Highland Insider

I’ve just used the last of this year’s batch of Two Mile Jam. I used to make this in late summer or autumn, using fruit grown or foraged within a two mile radius of our garden in Nairnshire, and every time I spread it on my toast I was transported back to the favourite haunts that had supplied the ingredients.

All the knobbliest apples from the Bramley tree went in, along with the brambles and late wild raspberries that grew along the banks of the burn. Blaeberries from deep in the woods were essential (I kept some in the freezer in case they were over before the other ingredients were ready to pick). Occasionally a few rowan berries or a spare blueberry from the garden fruit patch were added, depending on what was around.

In fact, all of these fruits grew within about a quarter of a mile of the house. So why was it Two Mile Jam?

Because for the secret ingredient, the one that gave the jam its rich, almost alcoholic flavour, I had to walk two miles down the road to the nearest elder trees and ask their permission to take some berries. (Asking permission is traditional. In case you’re wondering, they’ve never refused.)

Elder berries are a magic ingredient for all sorts of things - smooth, deeply fruity, and full of very healthy stuff: according to the ethnobotanist James Wong they have anti-inflammatory and anti-viral properties. But mainly they’re just yummy.

This year’s batch of jam was a bit smaller then usual as we were preparing to move house and my foraging time was cut short. Last year’s big batch (in the cake in the picture) lasted us right through to snowdrop time. This was the last time the smell and taste of a jam will transport me to the woods and streams of Nairnshire. I wonder what I’ll find withing two miles of our new home?

Pied wagtail chicks in their nest on the shelf

I write a weekly nature column in the local paper and over the past three summers this has always featured the pied wagtails that have taken to nesting on a shelf in the old stone shed. They always get in there early, make a flattish nest (full of Nosy Norris’s hairs this year, of course), and are usually sitting on eggs by the time the swallows arrive. This has been bad news for the swallows, who still come looking for their old site just outside the shed and are chased off by the wagtails.

Good news for us though; we love having them there. This year, they moved to a shelf in a different corner of the shed and the PL was able to get a photo without disturbing them (this one’s zoomed in). That was last week, and today all four have fledged and are dashing around the shed and the covered walkway that joins it to the house, already wagging away whenever they stop for a rest. The PL had to rescue one that had stopped for a rest in a bucket of rainwater, but its ducking didn’t deter it one bit. That’s wagtails for you, they’re all wee daredevils, wandering about on roads and nosying into things. We once watched a pair attacking a bat that had come out of the roof during the day. They might look comical with their funny bobbing tails, but they’re not to be messed with.

We’ll keep an eye on the nest, as the parents have always got another brood off pretty quickly. All being well, we’ll have wagtails everywhere again in August.

The veg in the garden are coming on nearly as fast as the weeds, with the weather being warm and wet for the past few days. The seedlings on the living room window sill are blocking the view. The broad beans look like triffids. As well as them we’re looking forward to chard, leeks, beetroot, spuds, salads, toms… even aubergines if we can nurse them along and convince them that our patio is actually a mediterranean terrace. 

But self-sufficiency was only ever a tongue in cheek aim, even allowing for a bumper harvest from this lot. Still wanting to avoid fridge-shipped produce from overseas, I looked around for an alternative and found a gem – a local gem, covered in good Nairnshire mud.

Jock Scott of Scotgro at Broombank Farm, Auldearn, provides veg boxes on a weekly or occasional basis and it’s tasty stuff. We’ve found that a standard box once a fortnight keeps us going nicely. Sorted!

Nosy Norris is a very hairy dog indeed. You might think that the reason a very hairy dog has that much fluff is because it needs it all to keep it warm. Apparently not. The hair is designed to shed and Nosy Norris could shed for Britain in 2012. I’ve come to believe that she was sent to me by some vengeful Goddess of Housework who was seriously displeased at the paltry amount of time I used to spend worshipping at her shrine. (I spent even less time dusting it.)

