Highland Insider

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.

Posted by Karen under Highland wildlife and nature & birds | No Comments »

I can never decide whether the seals at Findhorn bay are friendly, sinister or just plain nosy. As soon as you put a kayak in the lagoon, one will appear, bobbing up nearby just as you’re getting your spray-deck adjusted. By the time you’ve paddled into the channel that links the lagoon with the Moray Firth, there will be four or five shiny snouts appearing and disappearing all round you, apparently taking it in turns to pop up just behind the kayak with a loud huffing noise. When you whip your head round to see it, all that remains is the ring of water where it’s just dived. You wait, slightly nervous the first few times, for it reappear below you and give your boat a playful wallop, but no … it’s disappeared. For now.

The Findhorn colony has both the big Atlantic grey seals with their long sombre faces, and the smaller, cuter common (harbour) seals. They can all out-stare a dead herring. There’s usually a crowd of a dozen or so hanging out on the sandbanks at low tide, or on the Culbin shore when the water is up. As you get nearer to the group you become aware that there are even more glossy black heads silently accompanying you as you paddle. Every so often one makes a big splash or an extra-loud huff, as if trying to attract your attention, or maybe distract you from the main group.

I reckon they’re acting as bouncers, making sure we don’t get too near the family. They’re big beasties, and amazingly agile in the water. They mean business and I wouldn’t like to annoy them by encroaching too closely. I doubt a novice paddler would perform well against one in a race, and anyway I’ve no wish to disturb them on their home territory. They’ve every right to guard their own.

 But every so often I’m sure I see a gleam in those big dark eyes, just before they duck under and pretend to head for my kayak. They might be seeing us off the premises, but they’re having a laugh while they do it.

Posted by Karen under Highland wildlife and nature & mammals & sealife | No Comments »

Ben Wyvis has its first snowy blanket of the year. It’s more of a delicate white throw than a twenty-five tog duvet, but it’s extremely fetching nonetheless. The hill stands out beautifully with the sun catching the snow, making it appear nearer than usual.

It’s so pretty, it almost makes me want to climb it again. Almost. It’s a straighforward mountain, with a great path and no long walk in, but of all the Munros I’ve climbed this one took the most effort – both times. It felt like there was something in the hill itself draining my energy down into it through my feet. I wouldn’t have made it to the top at all last time if Lee hadn’t bullied me on step by step.

There may be a clue in the name. There are several versions. The Gaelic name, Glas Leathad Mor means ‘big green slope’ which is fairly innocuous. The other meanings recorded are much more sinister, including Terrible Hill and Hill of Terror. Obviously the Big Green Slope version was given by someone who looked up at the hill one sunny summer’s day from a comfy picnic spot down at sea level. Whoever came up with the others had definitely been to the top.

Posted by Karen under Highland wildlife and nature | No Comments »

Image courtesy of Pam.

I’ve been vaguely aware of Knockan Crag for most of my life, having driven past it on the way to Lochinver for years. It never really grabbed my attention before, being an inconspicuous wee hill in among the eye-catching glories of the Assynt and Coigach mountains: with Suilven, Stac Pollaidh and Canisp parading their tempting summits before me, I wasn’t likely to turn round and check out Knockan Rock.

But a couple of years ago, the north-west Highlands were awarded European Geopark status – the first locality in Scotland to be recognised with the title. Suddenly I was seeing leaflets and posters about Knockan Crag and its unique position in the history of geology, and a couple of weeks ago I finally went to have a look.

I pulled up in the car park with Lee and another friend and was almost immediately accosted by a cheery gentleman in a red waterproof who offered to show us round the site. This was Donald Fisher, a local geologist who has the ability to make a wee chip in a big grey rock tell a story of epic proportions. We followed him up and round the Crag, hearing about how the structure of the hill below us had been formed in layers and how the most important discovery in geology had happened right there in the nineteenth century.

Donald had us hooked as he described how ancient rock from deep below the surface had been thrust up to slide on top of higher, younger layers, giving hard evidence to the ideas that developed into plate tectonic theory. (Donald, if you happen to read this and I’ve got the technical stuff wrong, feel free to leave a comment and put me right!)

At one point we were able to touch, with the thumb and finger of one hand, two seperate layers of rock which were formed 500 million years apart and had been pushed together over millenia before people, and probably even midgies, existed in the Highlands.

At intervals around the site are beautiful pieces of rock art, including stones carved with lines from the poetry of Norman MacCaig and a perfect globe constructed of layers of slate that fits its surroundings so well it seems to have grown there.

I didn’t expect to be entertained as well as interested at Knockan Rock, nor to be moved by poetry while hiking up the crag. The place is a gem among rocks, and Donald Fisher is a bit of a pearl himself.

Posted by Karen under Highland wildlife and nature | 1 Comment »

We were back up at the loch the other day, looking out for the osprey, which still seems to be visiting regularly. There was no sign of it that afternoon, but we had a fair bonanza of other feathered locals, including a pair of ravens and a fine display from the resident buzzard family. The one that made the hike worthwhile, though, was a female crossbill, sheltering from the rain in a pine tree.

 We used to see these chunky wee finches a lot; in fact when we first moved here, we regularly watched them from the kitchen window, feeding on the pine cones in the woods that border the garden. They looked like flocks of miniature parrots, with the brick red colouring of the males interspersed with the green of the females; quite exotic against the backdrop of a conifer plantation and grey Scottish skies. Then the trees were harvested a couple of summers ago, and we haven’t seen the crossbills since. (The red squirrels had to flit too. It was a sad price to pay for having more light in the garden.)

I’m hoping it was a Scottish crossbill we saw, although they’re hard to distinguish from the common variety. They’re the only bird to be found in Britain and nowhere else in the world, and they’re on the RSPB’s red list for endangered species. They’re confined to the Highlands and these pine-rich woodlands are perfect for them, so the odds are it was the real thing cheeping away in the tree. Apparently birds have regional accents, but I couldn’t tell if this one was Scottish or not.

Posted by Karen under Highland wildlife and nature & trees and woodland | No Comments »

Those darn swallows are back outside the bedroom. Three weeks ago we waved the wee ones goodbye as they popped out of the nest and edged their way in stages from the beams to the shed roof, then  to the nearby telegraph pole. It was great to see them fly and the experience came with the bonus of quieter mornings and being able to finally scrape the great mound of swallow-poo off the front path.

We moaned about the poo, but in fact it contributed, for one weekend only, to our amazing designer compost heap. We have all the usual stuff on the heaps (there are three behind a living willow screen at the bottom of the garden): teabags, veg peelings, grass-clippings. Our secret ingredient is the litter from the hen house which activates it all nicely – essential when the weather stays so cool all year round.

Three weekends ago though, we added not only the guano of baby swallows, but a generous contribution from a long-eared bunny called Cuddles, who had come to us for his holidays while his owners went to Orkney for a week. We grinned as we turned the heap over, imagining the richest black gold ever next spring, but we were definitely relieved that the swallows wouldn’t be depositing it on the front path for another year.

Then, blow me, I came home one day last week and had to re-learn my automatic ducking manouevre pretty quickly, as I turned onto the path and nearly had my hair parted by a swooping swallow. The adults are back on the nest, and on Sunday Lee got a had a discreet peep in. They’ve got a clutch of new eggs, which must surely be their third this year. I’m not sure they’ll have time to rear them properly before the rest of the local swallows gang up on the telegraph wires to plan their trip south. But one thing’s sure: if they do manage to hatch the little punks agan, we’ll be ready with a plastic sheet.

Posted by Karen under birds | No Comments »