Highland Insider

The Clootie Well at Munlochy

May Day has past and again I’ve missed the chance of visiting a Clootie Well on the most traditional day of the year. Originally, Beltane was the auspicious time to visit a well, but when the Christian church took over the old Celtic festivals, it was attached to the less alarming May Day. It’s a shame – the old Beltane rituals of fire and purification seem much more in tune with life in the Highlands. By the end of winter I certainly feel the need for some light, warmth and good clean.

Clootie wells are sacred springs which the Celts saw as sources of healing. A cloth or ‘cloot’ is dipped in the water, applied to the body then hung from the branches of the trees around the well. The idea was that as the cloth disintegrates, the ailment or problem disintegrates too. The cloth can also be seen as an offering to the spirit of the well and one legend about the Munlochy well is that a fairy who lived there was once given a cloth in exchange for a drink of water. Sadder tales are also told of ailing babies being left at the well overnight, presumably on the old principal of ‘kill or cure’.

The Munlochy well on the Black Isle is the best known and biggest clootie well in the area, but I would say St Mary’s Well, deep in the woods by Culloden Moor, is far more atmospheric. You have to walk to it, through some lovely woodland maintained by the Forestry Commission, and it’s in a damp, secluded dell where you can easily imagine fairies lurking. There are only a few cloots hanging from the trees, more modest offerings than the football shirts and shoes that you see at Munlochy. It’s well worth the effort of looking it out. Maybe next May Day… or even Beltane.

There have been dreadful pictures on the news this week of wildfires eating up moorland and trees in some of the most beautiful parts of the highlands. Amazingly, the firefighting teams seem to be getting the blazes under control and no-one has been hurt, but it’s bad news for the curlews, golden plovers and other ground-nesting birds that will have eggs in their scrapes just now.

I’ve been trying to find out whether the wonderful Achins Bookshop at Inverkirkaig has been affected as it’s around there that the Sutherland fires have been spreading. Thankfully there’s been no mention of any building being affected so far, although residents have been evacuated. I’ve been going to Achins for the books, scones and coffee since I was a wee girl and if the wooden shop was lost I’d be only one of many who would shed a very big tear. Here’s wishing a safe outcome for Achins, the Dixon family who run it and all their neighbours.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-highlands-islands-13276969

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 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!

 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.

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.