Highland Insider

NosyNorris got the shock of her life the other day when she jumped into what looked like a normal shallow puddle. We were following a new branch of the Ullapool Hill Paths and it had been freezing for a couple of days beforehand. There must have been ice just under the surface; as she landed there was an almighty crack and NN suddenly became just the head and shoulders of an extremely disconcerted Bernese Mountain Dog. She froze, obviously in shock. I was beginning to think we’d have to get in there and pull her out when she suddenly hauled herself to the edge and out onto the heather.

Now, Nosy Norris is a complete wimp when it comes to water and that’s the first time she’s ever been in over her knees. But once back on solid ground she shook off the experience quite nonchalantly, along with several gallons of smelly, peaty water which flew in all directions to an amazing distance. Then she bounced all the way home looking quite pleased with herself.

I wonder if she might get to like it? Her mother is a great swimmer so NN’s wimpiness has always been a bit of a disappointment. We’ll encourage her to try, but maybe in some cleaner water next time.

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.

It’s official – our move west was Worth While. I knew that already, but the PL proved it today by stepping outside at lunch time, sniffing the air and deciding to go kayaking. He was loaded up by ten to one and on the water at Ardmair Bay by ten past. A couple of hours paddling around Rhue and Isle Martin and he’s home again, all glowing and at one with the world.

I was left at home working, of course, but he assures me that he enjoyed it enough for both of us.

He didn’t take the camera but here’s a pic of Isle Martin from a previous visit.

Ardmair Bay from the campsite

Every week The Guardian newspaper invites readers to send in travel tips. Last week’s subject was ‘Beachside Campsites Around the World’ so I sent in a tip about Ardmair Point in Wester Ross which I’ve written about before, here.

My tip was selected for printing in Saturday’s travel section and if you’re looking for a good beachside campsite, you can read it online here. You can also search for the other tips in the section, including one about Skye and one on Mull – Scotland was well represented!

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 used to believe that my husband and I had our relationship on a thoroughly modern, equal footing. Decisions shared, household tasks divvied out, a perfectly balanced partnership. (See this post for proof.) That was until we got a dog. They say you can’t fool a dog and after eighteen months, I have to concede (not without a bit of a grump) that we have a definite Pack Leader, and it’s not me. 

Take yesterday’s traditional New Year’s day walk up to the loch. There we both were, striding out, both interacting with the dog in the calm, assertive manner they taught us in the obedience classes. But does the hairy hound listen to me? Not while he’s around. If it’s just me and the dog  (Nosy Norris), then we get along fine. As soon as the Pack Leader appears, I’m relegated. 

I was thinking about this as we tramped up the hill, past the Wall of Death where Nosy Norris does a vertical run if she’s in one of her dafter moods, past the pebble love heart on the side of the path, left by our romantic neighbour for his wife last summer, past the old hare carcass hanging inexplicably in a tree, all the way up the loch. I realised that I do tend to defer to the Pack Leader quite often. He nearly always decides where we’re going to walk, for example. That seems a bit pathetic now I think about it. Although it is partly to do with my tendency to choose paths that end in thorny thickets or knee-deep bog. I let him decide when we can have an extra boost on the central heating. That seems a bit much, does it not? Mind you, it’s in the interests of keeping the carbon footprint of the Nairnshire below that of the whole of Scandinavia – I’m a right cold tattie. 

So as we skimmed pebbles on the frozen loch, seeing who could make the loudest ping, I decided I’m quite happy with being second in line, up to a point. After fifteen years we’re still laughing so we must be doing something right. I reckon we’ve settled into the natural order of things, and as long as Nosy Norris stays below me in the pecking order, I won’t be challenging for the position of Pack Leader. You can’t fool a dog after all.

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.