chase birds at death defying speeds through gaps in the branches of trees narrower than that gap, what a bird. She’s gone now, where to?

Butterflies, not many yet, some peacocks but not as many as in some years after two poor summers in a row there were fewer to over winter and so fewer to make it through to the spring. I saw both the first speckled woods and green-veined whites on April 17th, but no other species yet, although I have had a report of a pearl-bordered fritillary, I do expect to see them the next time I’m in the woods on a sunny day, along with green hairstreak.

No dragonflies yet, but a few large red damselflies.

What became of the lapwing? Just the other night I heard one down on the meadow, but other than that I have not seen or heard them since that one arrived and began displaying back in March.

Yes, these first few days of May have been pretty miserable, very wet, quite cold, and very windy for the time of year. That poor little soaking wet fledgling sparrow, just out of its cosy nest the day before, sat there in the pouring rain, looking thoroughly miserable. Seriously though, such heavy and cold and prolonged spells of rain and wind at that stage in any birds life is life threatening, whether you’re a sparrow just out of a nest box, or an eaglet just out of the egg on a high and exposed nest on a crag.

But the forecast is for much better weather next week, I can’t wait, May, a glorious, stunning month.

What else…an otter seen close up on a fresh water loch was nice. A low, close golden eagle, a second or third year bird, flushed from a knoll as I crested a rise. A smart drake goosander flew away from the wood edge out over the loch, has he a mate on a nest in the trees somewhere? Eiders in a dazzling seaside bay ringed with coconut scented gorse, courting males and females with thier comical calls. And so much more, so much more. Those beautiful brilliant green spring trees and bright flowers, those bluebells, amazing, so blue, the woods and hills, and the spring sunshine, wonderful, beautiful, spring…don’t rush by too quickly, too soon. But today, an orchid! And orchids speak of summertime!]]>
Slow down, slow down, where’s it going, the spring, where did April go? But that’s always been the way of it, spring always was such a rush. That great green surging tide, that crashing wave, is suddenly there and before you know it the winter is no more, and its waters will spread out and remain for the summer, until they recede again in the autumn. No hanging about in the spring, all the growing and courting and singing and displaying and breeding and nesting has to be got on with. Male migrants arrive and straight away there they are singing for a mate, setting up territories. In come the females over whom and for the males will sing and fight, and then will court with. Then it’s on with it, building nests in between more singing to hold to and announce that this is now ‘our’ territory, and more courting and of course the all important romantic interludes…the result of which and before you know it there are young mouths to feed, everywhere, round the clock, parents rushing here and there, back and forth, back and forth, from dawn til dusk, day in day out, whilst all around the trees get greener, the grass and bracken thicker and taller, flowers come into bloom and go back again, their seeds ready to be sown in the summer and nourished in the autumn, ready for the spring of next year. It’s all such a dashing, mad rush, and it passes by so fast.

April was unsettled, but there was plenty of sunshine, and when the sun shines in April then the place to be is the woods, before the light is lost as the wood roof closes over in a few short weeks. Light that shines on woodland flowers and early butterflies. I said it before, but it is, it is a beautiful bright full of light month. And that bright, fresh new brilliant dazzling glittering time carries on throughout the following month of May.

And April showers, yes, and longer spells of rain, after one of these I went to see a waterfall, one that is not high and it doesn’t have much of a drop either, but the river suddenly takes a sharp right angled turn and the bed rock narrows and drops, through which all that water from the wider river above is forced. You can hear it and feel it a along way before you reach it, a very impressive roaring rumbling seething crashing thunderous rush of white water and splash and spray. There is that unnerving feeling, standing close by it, telling you to take a step back, it’s such an impressive force of nature. But April is not about rain, it’s about sunshine, and spring time.

Those on the move pipits, skylarks and pied wagtails were still on the move even towards the end of the month, and I was surprised to see skeins of geese north bound quite late in the month too. Migrants arrived pretty much when expected with none being especially early or late, although I didn’t see or hear wood warbler or redstart until early May. I don’t know when the sand martins and wheatears arrived, by the time I caught up with them they would already have been here a few days. Willow warblers were in on the 11th April, swallows on the 16th, tree pipit and common sandpiper the next day (the sandpipers straight away fighting over a stretch of lochshore), cuckoo on the 20th, grasshopper warbler 22nd, house martin 24th, whitethroat 26th, sedge warbler 28th, and redstart and wood warbler on May 2nd.

There doesn’t seem to be many swallows around as I write, I’m hoping there are more to come, and that the lack of them is to do with the last week of wet weather and quite cold temperatures, and not to do with the fact that a third of the old barn in which local birds breed has been knocked down and much of what remains boarded up. (The rest is to get knocked down later this year, where will they go next spring, a great shame, but who cares about a dozen pairs of swallows). Perhaps there are other migrants too that aren’t here in their full numbers yet, many birds are still on the move, moving through, pushing further north. Today, the 9th of May, I saw wheatear where you wouldn’t expect to see them, birds on the move, and in a field, where over the past couple of weeks I’ve been seeing and enjoying a few curlew that appear to be hanging around before moving on, a flock of around fifty whimbrel. Here in the northwest you will only see them in May and on their way south again in September, and actually you don’t see them, not often, but hear them instead and only high above, on passage. So that was quite a treat, a favourite bird too, even though I rarely see them. They are a favourite because of those high illusive calls, one of if not my very favourite bird call, evocative of the far north, a loud, clear, far carrying, fast rippling whistling pu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu, I love it. They all went up when a buzzard came down from the woods, and the sun was on their backs and their shadows sped across the green green May fields and over yellow gorse covered knolls, with the silver sea beyond as sunlit showers fell on distant black hills like showers of pearls, circling they came back to their field to resume their on route feeding. Nice to see you whimbrel, and very special to hear you again too. The curlew too have treated me to their stunning singing, is there any better? (18 whimbrel remained the next day)

Other birds still not there yet, greenshank, either lone males, or pairs courting around the edges of larger loch before heading up to their upland breeding lochans. Black-throated divers doing the same. And a yearling sparrowhawk, in and around the gardens and at the garden birds, (Including lots of siskins that don't appear until the late winter / early spring) you made it, made it through the winter, where did you go to spend it? What a predator she is, a stunning hunting bird. She nearly hit me once as I was about to step across the gap between the house and the shed, when through that gap she came like a bullet just a split second later and…well, no she would not have hit me, she can fly and chase birds at death defying speeds through gaps in the branches of trees narrower than that gap, what a bird. She’s gone now, where to?

Butterflies, not many yet, some peacocks but not as many as in some years after two poor summers in a row there were fewer to over winter and so fewer to make it through to the spring. I saw both the first speckled woods and green-veined whites on April 17th, but no other species yet, although I have had a report of a pearl-bordered fritillary, I do expect to see them the next time I’m in the woods on a sunny day, along with green hairstreak.

No dragonflies yet, but a few large red damselflies.

What became of the lapwing? Just the other night I heard one down on the meadow, but other than that I have not seen or heard them since that one arrived and began displaying back in March.

Yes, these first few days of May have been pretty miserable, very wet, quite cold, and very windy for the time of year. That poor little soaking wet fledgling sparrow, just out of its cosy nest the day before, sat there in the pouring rain, looking thoroughly miserable. Seriously though, such heavy and cold and prolonged spells of rain and wind at that stage in any birds life is life threatening, whether you’re a sparrow just out of a nest box, or an eaglet just out of the egg on a high and exposed nest on a crag.

But the forecast is for much better weather next week, I can’t wait, May, a glorious, stunning month.

What else…an otter seen close up on a fresh water loch was nice. A low, close golden eagle, a second or third year bird, flushed from a knoll as I crested a rise. A smart drake goosander flew away from the wood edge out over the loch, has he a mate on a nest in the trees somewhere? Eiders in a dazzling seaside bay ringed with coconut scented gorse, courting males and females with thier comical calls. And so much more, so much more. Those beautiful brilliant green spring trees and bright flowers, those bluebells, amazing, so blue, the woods and hills, and the spring sunshine, wonderful, beautiful, spring…don’t rush by too quickly, too soon. But today, an orchid! And orchids speak of summertime!]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=19 Sat, 04 Apr 2009 19:56:34 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=19
I can’t remember when in was, the end of February or the beginning of March, but winter had laid upon the mountains its deepest snow of the year, of the winter, and after it had fallen they were bathed in bright spring sunshine, and my breath was taken away, stunningly beautiful snowy hills and mountains. Hills, when covered in snow, become mountains, and hill walkers can play at being winter mountaineers on little hills, whereas the real thing, winter walking on real mountains is a very serious proposition. But I was content to gaze at them, big and small, and recall my own early spring forays into and onto snowy heights. (those little ones anyway)

Funny that, as the spring advances, that the winter often chooses then to unleash its harshest weather, as if not wanting to give up its hold and to put up a last fight before relenting inevitably. Even towards the end of March it turned cold with a biting northerly and frequent showers of hail and sleet with a dusting of fresh snow on the hills. Earlier in the month, blustery, squally showers were blown through on a north westerly which increased considerably as they came by. They were isolated, and brief, but savage. As one approached after dark one night, the lights suddenly went out, I had just a moment to think that surely we hadn’t run out of electricity all ready, and then there was an almighty explosion, just one big loud, very loud bang, not a rumble of thunder, but a great powerful boom, which was followed by the wind roaring all of a sudden and the hail lashing on the windows outside. But it soon passed, and all went quite again. But spring it is, spring it is.

Those earliest and cheeriest of spring migrants, skylarks, continue to move through in small loose flocks, followed by larger numbers and now by flocks of bouncing pipits, also on their way back to the hills. And on the hills, there are now a few skylark on territory, and one or two pipits to. And there are a few golden plover back on high ground again, performing that graceful, slow circling display on wings that aren’t really beating to keep the bird air born, but beating in a slow exaggerated way as the bird glides above its chosen piece of high plateaux, uttering that forlorn plaintive whistling ‘who-heee-oo…who-heee-oo…who-heee-oo’

I spent my first proper day back on the hills on a surprisingly warm mid March day. I was expecting the cool easterly to really bite on the tops, but it was as warm high up as down below. In every mountain pool, dozens and dozens of frogs, all with their heads above the water, croaking in the still, quiet mountain air. Amorous males and mating couples, how blissful must that warmth be to them after being frozen on the mountain all winter. I wondered as I descended through a small line of sunny south facing crags if I’d see the first of the mountain flowers to bloom, or was I too early…no, there they were, fresh and brand new, the perfect soft spring petals of purple saxifrage among the hard grey places of the hill, beautiful, and always nice to find and see, high mountain rockeries.

