Highland Insider

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.

 The PL and I spent a ridiculous amount of time yesterday hanging over the wall that runs along one end of the loch. We were watching tadpoles flitting across a rock that lay in a patch of sunlight; every so often a taddy would wriggle out of the marsh marigold stems, casting its tiny shadow on the rock. It was completely mesmerising and an excellent way to waste a bit of time on a sunny morning.

Once they’ve got their legs, I hope the tadpoles learn a lesson from the gory display left by their parents on the forestry track that runs nearby. We passed ten flat, spreadeagled frogs, blackened with age, all within about a hundred yards. Now, it’s no secret that frogs get run over on roads, but this road must see a vehicle about as often as there are bue moons, so it’s a mystery how ten of the things managed to get so unlucky in such a small space. Better luck to the next generation.

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?

Visitors to Nairn are drawn to the beaches like a seagull to a bag of chips. You can’t blame them. Nairn’s east and west beaches are glorious, golden stretches of fine sand with views across the Moray Firth to the Black Isle and the mountains beyond. But if you take a step back from the east beach and venture over the dunes, you find a quieter, less spectacular landscape that is, in its own way, just as lovely.

The sandy hillocks give way to a strip of wetland with reed beds which fill the gap between the beach and the Scots pines of Culbin forest. Paths wind through it with little bridges crossing the wettest parts. In summer the reeds are a magnet for butterflies and day flying moths; skylarks sing above them and the Minister’s Pool at King’s Steps is a great place to watch waders.

Even on a rather driech February day like we had at the weekend, it’s a great place for a walk. The expanse of flat wetland had a lonely sort of charm and the stillness was broken only by the distant swish of waves and the odd curlew calling. We went fairly early and met just a few fellow dog-walkers and the odd jogger, but by the time we got back to the car park it was full of more doggy types, families and a bunch of cyclists heading into the woods. Visitors to the beach might not realise there’s a hidden gem behind them, but the locals know it’s a great place to explore.

Get there either from the Forestry Commission car park at King’s Steps or by popping over the dunes on east beach. Check the tide first though - some parts will be under water at certain times. There’s more information on the Forestry Commission’s Culbin pages.

I spent a wonderful day last week with Deborah Benham of Wild at Heart Eco-holidays, who kindly helped me with researching an article on the Bottlenose dolphins of the Moray Firth. I’ll put a reference to the article later, but I want to give a very hearty recommendation here, both to Deborah, who was a relaxed, knowledgeable guide who made the whole day a pleasure; and to Eco-Ventures of Cromarty for the best boat trip I’ve ever been on – and they’re wildlife-friendly too.

Check them out here:

Wild at Heart

Ecoventures

Link to the article in ‘Scottish Memories’ digital archive

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.

Sometimes I long for more variety in the woodlands around here. Most of the hillside is covered in regular, over-crowded pine plantations which, in their denser parts, seem almost dead with dry earth, little light and an eerie lack of noise.

It’s improving though. Four years ago the Estate sent the foresters in and great swathes have been cleared, letting in the light and opening up possibilities. They left wood to decay on the ground, providing homes and shelter for insects and burrowers. The ground was badly churned up by the lorries and tractors, but the damage was soon covered with new growth. The bigger cleared patches are already well covered in bracken and ferns, and some even had a miraculous flowering of foxgloves after the foresters left; the seeds must have been dormant in the ground, and the clearings were awash with purple the season after the trees were cut.

In the clearing nearest us, which I can see from the window as I write, the Estate replaced the pines with saplings of oak and cherry, which will eventually form a patch of the sort of woodland I crave. If they keep doing that as new patches are cleared, Nairnshire might eventually have some woods to be proud of again. The remnants of the old native flora cling on even now, round the edges of the plantations where bluebells and dog violets appear in spring. Given the right conditions they could re-establish themselves like the foxgloves.

In the meantime, we’re noticing more birdsong when we walk up to the loch, which is at the end of a track that used to go through a particularly dark, dense area. Five years ago you could pass through it and barely hear a squeak; just the occasional wren in the undergrowth or a chaffinch or great-tit right up in the treetops. We were there the other day and the difference was audible as well as visible. A flock of coal-tits, a pair of bull-finches, general chattering from the treetops. A nice bonus was a wee gathering of crossbills, although they always did favour the pinewoods.

So, hope springs. But it takes a long time to grow.

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.