Highland Insider

The long winter brought an unexpected dilemma for us. All through the weeks of snow we dutifully kept the garden feeders topped up with peanuts, fat balls, even home-made ones when we were snowed in and couldn’t get down the hill for supplies. We watched with great satisfaction as the population of small birds flocked to keep themselves well-fed and watered. The feeders were so well used they looked like living feathery sculpures.

That was when the sparrowhawk moved in. It got its first blackbird in early February, followed by a coal-tit from the beech tree. Not long after that one of the resident buzzards landed in the garden, scattering the chaffies that were hoovering up under the hanging feeder. She didn’t get anything on that occasion, but the sparrowhawk took up a regular watch. One day near the end of the snows, we thought a blizzard was starting again, but when we rushed to the window we found the flurry of white was not snow but tiny feathers…

So, to feed or not to feed, that was the question. But there was no choice, really. The garden birds needed their food and the raptors needed theirs. We carried on stocking the bird table and feeders, keeping the hanging ones tucked away in a thorny rambling rose,  and let Mother Nature take the blame and the credit for the rest.

I watched a huge gang of geese flying over the fields around Castle Stuart near Ardersier this morning. They seemed confused, going off in one direction for a bit then changing and switching back again. They were still mooching around like this by the time I’d gone into Inverness Airport, drunk a coffee, drove through Adersier and back onto the road.

Further on was a field full of another three to four hundred grazing pink-foots, and there’s been a cluster of Whooper swans hanging around on the sunny side of a nearby farm for the past month. We reckon it’s so cold they don’t know whether they’re coming or going. It snowed today and there’s a north wind that would take the face off you, as my mum would say.

I was thinking the Whoopers were getting ready to head up to Iceland but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve arrived from further south and think they’re already there.

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.

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.

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.

Outside my bedroom window is a little mud nest stuffed full of baby swallows. It’s tucked under the corrugated roof that forms a covered walkway between the cottage and the outbuildings, and it’s just low enough to be able to see five fluffy punk heads poking out of the rim. The white lipstick markings round their gaping mouths show up easily against the dark background of the nest when they’re awake and looking for a snack.

They seem to associate any nearby movement with the parents returning with food, as whenever we go out of the front door they start up a noise like a chorus of squeaky toys, loud enough to wake the dead. Well, at least loud enough to wake the sleeping; I’m now roused around four o’clock every morning when their breakfast arrives. It’s such an endearing racket though, I just smile and go back to sleep. I’ll probably miss it when they fledge.