Down below on the grassy moor lay a long shallow lochan, and on it were six pure winter white whooper swans, winter birds lingering in the spring hills.

Groups of deer, hinds with last years calves, lay on the sunny side of the hill also enjoying that sun, their hardest time is almost at an end. Descending further and cresting a knoll, there below perched at the edge of a drop not far away, an immense sea eagle, what a sight! It opened its great spread of plumes and lifted easily into the blue on the breeze, it banked and went away without a single beat of those huge wings. Above the sunny woods, so full of light today, mewing buzzards with the sun on their backs, rising and falling in display. And in the woods, singing birds, a few, our residents that did not leave for the winter but stayed and saw it through, great tits, coal tits, robins, wrens, treecreepers, chaffinches, and mistle thrushes. And, the first butterlies of the year, peacocks, having made it through the cold months in some crevice in a tree or rocky place.

A lovely day that was.

On another day, things could not have been more different, pouring with rain the wood was silent and everything, even the rocks, appeared to be absolutely soaking wet, and you wonder how anything could live and survive there after weeks and months of cold wet winter weather. But all it takes is for the sun to shine at this time of the year, and that life appears, bright and beautiful, and with each sunny day more life will return to the woods and hills.

I have seen one or two peacock butterflies and it won’t be too long, a few weeks, before we see the first speckled woods. Big lumbering heavy with slumber bumbling bumble bees, so good to hear their buzzing in the spring, seek out spring blooms, and more and more of those appear everyday, bright and yellow as the sun celendines, softer pastel yellow primroses, dazzling gorse. A large willow, full of spring catkins was all a buzz with bees, providing them with pollen and nectar on what was quite a cold sunless afternoon.

Stags are now dropping their antlers, I found a nice seven pointer close to the village. They are a fine thing to find and hold in your hand, big and heavy, impressive. I keep the very finest ones. I often think, when holding and looking at an antler, about the blood that flowed into the antlers of the ancestors of today’s deer, and of how it would have beaten through their hearts as they ran in the great wild wood and above it on the open hill, away from chasing wolves, long but not so long ago.

A lone and extremely handsome black throated diver preened its perfect plumes on a large fresh water loch, waiting for a mate. They won’t breed here, but will court and pair up before heading off to breeding lochs elsewhere.

If there was any doubts about it being spring, then a singing chiff-chaff on the 21st of March soon layed them to rest, and the calls of north bound whooper swans flying through a sunlit drizzly shower one mild late March morning said the same thing. And so many other birds are singing it as well. I opened the door in the early evening as dusk descended, and my ears were set about by a nearby singing blackbird, what a voice! He brought a smile to my face. And above the darkening meadow, snipe drummed. How did that ever come about, for the two outer most tail feathers to have become twisted so that as the bird dives they throb and produce that amazing rapid thrumming sound.

There will be so much going on that we don’t see, birds building nests and sitting hidden on them, hatching butterfly and moth larva, emerging dragonflies, flowers coming into bloom, trees into leaf, pine martins, foxes and otters with young in dens, (holts in the case of otters, and the timing of when their young are born is not so clear cut, although it is usually sometime in the spring or summer) and so on, I’m always thinking I miss so much during the spring, but then if you put in the time and are quiet, and watch, then nature will reveal her secrets.

These next few weeks are the brightest of the year. Even in the heart of woodland before the buds burst and shade begins to cut out the light it is so bright during April, perhaps, along with May, the best months for being in the woods, when woodland flowers have the sun on them for a few weeks before the canopy closes over and the wood floor is dry and bracken free, yes, the oak woods of the north west are a joy in spring.

Any time now and over the coming weeks our summer migrants will come back in, the chiff-chaff is here already, and I would not be surprised to see to know that sand martin and wheatear were too. To think…swallows in a week or two!

Spring, a wonderful, thrilling time of year.

A brief update…more whooper swans north, along with skeins of grey geese and redwing. A singing blackcap on April 3rd. Many more brilliant yellow celendines and soft primroses have been joined by white wood anemone. And buds are appearing in the woods, everywhere, millions of points of brilliant brightest spring green, ready to burst open and spread and grow.]]>
I can’t remember when in was, the end of February or the beginning of March, but winter had laid upon the mountains its deepest snow of the year, of the winter, and after it had fallen they were bathed in bright spring sunshine, and my breath was taken away, stunningly beautiful snowy hills and mountains. Hills, when covered in snow, become mountains, and hill walkers can play at being winter mountaineers on little hills, whereas the real thing, winter walking on real mountains is a very serious proposition. But I was content to gaze at them, big and small, and recall my own early spring forays into and onto snowy heights. (those little ones anyway)

Funny that, as the spring advances, that the winter often chooses then to unleash its harshest weather, as if not wanting to give up its hold and to put up a last fight before relenting inevitably. Even towards the end of March it turned cold with a biting northerly and frequent showers of hail and sleet with a dusting of fresh snow on the hills. Earlier in the month, blustery, squally showers were blown through on a north westerly which increased considerably as they came by. They were isolated, and brief, but savage. As one approached after dark one night, the lights suddenly went out, I had just a moment to think that surely we hadn’t run out of electricity all ready, and then there was an almighty explosion, just one big loud, very loud bang, not a rumble of thunder, but a great powerful boom, which was followed by the wind roaring all of a sudden and the hail lashing on the windows outside. But it soon passed, and all went quite again. But spring it is, spring it is.

Those earliest and cheeriest of spring migrants, skylarks, continue to move through in small loose flocks, followed by larger numbers and now by flocks of bouncing pipits, also on their way back to the hills. And on the hills, there are now a few skylark on territory, and one or two pipits to. And there are a few golden plover back on high ground again, performing that graceful, slow circling display on wings that aren’t really beating to keep the bird air born, but beating in a slow exaggerated way as the bird glides above its chosen piece of high plateaux, uttering that forlorn plaintive whistling ‘who-heee-oo…who-heee-oo…who-heee-oo’

I spent my first proper day back on the hills on a surprisingly warm mid March day. I was expecting the cool easterly to really bite on the tops, but it was as warm high up as down below. In every mountain pool, dozens and dozens of frogs, all with their heads above the water, croaking in the still, quiet mountain air. Amorous males and mating couples, how blissful must that warmth be to them after being frozen on the mountain all winter. I wondered as I descended through a small line of sunny south facing crags if I’d see the first of the mountain flowers to bloom, or was I too early…no, there they were, fresh and brand new, the perfect soft spring petals of purple saxifrage among the hard grey places of the hill, beautiful, and always nice to find and see, high mountain rockeries.

Down below on the grassy moor lay a long shallow lochan, and on it were six pure winter white whooper swans, winter birds lingering in the spring hills.

Groups of deer, hinds with last years calves, lay on the sunny side of the hill also enjoying that sun, their hardest time is almost at an end. Descending further and cresting a knoll, there below perched at the edge of a drop not far away, an immense sea eagle, what a sight! It opened its great spread of plumes and lifted easily into the blue on the breeze, it banked and went away without a single beat of those huge wings. Above the sunny woods, so full of light today, mewing buzzards with the sun on their backs, rising and falling in display. And in the woods, singing birds, a few, our residents that did not leave for the winter but stayed and saw it through, great tits, coal tits, robins, wrens, treecreepers, chaffinches, and mistle thrushes. And, the first butterlies of the year, peacocks, having made it through the cold months in some crevice in a tree or rocky place.

A lovely day that was.

On another day, things could not have been more different, pouring with rain the wood was silent and everything, even the rocks, appeared to be absolutely soaking wet, and you wonder how anything could live and survive there after weeks and months of cold wet winter weather. But all it takes is for the sun to shine at this time of the year, and that life appears, bright and beautiful, and with each sunny day more life will return to the woods and hills.

I have seen one or two peacock butterflies and it won’t be too long, a few weeks, before we see the first speckled woods. Big lumbering heavy with slumber bumbling bumble bees, so good to hear their buzzing in the spring, seek out spring blooms, and more and more of those appear everyday, bright and yellow as the sun celendines, softer pastel yellow primroses, dazzling gorse. A large willow, full of spring catkins was all a buzz with bees, providing them with pollen and nectar on what was quite a cold sunless afternoon.

Stags are now dropping their antlers, I found a nice seven pointer close to the village. They are a fine thing to find and hold in your hand, big and heavy, impressive. I keep the very finest ones. I often think, when holding and looking at an antler, about the blood that flowed into the antlers of the ancestors of today’s deer, and of how it would have beaten through their hearts as they ran in the great wild wood and above it on the open hill, away from chasing wolves, long but not so long ago.

A lone and extremely handsome black throated diver preened its perfect plumes on a large fresh water loch, waiting for a mate. They won’t breed here, but will court and pair up before heading off to breeding lochs elsewhere.

If there was any doubts about it being spring, then a singing chiff-chaff on the 21st of March soon layed them to rest, and the calls of north bound whooper swans flying through a sunlit drizzly shower one mild late March morning said the same thing. And so many other birds are singing it as well. I opened the door in the early evening as dusk descended, and my ears were set about by a nearby singing blackbird, what a voice! He brought a smile to my face. And above the darkening meadow, snipe drummed. How did that ever come about, for the two outer most tail feathers to have become twisted so that as the bird dives they throb and produce that amazing rapid thrumming sound.

There will be so much going on that we don’t see, birds building nests and sitting hidden on them, hatching butterfly and moth larva, emerging dragonflies, flowers coming into bloom, trees into leaf, pine martins, foxes and otters with young in dens, (holts in the case of otters, and the timing of when their young are born is not so clear cut, although it is usually sometime in the spring or summer) and so on, I’m always thinking I miss so much during the spring, but then if you put in the time and are quiet, and watch, then nature will reveal her secrets.

These next few weeks are the brightest of the year. Even in the heart of woodland before the buds burst and shade begins to cut out the light it is so bright during April, perhaps, along with May, the best months for being in the woods, when woodland flowers have the sun on them for a few weeks before the canopy closes over and the wood floor is dry and bracken free, yes, the oak woods of the north west are a joy in spring.

Any time now and over the coming weeks our summer migrants will come back in, the chiff-chaff is here already, and I would not be surprised to see to know that sand martin and wheatear were too. To think…swallows in a week or two!

Spring, a wonderful, thrilling time of year.

