Highland Insider

It was the moment that marked the start of spring for me. Yesterday, by the loch, back to back with Lee, in sun warm enough for us to be sitting on my rolled-up jacket, watching the water ripple in the wake of a mallard coming in to land.

It was the first time in weeks we’ve seen the loch (almost) free of ice. For a long time it looked more like a snow-covered football pitch, and I’ve missed it. There were consolations, mind you. Two perfect sets of otter prints crossing the surface and continuing across the track into the woods, for example. The old boat that looked even more picturesque half-submerged in white ice. The musical ping that you got when you skimmed a pebble across the frozen surface.

But you can’t beat the sight of the sun filtering through branches onto the dark water, and the plop of a rising fish when the air’s still and mild. You can feel the winter’s worries melting away with the snow.

The long winter brought an unexpected dilemma for us. All through the weeks of snow we dutifully kept the garden feeders topped up with peanuts, fat balls, even home-made ones when we were snowed in and couldn’t get down the hill for supplies. We watched with great satisfaction as the population of small birds flocked to keep themselves well-fed and watered. The feeders were so well used they looked like living feathery sculpures.

That was when the sparrowhawk moved in. It got its first blackbird in early February, followed by a coal-tit from the beech tree. Not long after that one of the resident buzzards landed in the garden, scattering the chaffies that were hoovering up under the hanging feeder. She didn’t get anything on that occasion, but the sparrowhawk took up a regular watch. One day near the end of the snows, we thought a blizzard was starting again, but when we rushed to the window we found the flurry of white was not snow but tiny feathers…

So, to feed or not to feed, that was the question. But there was no choice, really. The garden birds needed their food and the raptors needed theirs. We carried on stocking the bird table and feeders, keeping the hanging ones tucked away in a thorny rambling rose,  and let Mother Nature take the blame and the credit for the rest.