I used to pride myself that the hoover only came out once a week in our house. (Mum, don’t panic if you read this – I did sweep the kitchen most days.) But since Nosy Norris came to live with us, I’ve had to swallow that pride and get the hated hoover out every day. It’s that or spend my life wading through giant dust bunnies that float around and disintegrate right over every dish of food I ever serve.

I’ve just about got on top of the hair in the house, but of course now the good weather is here, Nosy Norris is bestowing her black and white fluff cheerfully all over the garden too. And this is where the Goddess of the Garden differs from her horrible household sister. She has sent a helper – a wee female chaffinch who spent this morning hopping around the patio collecting beakfuls of soft Bernese Mountain Dog fibres to line her own wee nest, where they will be appreciated, not swept away. Isn’t nature wonderful?

The Pack Leader is planning this year’s veg crops. He’s been sorting seed, meditating on the Thompson & Morgan catalogue like it holds the meaning of life, and drawing plans of re-routed paths to make better use of the sunlight.

‘Food prices are rising, but we’ll be fine!’ he says, leaning on the window-sill and surveying his land (about the size of a tennis court). He’s inside because it’s blowing a blizzard out there.

‘That’ll be great,’ I say, wondering what we’ll do between now and May which the earliest we can hope to harvest as much as a salad leaf.

It doesn’t take long to get caught up in it though. There’s nothing so guaranteed to lift you out of the long winter doldrums than planning what you’ll grow when the soil warms up. You have to use your imagination of course, especially when the ground is white and it’s still getting dark at five o’clock. But when you’re beginning to feel slightly queasy at the thought of another plate of carrot soup or roast parsnips or leathery kale, then the thought of fresh green shoots can get you surprisingly excited. (Presuming you eat seasonal food, that is. It’s worth a bit of deprivation to enjoy that skip of novelty when the new season veg appear.)

So, we’re really going for it this year. By July we’ll be walking past Tescos with it’s inflated price tags and heading straight to garden to dig up our own spuds, lettuces and peas. Spuds, lettuce and peas? Hmmm, they’re not all that dear, are they? Well, if the forecasts are right then food prices are heading for a new all time high, whereas our labour costs exactly what it always did. And we’ll be scoffing organic veg with no food miles,which makes all the difference. Just remind me of that when I’ve spent the whole of March digging out new beds alongside the new paths.

The weather suddenly warmed at the weekend and Saturday saw the garden and countryside transformed from its winter stillness into a humming, thrumming , buzzing venue for all the bugs that had been tucked up in the cold to come out and party in the sun.

I saw several peacock butterflies including two that appeared to be mating – one sitting still with its wings closed, the other perched on its tail end, using its wings to balance there. This went on for a good fifteen minutes. Is this usual for butterflies, or was this chap a real Casanova? Or maybe he was just not very efficient… Any insect buffs reading this, do enlighten me!

This other Peacock feeding on the heather flowers looked like it had been in the wars with its raggedy wings.

But the big insect event of the weekend was a swarm of beetles that appeared out of nowhere on Saturday afternoon and filled the air. We had to close all the house windows and clear a few dozen out of the kitchen. They appear to have been Heather Beetles (see pic above), which can do a lot of harm to heather moorland in large numbers: bad news for hungry peacock butterflies, honey bees and young grouse. Thanks to the  good folk at Wild About Britain who helped me identify the bugs.

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.

Last weekend we took part in the RSPB’s Big Garden Birdwatch. We’ve been doing it for a few years now, and the evidence all points to the birds knowing exactly what’s going on. This year was typical. We set the clock for an hour at the start of our survey, and immediately all our usual garden residents went into hiding. There were two or three of the most common species: chaffinches, blackbirds, bluetits. A couple of robins, a dunnock. No wrens or siskins, although we know they’re there. Coaltits came out on top, narrowly beating last year’s winners, the bluetits; but still there were fewer than there should have been.

This weekend I’ve already had 6 coaltits on one feeder, a whole gang of chaffies, a pair of greenfinches, a tree-creeper, a goldfinch and a great spotted woodpecker. (Not all at once; the wee ones clear off when Woody appears.)

I shouldn’t moan. It’s a joy to see them at any time. But I swear they know exactly when to keep their heads down.