A brief update…more whooper swans north, along with skeins of grey geese and redwing. A singing blackcap on April 3rd. Many more brilliant yellow celendines and soft primroses have been joined by white wood anemone. And buds are appearing in the woods, everywhere, millions of points of brilliant brightest spring green, ready to burst open and spread and grow.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=14 Tue, 24 Feb 2009 21:21:25 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=14
Although, as I write, it is as wintry as can be with heavy snow having fallen today and now tonight the temperatures plummet, that unstoppable tide that is spring is returning, and it started to do so, as it always does, even before January was out. And no matter what the winter throws at us between now and when that great rushing wave crashes in April and May, that tide will continue its advance, surging on milder days. It will have a battle with the remainder of the winter, as it always does, but winter will lose its grip, and has already had its day, that being its depths in November and December. As soon as those months are behind us by just a few days, it feels, appears and is brighter, and it gets brighter with each day that moves us nearer the sun. And although I love the peace and restfulness of the Autumn after that rushing busy time that goes on throughout the summer, I do also love the feeling of the coming spring, it’s a good feeling, felt inside, as though along with the creatures of the natural world around us that we were once a part, we too still feel and share their anticipation and excitement for warmer longer days, of renewed life and ease after the hardships of winter.

So who are on the front line of that advancing tide, taking on the winter before it is done and before perhaps it has been at its harshest. Delicate, too delicate you would think, and shy almost, but not afraid, very brave, though they do not lift their hanging petals to the sky, white as snow, beautiful brave snowdrops, saying very quietly in the coldest of colds, we are here and spring is to. Also saying it, but as loud as you like, song thrushes, they sing it out into and in the face of the cold air, along with storm cocks, or mistle thrushes, who prefer to sing on milder days it seems, and often in the rain, hence its other name. And other birds feel it and sing of its coming, great and coal tits, robins and greenfinches and chaffinches (who it seems need to tune up quietly before singing out loud) And starlings, and sparrows chatter and chatter, and even a yellowhammer, the very sound of summer, has had a song to sing already. And look how much higher that sun is, compared to just a few weeks ago, and feel its warmth out of the wind. And not only are birds singing, some, the sparrows, in the first week of February, have been in and out of their nest boxes on our house with nest material. Starlings too have been in their box on the chimney, claiming it as theirs again. Herons, the older, wiser ones, are up from the shore on to the meadows at pools, waiting for that feast of spring frogs. I saw frogs spawn on February 15th. But of all of the earliest sights and sounds of spring, for me, more than any other, the one sound I love to hear and the sight I love to see is that of returning skylarks in small cheerful north bound flocks, their churruping calls always lift my spirits, they, along with meadow pipits and pied wagtails, are the first returning birds of the spring. I’ve seen a few small bands of them, and they’re such a welcome sight. Other lovely spring birds to see and hear, a few golden plover in the fields above the sea, and welcome back lapwings, I hope you have a better season than the last two. They were absent for many years here, and then returned, had a couple of successful years, then two years in which they failed. All these birds may not be true summer migrants, like your swallows say, but they are returning spring birds nonetheless. Some birds are displaying, ravens fly in tandem display, the pair flying as one, following one anothers moves, who copies who I wonder? And a male sparrowhawk has been seen in display already. Yes, that tide is coming in fast.

Once again my forays out into the woods and hills or along the coast have been all too infrequent, but in just a few weeks I will be back on the reserve and so out most days, I can’t wait!

However, as I’ve said before, even going out for just a little while is worthwhile, always it is, always. And I’m forever in wonder at Morverns winter peace and beauty when out and about.

On one short outing through winter bare oak woodland I saw, what was it, a grand total of just six species of birds! Giving away its presence with its ‘tick-tick call, that most charismatic woodland bird, great spotted woodpecker, there he went on his bounding flight, out from this wood across the river valley to the wood on the other side. How well he must know the woods, the trees. Bursting from my feet, why don’t I ever see them first, woodcock, away they go through the trees. Against the brown winter hills and trees, grey with white wing flashes, quite a sight moving as one, (as are all large flocks of any bird) a big flock of at least a hundred wood pigeons. A few years ago you would be lucky to see one here. But that number is unusual even if they are regular here now. Up to the high wood edge, my favourite haunt where the tree line meets the open hill, and three birds above me, two ravens, calling, and, yes, a golden eagle, quite low and close. A young bird, perhaps in its second winter, still wearing its white tail band and wing flashes. It came closer overhead, to have to look. Perhaps it has learnt from seeing stalkers on the hill that there could be food in the offing in the form of a left carcass that fell in a place too difficult to get to and take away, a welcome boost for a hungry eagle in winter. Then it went away into the hills. Over the hill into the next wooded valley to my track back, along which, a robin. I admire robins that spend the winters ‘out there’, in the wild, instead of opting for the easier life of a garden robin. But robins, even out in the middle of nowhere, seem to seek you out, coming close and expectantly flicking their wings and tails at you as they do. Perhaps, long ago, robins in these wild woods associated with people who once lived and worked in and around them.

On another short walk by the sea on a very windy day, an otter, out in the rough water. Rough it was, but nevertheless the otter was, as they forever and always are, full of life, exuberant, playful, seemingly carefree and at one with its environment and the elements, always a joy to see and watch and to share moments with, however brief. Also out among the rolling waves, big and impressive great northern divers. Along the noisy shore, half a dozen ringed plovers and a dozen turnstone among the oystercatchers and a few curlew. And in a field backing the shore with the greylag geese, two pink footed geese. And in a small wood beside the sea - another favourite place, being among trees but being able to see and hear and smell the sea through the trees- a buzzard, watched perched among the smooth winter bare limbs of an ash tree. Silently it sat and gazed at the wood floor beneath it, not a breath of wind stirred its beautiful soft brown and cream plumes, and I thought, how perfectly at home that bird looks, and is. I imagined being it, being where it was, up there, seeing what it was seeing, and when it floated off through its woodland maze of twig and branch and bough as easily and effortlessly as we would take a few steps along a pavement, I imagined doing that too.

Today, February 20th, has been a lovely day, bright, sunny at times, with warm, yes warm sunshine and beautiful spring light. Winter, although still with us without a doubt, is approaching its end. It’s been over all a very good winter for us here, quite dry, not too many severe gales, with many cold bright sunny days. But I was thinking, a season, any season, is only the one for a very short time, just a few weeks, a couple of months at most. The rest of the time there are always two seasons on the go, like now, now it is winter, and it is spring.

Other things of note. The, or a, barn owl has been about again. Several impressive stags are hanging out close to the village, they do well here, better for them than on the open hill. The occasional sea eagle has been seen floating about. A dead weasel in the garden was a surprise. Redwings, in small flocks, have been singing that strange distant sounding song in chorus, altogether, a song very different from that sung by a single redwing. They sing like this, in pre-migration gatherings, in early spring, but not usually as early as this, it’s normally March and April that you hear them. A young sparrowhawk was seen briefly in the garden, to brief to tell if it was a male or a female. I’d like to think it was the young female I was seeing in the autumn, but impossible to say, but a youngster that has made it thus far through the winter any way, so well done to it.]]>
Although, as I write, it is as wintry as can be with heavy snow having fallen today and now tonight the temperatures plummet, that unstoppable tide that is spring is returning, and it started to do so, as it always does, even before January was out. And no matter what the winter throws at us between now and when that great rushing wave crashes in April and May, that tide will continue its advance, surging on milder days. It will have a battle with the remainder of the winter, as it always does, but winter will lose its grip, and has already had its day, that being its depths in November and December. As soon as those months are behind us by just a few days, it feels, appears and is brighter, and it gets brighter with each day that moves us nearer the sun. And although I love the peace and restfulness of the Autumn after that rushing busy time that goes on throughout the summer, I do also love the feeling of the coming spring, it’s a good feeling, felt inside, as though along with the creatures of the natural world around us that we were once a part, we too still feel and share their anticipation and excitement for warmer longer days, of renewed life and ease after the hardships of winter.

So who are on the front line of that advancing tide, taking on the winter before it is done and before perhaps it has been at its harshest. Delicate, too delicate you would think, and shy almost, but not afraid, very brave, though they do not lift their hanging petals to the sky, white as snow, beautiful brave snowdrops, saying very quietly in the coldest of colds, we are here and spring is to. Also saying it, but as loud as you like, song thrushes, they sing it out into and in the face of the cold air, along with storm cocks, or mistle thrushes, who prefer to sing on milder days it seems, and often in the rain, hence its other name. And other birds feel it and sing of its coming, great and coal tits, robins and greenfinches and chaffinches (who it seems need to tune up quietly before singing out loud) And starlings, and sparrows chatter and chatter, and even a yellowhammer, the very sound of summer, has had a song to sing already. And look how much higher that sun is, compared to just a few weeks ago, and feel its warmth out of the wind. And not only are birds singing, some, the sparrows, in the first week of February, have been in and out of their nest boxes on our house with nest material. Starlings too have been in their box on the chimney, claiming it as theirs again. Herons, the older, wiser ones, are up from the shore on to the meadows at pools, waiting for that feast of spring frogs. I saw frogs spawn on February 15th. But of all of the earliest sights and sounds of spring, for me, more than any other, the one sound I love to hear and the sight I love to see is that of returning skylarks in small cheerful north bound flocks, their churruping calls always lift my spirits, they, along with meadow pipits and pied wagtails, are the first returning birds of the spring. I’ve seen a few small bands of them, and they’re such a welcome sight. Other lovely spring birds to see and hear, a few golden plover in the fields above the sea, and welcome back lapwings, I hope you have a better season than the last two. They were absent for many years here, and then returned, had a couple of successful years, then two years in which they failed. All these birds may not be true summer migrants, like your swallows say, but they are returning spring birds nonetheless. Some birds are displaying, ravens fly in tandem display, the pair flying as one, following one anothers moves, who copies who I wonder? And a male sparrowhawk has been seen in display already. Yes, that tide is coming in fast.

Once again my forays out into the woods and hills or along the coast have been all too infrequent, but in just a few weeks I will be back on the reserve and so out most days, I can’t wait!

However, as I’ve said before, even going out for just a little while is worthwhile, always it is, always. And I’m forever in wonder at Morverns winter peace and beauty when out and about.

