Highland Insider

Nosy Norris and I followed the Pack Leader up the Ullapool Hill paths this morning and as usual his choice of route didn’t disappoint. Nosy got the chance to bounce around in the heather and chase snowballs (puny wee things, but still fun) and I got my first view of bonny Loch Achall.

A great walk and great views but as I looked down on the gleaming water I thought the only thing missing was a bit of wildlife. We’d walked for about forty five minutes and seen nothing but a few crows and gulls mooching overhead. There were signs of critters – a pile of fur-filled poo, a young beech tree stripped of its bark – but nothing to stop and watch. Just as I was thinking this I became aware of a busy twittering noise coming from over the next hillock and getting nearer. We waited a minute or two and were rewarded when a gang of long-tailed tits flew past us and settled in the stand of birch trees below.

I always love seeing long-tailed tits. I don’t know who first described the bird as ‘a ball on a stick’ but they were spot on. The wee round body with the long straight tail makes an unmistakeable silhouette whether perching or in flight. These ones were specially welcome as they made a good walk complete.

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?

A wee gang of wigeon have been gathering by the shore of the loch over the past few days. There were about a dozen when the PL first noticed them, increasing to thirty-one last time we were able to count them.

The reason we can’t always count them is that sometimes we walk past that spot in the evening, when we’re taking Nosy Norris for her late walk. Then all that can be seen is the reflection of moonlight or the flashing marker buoys on the dark water, but we can still hear the birds chuntering among themselves. It’s a lovely sound, the more gutteral calls punctuated with what sounds like a mini swanee-whistle, reminiscent of the whooOOo0 of the eider ducks.

I don’t know why I’m always surprised that ducks are so beautiful, but somehow I never expect it. Wigeon certainly are, especially the males with their golden foreheads and rosy breasts. I don’t know whether they’ll stay here for the winter or head somewhere further south. We’ll just watch and see, and that’s the pleasure of living among wild things and learning about them day by day. We got to know our local wildlife in Nairnshire so well, I thought I’d miss that familiarity when we moved. To some extent I do, but it’s quite exciting to have a whole new cast of regulars to become familiar with. Like making new friends.

Some days you can sit for hours waiting for some wild furry or feathery thing to grace you with a glimpse of its rear end disappearing over the hill, but now and again they all seem to come out and show off. Maybe just for a minute – a quick ‘Yoohoo, now you see me’ moment – but always welcome for the unexpectedness of the pleasure.

Yesterday I drove a good way across our neighbouring county of Moray, and along the backroads between Forres and Elgin I saw  a whole parade of wild critters just from the car. Here they are in order of performance.

First, early in the morning, was something I thought it was a cat until it bounced across the road with a characteristic Mexican wave motion. Too big and dark for a stoat, I’m pretty sure it was a pine marten. They’re more often seen at night but they will be busy feeding kits just now.

Next up was a brown hare sitting on the edge of some woodland, which watched me pass by with big, calm eyes. Further along was a roe deer in an exquisitely classic pose, standing in a sunny meadow looking back at me over its shoulder. There was another hare sprinting across the same meadow, and all day I dodged the usual dozy pheasants making mad dashes onto the road.

Of course, I didn’t have the camera with me; you never do on these occasions. I’ll remember each little snapshot for a while, especially the deer, then the picture will fade. But that just makes the moment more precious.

The midges may have driven us indoors the other day but they brought the house martins out in force. A few have been swooping over the garden for a couple of weeks now, but when their favourite mobile snack arrived on the scene they brought some more pals along for the party.

There were at least thirty of them today, zipping around the sky like guided missiles, catching midges on the wing. We were down below, cheering them on.

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 dreaded midges are back. Today is damp, a wee bit warmer than of late and perfect for the tiny tormentors. It’s the first day this year that they’ve been bad enough to drive us indoors, and from now until October our lives will be permeated by the smell of midgie repellant.

The PL goes for the serious, deet based stuff but I was put off that when I once left a bottle of it on a shelf and it took a ring of varnish off the surface. I prefer the more gentle ‘Wee Beastie’, a gorgeous lavender and citronella spray made by Purdie’s Scottish Soap Company. It’s a pleasure to use, I’m happy to spray it on the dog as well as myself, and I reckon it works just as well as the chemical stuff – which is to say, it’ll put the wee buggers off but won’t keep them all off forever.

Don’t believe anyone who says they have a product that will guarantee you won’t be bitten by a single midge, it just doesn’t exist. It’s well worth using something though, as without any protection you’ll be completely covered in red, furiously itchy bites that get worse the more you scratch. At least with ‘The Wee Beastie’ I know I’ll only get a couple, and around here that’s just something you have to live with.

I blame Chris Packham.

The Pack Leader has always been an interesting companion on country walks; he has the gift of noticing things that most people miss. So, over the years I’ve seen countless birds, tracks, squashed down bits of undergrowth where wild things have recently lurked… all things I would have missed on my own. I’ve also had the chance to examine close up an empty adder skin, the carcass of a hare hanging inexplicably from a tree branch, fossils on beaches and prehistoric bones in a cave. The PL always liked to get down and dirty – within limits – and this has been fine with me for years. His own favourite find was always an owl pellet to dissect. What a treat.

But now this is no longer enough. Over the past couple of years he has started to poke about, not only in pellets but in poo. Pass a bit of black pine marten poo on the path and he’s off finding a stick to prod it apart. No pile of otter spraint is passed without being sniffed and the cat-like offering by the forestry track (is it a wildcat?) is pondered over each time it appears. As I say, I blame that arch poo-prodder Chris Packham. It’s only since he joined Springwatch that this has started to be a habit.

Yesterday it was a rounded blob of black, grey and white on the forest floor. It looked very like the bigger of the parcels our old cockerel used to leave around the hen run. But bigger. ‘Definitely a big fowl,’ I diagnosed. ‘Big enough for a penalty,’ agreed the PL. He, of course, found a stick and had a good nosy at it but there was nothing obvious in the contents. We’re hoping it might have been left by a capercaillie. Neighbours tell us they have seen one in these woods, scoffing the bilberries, but so far we’ve never had the privelige. I saw one in Perthshire when I was a wee girl (it looked as big as a pony from my three foot tall vantage point) and I’d love to see another. But somehow I get the feeling that the PL would be just as happy with another bit of poo.