On one short outing through winter bare oak woodland I saw, what was it, a grand total of just six species of birds! Giving away its presence with its ‘tick-tick call, that most charismatic woodland bird, great spotted woodpecker, there he went on his bounding flight, out from this wood across the river valley to the wood on the other side. How well he must know the woods, the trees. Bursting from my feet, why don’t I ever see them first, woodcock, away they go through the trees. Against the brown winter hills and trees, grey with white wing flashes, quite a sight moving as one, (as are all large flocks of any bird) a big flock of at least a hundred wood pigeons. A few years ago you would be lucky to see one here. But that number is unusual even if they are regular here now. Up to the high wood edge, my favourite haunt where the tree line meets the open hill, and three birds above me, two ravens, calling, and, yes, a golden eagle, quite low and close. A young bird, perhaps in its second winter, still wearing its white tail band and wing flashes. It came closer overhead, to have to look. Perhaps it has learnt from seeing stalkers on the hill that there could be food in the offing in the form of a left carcass that fell in a place too difficult to get to and take away, a welcome boost for a hungry eagle in winter. Then it went away into the hills. Over the hill into the next wooded valley to my track back, along which, a robin. I admire robins that spend the winters ‘out there’, in the wild, instead of opting for the easier life of a garden robin. But robins, even out in the middle of nowhere, seem to seek you out, coming close and expectantly flicking their wings and tails at you as they do. Perhaps, long ago, robins in these wild woods associated with people who once lived and worked in and around them.

On another short walk by the sea on a very windy day, an otter, out in the rough water. Rough it was, but nevertheless the otter was, as they forever and always are, full of life, exuberant, playful, seemingly carefree and at one with its environment and the elements, always a joy to see and watch and to share moments with, however brief. Also out among the rolling waves, big and impressive great northern divers. Along the noisy shore, half a dozen ringed plovers and a dozen turnstone among the oystercatchers and a few curlew. And in a field backing the shore with the greylag geese, two pink footed geese. And in a small wood beside the sea - another favourite place, being among trees but being able to see and hear and smell the sea through the trees- a buzzard, watched perched among the smooth winter bare limbs of an ash tree. Silently it sat and gazed at the wood floor beneath it, not a breath of wind stirred its beautiful soft brown and cream plumes, and I thought, how perfectly at home that bird looks, and is. I imagined being it, being where it was, up there, seeing what it was seeing, and when it floated off through its woodland maze of twig and branch and bough as easily and effortlessly as we would take a few steps along a pavement, I imagined doing that too.

Today, February 20th, has been a lovely day, bright, sunny at times, with warm, yes warm sunshine and beautiful spring light. Winter, although still with us without a doubt, is approaching its end. It’s been over all a very good winter for us here, quite dry, not too many severe gales, with many cold bright sunny days. But I was thinking, a season, any season, is only the one for a very short time, just a few weeks, a couple of months at most. The rest of the time there are always two seasons on the go, like now, now it is winter, and it is spring.

Other things of note. The, or a, barn owl has been about again. Several impressive stags are hanging out close to the village, they do well here, better for them than on the open hill. The occasional sea eagle has been seen floating about. A dead weasel in the garden was a surprise. Redwings, in small flocks, have been singing that strange distant sounding song in chorus, altogether, a song very different from that sung by a single redwing. They sing like this, in pre-migration gatherings, in early spring, but not usually as early as this, it’s normally March and April that you hear them. A young sparrowhawk was seen briefly in the garden, to brief to tell if it was a male or a female. I’d like to think it was the young female I was seeing in the autumn, but impossible to say, but a youngster that has made it thus far through the winter any way, so well done to it.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=12 Fri, 02 Jan 2009 12:45:17 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=12
These December days are our shortest, but what days they’ve been, many of them anyway. Day long sunshine from the time the sun appears, to its setting, and what beautiful winter sun settings (and risings) we have had, the sun having crept along and kept low to the snowy southern horizon. Winter sun rises and sun sets are long lasting affairs, as the sun at this time of year crosses our north-western sky in a shallow arc, instead of jumping up into the sky and dropping at a steeper summer angle, appearing and disappearing quickly.

Bright, dazzling days, white and blue, ice, frost, snow, all lit by that winter sun. Not a breath of wind, and silence, except for the sigh of distant falls of water, the ebb and flow of the tide, the calls of curlew and geese, the cheery chatterings of sparrows enjoying the weak winter rays, of dawn and dusk robins, tick-ticking and even singing a few phrases. The tiny bells that those waxwings ring to keep in touch with one another, there were still half a dozen in and around the village until the middle of the month. And a starling, singing its full song of clicks and squeaks and whistles, along with very life like snippets and inserts and accurate impressions of the songs and calls of other birds, such as curlew, blackbird, and buzzard.

Perfect days, wherever you are, by the sea, at the estuary, in the woods, on the hill, yes, perfect days, in the depths of winter, and there’s just no one around!

My time in the woods and hills this month has been all too brief and infrequent. However, there are always rewards for getting out there, no matter how little time you have.

An Otter, that single animal seen several more times, hunting in water like glass, its dives and resurfacings and bubbles while under water the only things disturbing the stillness reflecting the sunlit yellow orchre coloured shoreline woods and snowy hills above and beyond. ( Where is that otter family? The mother and three cubs that a friend saw a couple of weeks ago. Just how small are the cubs? I’ll keep looking). Great northern divers, a welcome addition to our winter birdlife, frequenting sheltered coastal inlets and bays.

A couple of hours on a small hill separating two long glens…I have to say small hills have a lot going for them, you have all of what you would get from a day on a bigger hill, with half the effort! And these small remote and wild little known hills attract so very few people…one cold frosty pristine blue winters afternoon, when the hills were an amazing colour, almost like that of grazed skin, pink and raw, and the lower the sun became the darker and redder that winter glow became. Eagles that day, a distant sea eagle, and a closer second or third year golden eagle, soaring above the sunlit shoulder of a hill on which a heard of grazing red deer stood out clearly in the sharp light. And what light, so sharp, and those colours! It was as though the winter had breathed the frost upon the hills and the sun had polished it off, where it reached, that is. Where it didn’t, the frost remained.

Another hour spent walking along a track through a wooded gorge during another perfectly still quiet winters afternoon. The trees were sound asleep, so still and silent are the woods on such cold cold days, where in the shadows of the deep gorge ice encrusts the rocks about the falls of the burn like crytal. A few deer in the steep gorge woods, sheltering from the bitter open hill and catching the weak winter rays, more to eat here too, I’d say, wise deer. Just one robin seen, how do they cope out here, not the easy life of a garden robin. And what about the tiny wrens in such freezing weather.

Looking at the sunlit side of the gorge, my thoughts turned to the hidden life that lies there in the winter grasses and dead bracken, spring flowers and butterflies, waiting for warmer days to wake them and warm them into life, just like the trees, days that aren’t so far away.

Novembers and Decembers can be the darkest, drabbest greyest months of the year, but this year they have been dazzlingly bright and beautiful for the most part, but now they are behind us, and every new January day will be that bit brighter and lighter than the last, taking us towards new life and the spring.]]>
These December days are our shortest, but what days they’ve been, many of them anyway. Day long sunshine from the time the sun appears, to its setting, and what beautiful winter sun settings (and risings) we have had, the sun having crept along and kept low to the snowy southern horizon. Winter sun rises and sun sets are long lasting affairs, as the sun at this time of year crosses our north-western sky in a shallow arc, instead of jumping up into the sky and dropping at a steeper summer angle, appearing and disappearing quickly.

Bright, dazzling days, white and blue, ice, frost, snow, all lit by that winter sun. Not a breath of wind, and silence, except for the sigh of distant falls of water, the ebb and flow of the tide, the calls of curlew and geese, the cheery chatterings of sparrows enjoying the weak winter rays, of dawn and dusk robins, tick-ticking and even singing a few phrases. The tiny bells that those waxwings ring to keep in touch with one another, there were still half a dozen in and around the village until the middle of the month. And a starling, singing its full song of clicks and squeaks and whistles, along with very life like snippets and inserts and accurate impressions of the songs and calls of other birds, such as curlew, blackbird, and buzzard.

Perfect days, wherever you are, by the sea, at the estuary, in the woods, on the hill, yes, perfect days, in the depths of winter, and there’s just no one around!

My time in the woods and hills this month has been all too brief and infrequent. However, there are always rewards for getting out there, no matter how little time you have.

An Otter, that single animal seen several more times, hunting in water like glass, its dives and resurfacings and bubbles while under water the only things disturbing the stillness reflecting the sunlit yellow orchre coloured shoreline woods and snowy hills above and beyond. ( Where is that otter family? The mother and three cubs that a friend saw a couple of weeks ago. Just how small are the cubs? I’ll keep looking). Great northern divers, a welcome addition to our winter birdlife, frequenting sheltered coastal inlets and bays.

A couple of hours on a small hill separating two long glens…I have to say small hills have a lot going for them, you have all of what you would get from a day on a bigger hill, with half the effort! And these small remote and wild little known hills attract so very few people…one cold frosty pristine blue winters afternoon, when the hills were an amazing colour, almost like that of grazed skin, pink and raw, and the lower the sun became the darker and redder that winter glow became. Eagles that day, a distant sea eagle, and a closer second or third year golden eagle, soaring above the sunlit shoulder of a hill on which a heard of grazing red deer stood out clearly in the sharp light. And what light, so sharp, and those colours! It was as though the winter had breathed the frost upon the hills and the sun had polished it off, where it reached, that is. Where it didn’t, the frost remained.

Another hour spent walking along a track through a wooded gorge during another perfectly still quiet winters afternoon. The trees were sound asleep, so still and silent are the woods on such cold cold days, where in the shadows of the deep gorge ice encrusts the rocks about the falls of the burn like crytal. A few deer in the steep gorge woods, sheltering from the bitter open hill and catching the weak winter rays, more to eat here too, I’d say, wise deer. Just one robin seen, how do they cope out here, not the easy life of a garden robin. And what about the tiny wrens in such freezing weather.

Looking at the sunlit side of the gorge, my thoughts turned to the hidden life that lies there in the winter grasses and dead bracken, spring flowers and butterflies, waiting for warmer days to wake them and warm them into life, just like the trees, days that aren’t so far away.

Novembers and Decembers can be the darkest, drabbest greyest months of the year, but this year they have been dazzlingly bright and beautiful for the most part, but now they are behind us, and every new January day will be that bit brighter and lighter than the last, taking us towards new life and the spring.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=11 Wed, 26 Nov 2008 10:44:47 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=11
Yesterday, the 24th, was a perfectly still, sunny blue winters day. I spent a couple of hours down at the estuary at low tide, and came away thinking that winter days like these are as beautiful as any spring, summer or autumn day, and that winter as a season, has so much to offer. And it is so very quiet. OK, so we have some rough weather to contend with, but it’s worth putting up with for these sunny winter days, and anyway a wild winters day can be an experience, and impressive to, seeing the flood, the rivers and waterfalls in spate, and witnessing and feeling and hearing those high winds, such a powerful force of nature.

There was plenty to see, in lovely winter light. Winter wildfowl, a dozen handsome goosander, drakes and ducks, striking goldeneye in pairs, lots of gorgeous wigeon back in smart dress after their moult, and mallard.

Waders, at least one wintering greenshank, in pale winter plumage, what an elegant beauty. And curlew, whose evocative calls ring out across the stillness. Oystercatchers, normally quite a noisy bird, are quite quiet. A party of six turnstone and six ringed plover at another small tidal bay, where there were red-breasted merganser and eider.

Herons posed on exposed rocks and tree limbs, out in the mud and shallow water, as do cormorants, drying their wings. Shags hunted close inshore, along with several delightful little grebes, and a pair of graceful mute swans. Will we see any northern whooper swans, dropping in for a while? Also along the shore, a dipper, finding perhaps more food here than on the bed of a winter river.

Among the hoodie crows feeding along the shore, a single rook, which is unusual for here. Buzzards circling and perching in the lochshore trees. And a surprise on another sunny mid November afternoon on the track beside the loch at the wood edge, a peacock butterfly, warmed enough to come out for a fly about, perching on sunlit rocks, soaking up what warmth there is from the weak winter sun. On another day, a sea eagle was drifting above the lochshore woods, and out over the loch and estuary, looking for an opportunity.

During the first week of November, just before going away for a week, there were half a dozen waxwing in the village. Whilst I was away, I saw and other small flocks in villages in central Scotland, and when I came back our six had increased to twenty. They stayed for several days. It is always their calls that give them away, like the ringing of the tiniest of little bells. Always nice to see and hear them.

Other delights have been more long-tailed tits, and in the garden coal tits, real woodland spirits yet as much at home foraging on the ground as in a tall fur, pine or spruce, and several bright yellowhammers. The, or a, sparrowhawk, is still about, though is seen less often now. I wonder how the young female is getting on. A kestrel too has been about. A small band of bullfinch up in the forestry, and crossbills as well, their energetic 'chup-chup-chup' calls liven up the quiet winter woods.

The news though, for me anyway, is that a mother otter has been seen with three small cubs. I’m so pleased about this, having been in recent months and years a little concerned about how the otters are doing locally, having been seeing less of them. I’ve been out looking for this family, but no luck yet. If the cubs are very young then I guess they won’t be spending to long out of the halt, or venturing far from it. Also, their mother will be keeping them from danger, from predators, like that sea eagle, so she may only be out with them early and late. I’m looking forward to seeing them, which I will, in time, and going and being where they might be is a pleasure in itself.

The woods are full of light, and it’s good to be able to look at the sleeping sunlit winter trees again, having been in darkness and shadow all summer long, so silent, so still they stand. I’ve not been to the hills recently, but hope to before too long. I have had reports of snow buntings from up high, are they still on the move to the coast, or do they find enough food in these milder western hills in the winter months.]]>
Yesterday, the 24th, was a perfectly still, sunny blue winters day. I spent a couple of hours down at the estuary at low tide, and came away thinking that winter days like these are as beautiful as any spring, summer or autumn day, and that winter as a season, has so much to offer. And it is so very quiet. OK, so we have some rough weather to contend with, but it’s worth putting up with for these sunny winter days, and anyway a wild winters day can be an experience, and impressive to, seeing the flood, the rivers and waterfalls in spate, and witnessing and feeling and hearing those high winds, such a powerful force of nature.

There was plenty to see, in lovely winter light. Winter wildfowl, a dozen handsome goosander, drakes and ducks, striking goldeneye in pairs, lots of gorgeous wigeon back in smart dress after their moult, and mallard.

Waders, at least one wintering greenshank, in pale winter plumage, what an elegant beauty. And curlew, whose evocative calls ring out across the stillness. Oystercatchers, normally quite a noisy bird, are quite quiet. A party of six turnstone and six ringed plover at another small tidal bay, where there were red-breasted merganser and eider.

Herons posed on exposed rocks and tree limbs, out in the mud and shallow water, as do cormorants, drying their wings. Shags hunted close inshore, along with several delightful little grebes, and a pair of graceful mute swans. Will we see any northern whooper swans, dropping in for a while? Also along the shore, a dipper, finding perhaps more food here than on the bed of a winter river.

Among the hoodie crows feeding along the shore, a single rook, which is unusual for here. Buzzards circling and perching in the lochshore trees. And a surprise on another sunny mid November afternoon on the track beside the loch at the wood edge, a peacock butterfly, warmed enough to come out for a fly about, perching on sunlit rocks, soaking up what warmth there is from the weak winter sun. On another day, a sea eagle was drifting above the lochshore woods, and out over the loch and estuary, looking for an opportunity.

During the first week of November, just before going away for a week, there were half a dozen waxwing in the village. Whilst I was away, I saw and other small flocks in villages in central Scotland, and when I came back our six had increased to twenty. They stayed for several days. It is always their calls that give them away, like the ringing of the tiniest of little bells. Always nice to see and hear them.

Other delights have been more long-tailed tits, and in the garden coal tits, real woodland spirits yet as much at home foraging on the ground as in a tall fur, pine or spruce, and several bright yellowhammers. The, or a, sparrowhawk, is still about, though is seen less often now. I wonder how the young female is getting on. A kestrel too has been about. A small band of bullfinch up in the forestry, and crossbills as well, their energetic 'chup-chup-chup' calls liven up the quiet winter woods.

The news though, for me anyway, is that a mother otter has been seen with three small cubs. I’m so pleased about this, having been in recent months and years a little concerned about how the otters are doing locally, having been seeing less of them. I’ve been out looking for this family, but no luck yet. If the cubs are very young then I guess they won’t be spending to long out of the halt, or venturing far from it. Also, their mother will be keeping them from danger, from predators, like that sea eagle, so she may only be out with them early and late. I’m looking forward to seeing them, which I will, in time, and going and being where they might be is a pleasure in itself.

The woods are full of light, and it’s good to be able to look at the sleeping sunlit winter trees again, having been in darkness and shadow all summer long, so silent, so still they stand. I’ve not been to the hills recently, but hope to before too long. I have had reports of snow buntings from up high, are they still on the move to the coast, or do they find enough food in these milder western hills in the winter months.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=8 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 21:12:59 +0000 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=8
I will have to try, for now, to put into one or two brief paragraphs what I’ve seen these past few weeks.

First and foremost, the autumn colours, stunning, breathtaking, what a beautiful season. Weather wise, well just now it is cold, with frosty star filled nights, a dusting of snow on the hills, and sunny crisp blue days. We’ve also had our first real autumn gales, yes the wind was very strong, but we’ve had much stronger in the past, and will again, this winter? Time will tell. I quite like these impressive winds.

And wildlife…a report of two otters, thought to be youngsters, interacting with a seal around a small tidal islet, and I’ve seen an individual on several occasions along the shore of the estuary. I’ve not been close enough to it yet having watched it from the opposite lochshore, to see if it is a dog or a bitch, young or mature. Also on the estuary, wintering wigeon numbers are increasing, there are more curlew and oystercatcher, lovely little grebes, elegant greenshank, a storm driven guillemot in from the open sea, and a sea eagle, again chased by gulls, do they ever get any peace. On another day, another close sea eagle, perched on shoreline rocks close to the coast road (and I couldn’t stop for long enough to watch it)

I’ve not seen or heard any south bound geese, but have seen two small groups of whooper swans, every thing about them is speaks of the wild north. Have also seen a couple of very fine female hen harriers, quartering the meadows close to the village, lit by late afternoon early winter light, as impressive in flight as any bird of prey in that very different harrier way, that being slow and graceful, with however an amazing turn of speed. Lots more redwing, and very recently the first fieldfare, with several larger flocks just today, flying against a very beautiful, cold wintry sunset over the sea. I love seeing these winter thrushes, especially the fieldfares, their plumes of white and grey, ochre and rust are so fitting for the time of year, and it really is as though they bring with them the winter. What else…I’ve seen groups of long tailed tits, the most charming of little birds moving about in merry bands, on they go, follow the leader, and they do, as though attached by a fine un-seen thread from which they cannot break, keeping them together wherever they go, and keeping in touch with thin ‘see see see’ calls. And on a wild wet, windy night, where are they? I’d love to know. Also, a fine roe buck among yellow leaved hazels, stood staring for those few moments when it wonders if it has been seen, has its stillness kept it hidden, I stared back, and it moved away, slowly, disappearing into its very beautiful hazel wood home. It’s nice to see sunshine and light in the woods again after they have been dark all summer

Beauty at every turn, nature provides my soul with all that it needs. And peace and quiet, profound peace and quiet.]]>
I will have to try, for now, to put into one or two brief paragraphs what I’ve seen these past few weeks.

First and foremost, the autumn colours, stunning, breathtaking, what a beautiful season. Weather wise, well just now it is cold, with frosty star filled nights, a dusting of snow on the hills, and sunny crisp blue days. We’ve also had our first real autumn gales, yes the wind was very strong, but we’ve had much stronger in the past, and will again, this winter? Time will tell. I quite like these impressive winds.

And wildlife…a report of two otters, thought to be youngsters, interacting with a seal around a small tidal islet, and I’ve seen an individual on several occasions along the shore of the estuary. I’ve not been close enough to it yet having watched it from the opposite lochshore, to see if it is a dog or a bitch, young or mature. Also on the estuary, wintering wigeon numbers are increasing, there are more curlew and oystercatcher, lovely little grebes, elegant greenshank, a storm driven guillemot in from the open sea, and a sea eagle, again chased by gulls, do they ever get any peace. On another day, another close sea eagle, perched on shoreline rocks close to the coast road (and I couldn’t stop for long enough to watch it)

I’ve not seen or heard any south bound geese, but have seen two small groups of whooper swans, every thing about them is speaks of the wild north. Have also seen a couple of very fine female hen harriers, quartering the meadows close to the village, lit by late afternoon early winter light, as impressive in flight as any bird of prey in that very different harrier way, that being slow and graceful, with however an amazing turn of speed. Lots more redwing, and very recently the first fieldfare, with several larger flocks just today, flying against a very beautiful, cold wintry sunset over the sea. I love seeing these winter thrushes, especially the fieldfares, their plumes of white and grey, ochre and rust are so fitting for the time of year, and it really is as though they bring with them the winter. What else…I’ve seen groups of long tailed tits, the most charming of little birds moving about in merry bands, on they go, follow the leader, and they do, as though attached by a fine un-seen thread from which they cannot break, keeping them together wherever they go, and keeping in touch with thin ‘see see see’ calls. And on a wild wet, windy night, where are they? I’d love to know. Also, a fine roe buck among yellow leaved hazels, stood staring for those few moments when it wonders if it has been seen, has its stillness kept it hidden, I stared back, and it moved away, slowly, disappearing into its very beautiful hazel wood home. It’s nice to see sunshine and light in the woods again after they have been dark all summer

Beauty at every turn, nature provides my soul with all that it needs. And peace and quiet, profound peace and quiet.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=7 Wed, 08 Oct 2008 21:50:27 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=7
Due to having finished my contract as summer ranger on the Scottish Wildlife Trusts Rahoy Hills nature reserve in Morvern, and to other commitments since, I’ve not been out and about quite as much during these past two to three weeks as I would have liked. However, being here, in Morvern, means that you’re always going to see wildlife, even by just looking out of your window, or going to the shop, or whilst out working, in my case, delivering the post as relief postie.

We’ve had a mixed big of weather recently, sunshine and showers, sunny days and rainy days. But such varied weather makes for a varied picture, and often one of great beauty, with wonderful cloud scapes, sudden sunlight after rain, rainbows, low mist and cloud hanging about the hills. Add to this the increasingly colourful Autumn countryside and it all adds up to this being a very beautiful time of the year.

Autumn it is then, but there are one or two summer remnants still about. Probably the last butterflies of this year, unless we get a really settled spell, (an Indian summer would be nice) red admirals, but so few compared to some years, and these ones that I saw were not flying on a sunny October day, but during a mild and drizzly day, butterflies in the rain. And today, the 8th, two swallows, the first I have seen for nearly two weeks. Also, those big common hawker dragonflies may be seen even into early November, along with common darters.

What about winter visitors then, well, I’m surprised to have seen so few. No more than those three drake wigeon at the estuary, where on a very blustery day with frequent heavy showers, resting common and black headed gulls, facing into the cold strong northerly blow with their heads tucked round under their wings, kept getting blown and buffeted about, having to resettle and re-position themselves after each strong blast. I had to admire one of the several hunting herons there, that had found a sheltered spot behind a jumble of seaweed covered rock and tree bough out in the middle of the mud flats, poised to strike and unaffected by the strong wind. But no other winter wildfowl yet, or waders, other than curlew. Although at a bay along the sound, there was a lovely sunlit flight of a dozen turnstone in between summer and winter dress. Passage birds, or will they stay the winter?

I’ve not heard or seen any skeins of south bound geese yet, which is a surprise. A few redwings were in before the end of September, and more are being seen every day, along with mistle thrush. No fieldfare yet, but they were always a little later than redwing. I always used to think that the autumn movements of birds was something that you only saw on the east coast as birds arrive from Scandinavia, but over the years I’ve seen some quite spectacular flocks and movements of winter thrushes here. The majority of redwing that we see along the west coast of Scotland are in fact from Iceland, where as the fieldfare are from Scandinavia, mainly from Norway. Will we see a little later on, also coming from northern and eastern Europe and beyond, any waxwings this year?

Although most of those big mixed flocks of birds on the meadows have moved on, there is still the occasion pipit, and small charms of goldfinch, and there are still quite large numbers of chaffinch coming to the garden. Still plenty of food then for those young sparrowhawks, they will be learning that being around gardens is a good place for food, and they would do well to stay around them for the winter. I was scanning around with the binoculars from the upstairs window one day, and picked up a sparrowhawk, flying along and through a row of gardens. Into one tree it flew, scattering the small birds from within it, had it had any luck? No, out it came and on it flew, into the next tree, scattering more birds, and so on until it was lost from view. An opportunist, looking for that lucky strike, in quick and grab it if you can. On another day I watched another young sparrowhawk sparring with two hoodie crows, though I don’t know if the two crows were young birds. That same day I saw a kestrel hunting the high edge of a wooded cliff, along which an adult sea eagle flew.

It’s always worth having a look around, even if you don’t have very much time. Again, I was looking out the window when I noticed the wintering greylags rise from the fields across the other side of the loch. I was hoping they were going to fly this way and over the village, but they just circled and landed again. Then I saw why they had taken to the air, a golden eagle was flying quite low over the fields, heading along the side of the hill above the fields. Sometimes you can spend all day in the hills and not see an eagle, and then you can just see one like that, out of the blue in an unexpected place, right opposite the village.

But that’s the way it is with wildlife watching, always unpredictable, you never know what you might see, or where, or when, and that’s the beauty and enjoyment of it.

The red deer rut has been in full swing, with roaring stags all about the place. There have been signs of pine martins every where, they are enjoying the bountiful fruits and berries of the Autumn, as can be seen in their droppings. One has been in our garden, as has a young hedgehog, which I was delighted to see, although I do feel quite sad when I see them, for they are finding our warmer winters hard to deal with. If it’s mild then they may not hibernate, but there isn’t enough food to see them through a winter if they don’t.

Now, we’re waiting for our winter visitors to arrive, and I’m looking forward to seeing and watching them.]]>
Due to having finished my contract as summer ranger on the Scottish Wildlife Trusts Rahoy Hills nature reserve in Morvern, and to other commitments since, I’ve not been out and about quite as much during these past two to three weeks as I would have liked. However, being here, in Morvern, means that you’re always going to see wildlife, even by just looking out of your window, or going to the shop, or whilst out working, in my case, delivering the post as relief postie.

We’ve had a mixed big of weather recently, sunshine and showers, sunny days and rainy days. But such varied weather makes for a varied picture, and often one of great beauty, with wonderful cloud scapes, sudden sunlight after rain, rainbows, low mist and cloud hanging about the hills. Add to this the increasingly colourful Autumn countryside and it all adds up to this being a very beautiful time of the year.

Autumn it is then, but there are one or two summer remnants still about. Probably the last butterflies of this year, unless we get a really settled spell, (an Indian summer would be nice) red admirals, but so few compared to some years, and these ones that I saw were not flying on a sunny October day, but during a mild and drizzly day, butterflies in the rain. And today, the 8th, two swallows, the first I have seen for nearly two weeks. Also, those big common hawker dragonflies may be seen even into early November, along with common darters.

What about winter visitors then, well, I’m surprised to have seen so few. No more than those three drake wigeon at the estuary, where on a very blustery day with frequent heavy showers, resting common and black headed gulls, facing into the cold strong northerly blow with their heads tucked round under their wings, kept getting blown and buffeted about, having to resettle and re-position themselves after each strong blast. I had to admire one of the several hunting herons there, that had found a sheltered spot behind a jumble of seaweed covered rock and tree bough out in the middle of the mud flats, poised to strike and unaffected by the strong wind. But no other winter wildfowl yet, or waders, other than curlew. Although at a bay along the sound, there was a lovely sunlit flight of a dozen turnstone in between summer and winter dress. Passage birds, or will they stay the winter?

I’ve not heard or seen any skeins of south bound geese yet, which is a surprise. A few redwings were in before the end of September, and more are being seen every day, along with mistle thrush. No fieldfare yet, but they were always a little later than redwing. I always used to think that the autumn movements of birds was something that you only saw on the east coast as birds arrive from Scandinavia, but over the years I’ve seen some quite spectacular flocks and movements of winter thrushes here. The majority of redwing that we see along the west coast of Scotland are in fact from Iceland, where as the fieldfare are from Scandinavia, mainly from Norway. Will we see a little later on, also coming from northern and eastern Europe and beyond, any waxwings this year?

Although most of those big mixed flocks of birds on the meadows have moved on, there is still the occasion pipit, and small charms of goldfinch, and there are still quite large numbers of chaffinch coming to the garden. Still plenty of food then for those young sparrowhawks, they will be learning that being around gardens is a good place for food, and they would do well to stay around them for the winter. I was scanning around with the binoculars from the upstairs window one day, and picked up a sparrowhawk, flying along and through a row of gardens. Into one tree it flew, scattering the small birds from within it, had it had any luck? No, out it came and on it flew, into the next tree, scattering more birds, and so on until it was lost from view. An opportunist, looking for that lucky strike, in quick and grab it if you can. On another day I watched another young sparrowhawk sparring with two hoodie crows, though I don’t know if the two crows were young birds. That same day I saw a kestrel hunting the high edge of a wooded cliff, along which an adult sea eagle flew.

It’s always worth having a look around, even if you don’t have very much time. Again, I was looking out the window when I noticed the wintering greylags rise from the fields across the other side of the loch. I was hoping they were going to fly this way and over the village, but they just circled and landed again. Then I saw why they had taken to the air, a golden eagle was flying quite low over the fields, heading along the side of the hill above the fields. Sometimes you can spend all day in the hills and not see an eagle, and then you can just see one like that, out of the blue in an unexpected place, right opposite the village.

But that’s the way it is with wildlife watching, always unpredictable, you never know what you might see, or where, or when, and that’s the beauty and enjoyment of it.

The red deer rut has been in full swing, with roaring stags all about the place. There have been signs of pine martins every where, they are enjoying the bountiful fruits and berries of the Autumn, as can be seen in their droppings. One has been in our garden, as has a young hedgehog, which I was delighted to see, although I do feel quite sad when I see them, for they are finding our warmer winters hard to deal with. If it’s mild then they may not hibernate, but there isn’t enough food to see them through a winter if they don’t.

Now, we’re waiting for our winter visitors to arrive, and I’m looking forward to seeing and watching them.]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=6 Sat, 04 Oct 2008 21:12:27 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=6
We are once again enjoying a settled spell of calm sunny September weather, and the countryside is looking stunningly beautiful in colourful early autumn shades and lovely crisp light. This past couple of weeks however have been rather unsettled, with grey skies and rain, and we had our first autumn gale. During these wild windy nights (rest assured there will be much much wilder windier nights to come) I often wonder how nature is coping, and where it all is. Where, for example, are all the little birds? Where do they go? Sometimes it absolutely pours with rain, driven on by extremely strong winds. Yet, the next morning, there they are, neat feathers all in place, looking smart and bright and as if the wild night never happened. Where does the young sparrowhawk spend its nights? And on which crag or isolated mountain ash will the eagles choose to sit out their savage mountain nights. Nature’s secrets that we will never get to see.

On a ferry crossing to Oban two days after the gale there were quite a few gannets in the sound, and a manx shearwater, two great sea birds, the later not often seen in the sound, but most likely to be seen after these strong Autumn winds.

After the grey wet spell of weather I grabbed the first sunny day for the hills. There are still meadow pipits about, although for most of the day I saw and heard none. (And I’m seeing far fewer on lowland fields and meadows, most of those big flocks have continued on their way) Flushed just one skylark, it too will head south. Three twite along a long hill crag, nice little hill finches, and a kestrel, and a hill top snipe flushed from a wet pool. A fleeting golden eagle disappeared over the skyline. That’s often the way with golden eagles, either that or you watch them for ages and ages, and ages, and you keep watching, because you never know what they might do. Two ravens circled up into the blue above the hill, uttering the occasional raven croak. I kept looking to see where they were from time to time, and found them together with a sub-adult sea eagle. Normally, ravens will call in a repetitive alarmed and characteristically annoyed agitated and angry manner when they are seeing off eagles, but these two weren’t that bothered by the eagle, and were unusually quiet, perhaps because the breeding season is over and the ravens no longer have vulnerable young to protect. One of the ravens though, did chase the big bird on its way for quite a distance before returning with a casual been there done it all before look about it.

I was wondering about the red deer rut, had it started? I had heard the occasion after dark roar from stags close to the village recently, and heard a couple of stags occasionally on my way to the hill top. What I found was that yes, the rut was certainly underway, but was not yet in full swing. The group of around forty stags were no longer together, and there were many more, twice the number, of hinds and yearling calves in the big corrie to what there was three weeks ago. There were several large groups of between twenty and thirty hinds with their calves, and with each group, or harem, was a stag. These big impressive stags, black from wallowing in peat, stood among its females, and roared now and then, but they as yet appeared not to have any challengers, other harem-less stags hanging around nearby, looking for a chance to run in and steal a few hinds, or even challenging and fighting to try and take the over control of the whole harem. There was one group of nine stags still together; perhaps these are the younger or older stags who will very shortly try their luck and strength against the master stags. But for now, things were relatively quiet, although the hinds seemed quite tense and edgy, and the big stags were not exactly relaxed.

There were two seasons on the hill that day, on the south side it was early Autumn, warm and sunny, whilst on the north side, the wind was biting and Wintry cold. A perfect hill day though.

I have managed to spend a little time down at the estuary, a very beautiful place at this time of the year with its colourful loch side woods often mirrored in calm, September calm, water. It was nice to see the first wigeon back for the winter, just three males, still in eclipse plumage. On another day, at high tide, nice close views of two female goosander, resting on a bank waiting for the tide to turn, and a pair of graceful, beautiful mute swans. And, just as I was about to leave, and just as the first loch edge mud became exposed, in came a fine greenshank in winter plumage. What a beauty, such an elegant wader. I had hoped to see otter, but they don’t come that easy, just two short visits…I’d have to put in more time than that, and anyway, it’s being there that matters, it is a very beautiful peaceful place, and I saw, and watched and enjoyed those few very special birds. On my next visit, there were just a few gulls, and the swans again, but this time there was an otter, and I was delighted to see it. I watched it for nearly two hours across on the opposite side of the loch, hunting, feeding, and swimming and for a short while out of the water grooming and resting. I would have liked to have stayed to see where it went, but had to go, but was happy to have seen it, and pleased to know that there are still otters in the loch.

In and around the village there are fewer birds now, chaffinch numbers visiting the garden have dropped, and those big flocks of mixed finches on the meadows have dispersed and moved on, as have the big flocks of pipits. Lone swallows are only seen on the odd occasion, passing south. The sparrowhawk has not been seen as often, although I’ve had reports of one round about the village, so if it’s the same bird that’s been hanging about my garden then she starting to venture further a field. A pine martin was seen crossing the main road through the village, and one morning a sea eagle flew low over the houses, flying towards the estuary. It was mobbed by a few angry herring gulls that the eagle tried to swat away as though they were pestering flies with swift upward flicks of its great wings.

Those birds that have moved on, taking the summer away with them, will very soon be replaced by our winter visitors that will be in any day now, redwings, fieldfares, and winter wildfowl and waders whose numbers will increase down at the estuary. But it’s not winter yet, it is the glorious month of October next, and anyway, winter is another season that has its own beauty and beauties.

Some sad news, well I think it is anyway. The old steading that has been the home for dozens of pairs of swallows for years and years, and used by a barn owl this year (and probably before), is to be pulled down sometime soon, perhaps late next year. Builders have been making it safe these past few days, and were going to seal it up completely. I managed to pursued them to leave a few openings so that the swallows can have one more season at least. A shame, where will they go instead?]]>
We are once again enjoying a settled spell of calm sunny September weather, and the countryside is looking stunningly beautiful in colourful early autumn shades and lovely crisp light. This past couple of weeks however have been rather unsettled, with grey skies and rain, and we had our first autumn gale. During these wild windy nights (rest assured there will be much much wilder windier nights to come) I often wonder how nature is coping, and where it all is. Where, for example, are all the little birds? Where do they go? Sometimes it absolutely pours with rain, driven on by extremely strong winds. Yet, the next morning, there they are, neat feathers all in place, looking smart and bright and as if the wild night never happened. Where does the young sparrowhawk spend its nights? And on which crag or isolated mountain ash will the eagles choose to sit out their savage mountain nights. Nature’s secrets that we will never get to see.

On a ferry crossing to Oban two days after the gale there were quite a few gannets in the sound, and a manx shearwater, two great sea birds, the later not often seen in the sound, but most likely to be seen after these strong Autumn winds.

After the grey wet spell of weather I grabbed the first sunny day for the hills. There are still meadow pipits about, although for most of the day I saw and heard none. (And I’m seeing far fewer on lowland fields and meadows, most of those big flocks have continued on their way) Flushed just one skylark, it too will head south. Three twite along a long hill crag, nice little hill finches, and a kestrel, and a hill top snipe flushed from a wet pool. A fleeting golden eagle disappeared over the skyline. That’s often the way with golden eagles, either that or you watch them for ages and ages, and ages, and you keep watching, because you never know what they might do. Two ravens circled up into the blue above the hill, uttering the occasional raven croak. I kept looking to see where they were from time to time, and found them together with a sub-adult sea eagle. Normally, ravens will call in a repetitive alarmed and characteristically annoyed agitated and angry manner when they are seeing off eagles, but these two weren’t that bothered by the eagle, and were unusually quiet, perhaps because the breeding season is over and the ravens no longer have vulnerable young to protect. One of the ravens though, did chase the big bird on its way for quite a distance before returning with a casual been there done it all before look about it.

I was wondering about the red deer rut, had it started? I had heard the occasion after dark roar from stags close to the village recently, and heard a couple of stags occasionally on my way to the hill top. What I found was that yes, the rut was certainly underway, but was not yet in full swing. The group of around forty stags were no longer together, and there were many more, twice the number, of hinds and yearling calves in the big corrie to what there was three weeks ago. There were several large groups of between twenty and thirty hinds with their calves, and with each group, or harem, was a stag. These big impressive stags, black from wallowing in peat, stood among its females, and roared now and then, but they as yet appeared not to have any challengers, other harem-less stags hanging around nearby, looking for a chance to run in and steal a few hinds, or even challenging and fighting to try and take the over control of the whole harem. There was one group of nine stags still together; perhaps these are the younger or older stags who will very shortly try their luck and strength against the master stags. But for now, things were relatively quiet, although the hinds seemed quite tense and edgy, and the big stags were not exactly relaxed.

There were two seasons on the hill that day, on the south side it was early Autumn, warm and sunny, whilst on the north side, the wind was biting and Wintry cold. A perfect hill day though.

I have managed to spend a little time down at the estuary, a very beautiful place at this time of the year with its colourful loch side woods often mirrored in calm, September calm, water. It was nice to see the first wigeon back for the winter, just three males, still in eclipse plumage. On another day, at high tide, nice close views of two female goosander, resting on a bank waiting for the tide to turn, and a pair of graceful, beautiful mute swans. And, just as I was about to leave, and just as the first loch edge mud became exposed, in came a fine greenshank in winter plumage. What a beauty, such an elegant wader. I had hoped to see otter, but they don’t come that easy, just two short visits…I’d have to put in more time than that, and anyway, it’s being there that matters, it is a very beautiful peaceful place, and I saw, and watched and enjoyed those few very special birds. On my next visit, there were just a few gulls, and the swans again, but this time there was an otter, and I was delighted to see it. I watched it for nearly two hours across on the opposite side of the loch, hunting, feeding, and swimming and for a short while out of the water grooming and resting. I would have liked to have stayed to see where it went, but had to go, but was happy to have seen it, and pleased to know that there are still otters in the loch.

In and around the village there are fewer birds now, chaffinch numbers visiting the garden have dropped, and those big flocks of mixed finches on the meadows have dispersed and moved on, as have the big flocks of pipits. Lone swallows are only seen on the odd occasion, passing south. The sparrowhawk has not been seen as often, although I’ve had reports of one round about the village, so if it’s the same bird that’s been hanging about my garden then she starting to venture further a field. A pine martin was seen crossing the main road through the village, and one morning a sea eagle flew low over the houses, flying towards the estuary. It was mobbed by a few angry herring gulls that the eagle tried to swat away as though they were pestering flies with swift upward flicks of its great wings.

Those birds that have moved on, taking the summer away with them, will very soon be replaced by our winter visitors that will be in any day now, redwings, fieldfares, and winter wildfowl and waders whose numbers will increase down at the estuary. But it’s not winter yet, it is the glorious month of October next, and anyway, winter is another season that has its own beauty and beauties.

Some sad news, well I think it is anyway. The old steading that has been the home for dozens of pairs of swallows for years and years, and used by a barn owl this year (and probably before), is to be pulled down sometime soon, perhaps late next year. Builders have been making it safe these past few days, and were going to seal it up completely. I managed to pursued them to leave a few openings so that the swallows can have one more season at least. A shame, where will they go instead?]]> http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=5 Sat, 13 Sep 2008 20:51:57 +0100 http://www.lochalinedivecentre.co.uk/forum/showthread.php?tid=5


The rest of August was very grey and at times very wet. September though, so far, has been quite settled. September has always been a favourite month, there is something about it that you don’t feel during any other month. When the weather’s fine, it is very calm, quiet, peaceful, and still, as though all of nature is taking a breath, and reflecting on the busy Summer that has just passed. Spring is a wonderful season, but I find it hard not to get caught up in that busy rush of activity and before you know it we’re into Summer. Autumn is a much calmer quieter time which I like.



With the lack of sunshine in late August it was not possible to get my last butterfly walk of the monitoring season done until September 3rd. By then there was just a few scotch argus left, and several new and fresh third generation speckled woods. Although not seen on the transect I have seen a few migrant butterflies, but still only a few. Splendid red admirals, and not looking so good after their flight north painted ladies. Why do these butterflies bother pushing ever northwards through Britain all the way from north Africa and southern Europe? Painted ladies aren’t able to make it through our Winters, and only a few red admirals manage to, so by the time they get this far north in the Autumn that’s it for them. What was the point? I’ll try and find out. Also only a few small tortoiseshells and a few peacocks. That’s two years running where the poor Summer weather has hit the peacock population here in the northwest. Looking at the figures from this years butterfly monitoring, every species has had a poor year, except pearl-bordered fritillaries, that were on the wing during our amazingly sunny May, and Scotch argus. The numbers were well down for all the rest.



I’ve not looked at the figures for dragonflies and damselflies yet, but I don’t think that they have had a great year either. Still on the wing are common darters, and common hawkers.



I was away up the hills on one of those calm September mornings, walking to above a wood and loch, which was perfectly still, in it was mirrored a lovely blue and billowy white cloud sky, and, as though swimming and playing among the clouds, were two otters. They were easy to spot in the smooth as glass water, even from high above. That’s the second time I’ve seen two otters on this fresh water loch this year, a loch that I’ve not seen them on before, although I had seen signs of them around its shore. They swam to the shore and disappeared. Enjoyed close views of a kestrel in the sunshine, a great little bird of prey. Still a few pipits on the hill, and a brief golden eagle, but otherwise the hills were quiet, bird wise. Plenty of deer, including that group of about forty stags that are still hanging out together. One or two young stags have decided to attach themselves to groups of hinds, hopeful of getting in their first, chancers…they’ve no chance, when the hinds are ready the big boys will move in. Another hill day and a new Morvern hill for me, and what a great little hill, little hills are often far better than the bigger ones. What views! To the north west, the isles of Skye, Rhum, Eigg, Canna, the Uists and Coll. East was a whole horizon of mainland peaks, including the Mamores and Glen Coe hills among many many more. Far to the south, Ben Lomond, and the Isle of Arran. And looking south west, all of Morverns hills, with Mull beyond. Once again, I thought about how truly wild and unfrequented Morverns hills are. Saw a small raptor, just a fleeting glimpse, flying low to the ground, was it a merlin? It’s a good time to see them. Also a flock of twelve ravens, great hill birds. No eagles though, which was a surprise. But then on another day I was hardly five minutes from the car when I saw four golden eagles. They were quite low down. Firstly there were three, circling low above a small hill, and I thought that they were an adult pair at the edge of their range, and a young bird. But they were all adults. Two, a pair, flew back up into their territory, the other single bird, flew back into its territory in the opposite direction. Shortly another adult appeared where I had seen the three, it was a different individual because this bird had a full and prominent crop. It followed the flight path of the other single adult. So, two pairs, meeting up at the boundary to their ranges. Perhaps there is a dead deer or sheep somewhere, attracting the birds to the edges of their territories and to quite low ground for golden eagles.



I’ve not spent any time this past couple of weeks along the coast, or visited the estuary, but I have seen from the village several porpoises.



I have had, at last, some prolonged views of those sparrowhawks that have been in and around the garden. I think now that the birds I was seeing in early August were hunting adults. But recent sightings have been of a very fine young female. She has a plucking post at the edge of the meadow at the bottom of the garden. On it are the remains of a collared dove, and I saw and watched her once actually feeding on smaller bird prey there, I think it was possibly a meadow pipit. I’ll need to go and have a look at the feathers. On another occasion she was finishing off another small bird on a nearby fence post. So she’s doing OK. She has a bountiful food supply at the moment, with several different bird species going about the gardens and fields and meadows in large Autumn flocks, such as meadow pipit, mixed finch flocks including chaffinch, goldfinch, greenfinch, yellowhammer and linnet, which are feeding on the seeds of flowers such as knapweed and thistle. But soon these local and on the move birds will head south. Other birds will move in to replace them, but they may not stay long, preferring to continue further south for the Winter. So she’s still got a tough time ahead, but she is off to a good start. After one feed she then proceeded to fly at an adult raven, that couldn’t be bothered with her. I have watched young sparrowhawks, and young peregrines, flying with young ravens and hooded crows, spending quite some time in the air together, one and all seeing who’s who and seeing what each are capable of, all learning their own and each others flying skills for adult life, great to watch.



On cool grey days it appears that all the swallows have gone, but they haven’t, most have, but there are still several about. I watched two youngsters perched together on telegraph wires, they look so , well, just young, and vulnerable, preening wings and feathers that will carry them all those many hundreds, thousands, of miles, eventually all being well to back here again next April. Good luck.



It’s really nice to wake up to birdsong again after several weeks without it, as robins proclaim their Winter territories. But only robins sing in the Autumn. Saw a big flock of mistle thrushes, on the move. It won’t be long before Winter thrushes from Scandinavia reach our shores and this side of the country, bringing with them the Winter. And any day now we will have geese flying south.



I‘m hopeful that the rest of this lovely month remains settled and that it stays that way right through the Autumn. I’m looking forward to the coming weeks of this magical season.]]>


The rest of August was very grey and at times very wet. September though, so far, has been quite settled. September has always been a favourite month, there is something about it that you don’t feel during any other month. When the weather’s fine, it is very calm, quiet, peaceful, and still, as though all of nature is taking a breath, and reflecting on the busy Summer that has just passed. Spring is a wonderful season, but I find it hard not to get caught up in that busy rush of activity and before you know it we’re into Summer. Autumn is a much calmer quieter time which I like.



With the lack of sunshine in late August it was not possible to get my last butterfly walk of the monitoring season done until September 3rd. By then there was just a few scotch argus left, and several new and fresh third generation speckled woods. Although not seen on the transect I have seen a few migrant butterflies, but still only a few. Splendid red admirals, and not looking so good after their flight north painted ladies. Why do these butterflies bother pushing ever northwards through Britain all the way from north Africa and southern Europe? Painted ladies aren’t able to make it through our Winters, and only a few red admirals manage to, so by the time they get this far north in the Autumn that’s it for them. What was the point? I’ll try and find out. Also only a few small tortoiseshells and a few peacocks. That’s two years running where the poor Summer weather has hit the peacock population here in the northwest. Looking at the figures from this years butterfly monitoring, every species has had a poor year, except pearl-bordered fritillaries, that were on the wing during our amazingly sunny May, and Scotch argus. The numbers were well down for all the rest.



I’ve not looked at the figures for dragonflies and damselflies yet, but I don’t think that they have had a great year either. Still on the wing are common darters, and common hawkers.



I was away up the hills on one of those calm September mornings, walking to above a wood and loch, which was perfectly still, in it was mirrored a lovely blue and billowy white cloud sky, and, as though swimming and playing among the clouds, were two otters. They were easy to spot in the smooth as glass water, even from high above. That’s the second time I’ve seen two otters on this fresh water loch this year, a loch that I’ve not seen them on before, although I had seen signs of them around its shore. They swam to the shore and disappeared. Enjoyed close views of a kestrel in the sunshine, a great little bird of prey. Still a few pipits on the hill, and a brief golden eagle, but otherwise the hills were quiet, bird wise. Plenty of deer, including that group of about forty stags that are still hanging out together. One or two young stags have decided to attach themselves to groups of hinds, hopeful of getting in their first, chancers…they’ve no chance, when the hinds are ready the big boys will move in. Another hill day and a new Morvern hill for me, and what a great little hill, little hills are often far better than the bigger ones. What views! To the north west, the isles of Skye, Rhum, Eigg, Canna, the Uists and Coll. East was a whole horizon of mainland peaks, including the Mamores and Glen Coe hills among many many more. Far to the south, Ben Lomond, and the Isle of Arran. And looking south west, all of Morverns hills, with Mull beyond. Once again, I thought about how truly wild and unfrequented Morverns hills are. Saw a small raptor, just a fleeting glimpse, flying low to the ground, was it a merlin? It’s a good time to see them. Also a flock of twelve ravens, great hill birds. No eagles though, which was a surprise. But then on another day I was hardly five minutes from the car when I saw four golden eagles. They were quite low down. Firstly there were three, circling low above a small hill, and I thought that they were an adult pair at the edge of their range, and a young bird. But they were all adults. Two, a pair, flew back up into their territory, the other single bird, flew back into its territory in the opposite direction. Shortly another adult appeared where I had seen the three, it was a different individual because this bird had a full and prominent crop. It followed the flight path of the other single adult. So, two pairs, meeting up at the boundary to their ranges. Perhaps there is a dead deer or sheep somewhere, attracting the birds to the edges of their territories and to quite low ground for golden eagles.



I’ve not spent any time this past couple of weeks along the coast, or visited the estuary, but I have seen from the village several porpoises.



I have had, at last, some prolonged views of those sparrowhawks that have been in and around the garden. I think now that the birds I was seeing in early August were hunting adults. But recent sightings have been of a very fine young female. She has a plucking post at the edge of the meadow at the bottom of the garden. On it are the remains of a collared dove, and I saw and watched her once actually feeding on smaller bird prey there, I think it was possibly a meadow pipit. I’ll need to go and have a look at the feathers. On another occasion she was finishing off another small bird on a nearby fence post. So she’s doing OK. She has a bountiful food supply at the moment, with several different bird species going about the gardens and fields and meadows in large Autumn flocks, such as meadow pipit, mixed finch flocks including chaffinch, goldfinch, greenfinch, yellowhammer and linnet, which are feeding on the seeds of flowers such as knapweed and thistle. But soon these local and on the move birds will head south. Other birds will move in to replace them, but they may not stay long, preferring to continue further south for the Winter. So she’s still got a tough time ahead, but she is off to a good start. After one feed she then proceeded to fly at an adult raven, that couldn’t be bothered with her. I have watched young sparrowhawks, and young peregrines, flying with young ravens and hooded crows, spending quite some time in the air together, one and all seeing who’s who and seeing what each are capable of, all learning their own and each others flying skills for adult life, great to watch.



On cool grey days it appears that all the swallows have gone, but they haven’t, most have, but there are still several about. I watched two youngsters perched together on telegraph wires, they look so , well, just young, and vulnerable, preening wings and feathers that will carry them all those many hundreds, thousands, of miles, eventually all being well to back here again next April. Good luck.



It’s really nice to wake up to birdsong again after several weeks without it, as robins proclaim their Winter territories. But only robins sing in the Autumn. Saw a big flock of mistle thrushes, on the move. It won’t be long before Winter thrushes from Scandinavia reach our shores and this side of the country, bringing with them the Winter. And any day now we will have geese flying south.



I‘m hopeful that the rest of this lovely month remains settled and that it stays that way right through the Autumn. I’m looking forward to the coming weeks of this magical season.]]>