Highland Insider

I’ve just used the last of this year’s batch of Two Mile Jam. I used to make this in late summer or autumn, using fruit grown or foraged within a two mile radius of our garden in Nairnshire, and every time I spread it on my toast I was transported back to the favourite haunts that had supplied the ingredients.

All the knobbliest apples from the Bramley tree went in, along with the brambles and late wild raspberries that grew along the banks of the burn. Blaeberries from deep in the woods were essential (I kept some in the freezer in case they were over before the other ingredients were ready to pick). Occasionally a few rowan berries or a spare blueberry from the garden fruit patch were added, depending on what was around.

In fact, all of these fruits grew within about a quarter of a mile of the house. So why was it Two Mile Jam?

Because for the secret ingredient, the one that gave the jam its rich, almost alcoholic flavour, I had to walk two miles down the road to the nearest elder trees and ask their permission to take some berries. (Asking permission is traditional. In case you’re wondering, they’ve never refused.)

Elder berries are a magic ingredient for all sorts of things - smooth, deeply fruity, and full of very healthy stuff: according to the ethnobotanist James Wong they have anti-inflammatory and anti-viral properties. But mainly they’re just yummy.

This year’s batch of jam was a bit smaller then usual as we were preparing to move house and my foraging time was cut short. Last year’s big batch (in the cake in the picture) lasted us right through to snowdrop time. This was the last time the smell and taste of a jam will transport me to the woods and streams of Nairnshire. I wonder what I’ll find withing two miles of our new home?

The slate sphere fountain at Cawdor Castle

Our recent visit to Cawdor Castle was partly to check out a new piece of art that’s been added to the gardens. We’d seen it being lifted in by helicopter a few weeks ago and were curious to see it in position. There are already three other sculptural pieces there, all of which I love: a copper fountain in the Paradise Garden and my favourites, the paired sphere and semi-circular bench representing the sun and moon in the Slate Garden. (See above, and look here for the artist’s website.) So I was anticipating something quite special. 

I read in the press that the new addition was a ‘Tree of  Life’, designed by artist Tim Pomeroy from Arran and cast in bronze by local company Black Isle Bronze. This got me even more interested. I liked the concept. I love anything in bronze. I reckoned it was going to be spectacular. 

But it wasn’t. 

It’s not that the bronze isn’t beautiful. It’s very tactile, and up close the details of the twigs, leaves and planetary symbols are delicate and intricate. There’s a sun, a golden disc that sits in the branches  which some of the other folk in our party loved. It did glow wonderfully, even on the overcast day that we visited, but I thought it looked strangely out place plonked among the branches of an oak tree (one with curiously few leaves) as if it was trapped there. It reminded me of the old story where the sun is captured and dragged down to earth with ropes. 

I liked the way the tree is set in the ground so it looks like it’s growing there but now, looking at the photos we took, I think that may be part of the problem. In a room or a small flower garden this bronze oak would look magnificent. But ‘planted’ at the end of an orchard full of big old lichened fruit trees it looks a bit puny. Maybe it will come into its own in winter when the other trees are bare too. See what you think. 

The Tree of Life in the Walled Garden

The sun has fallen!

Pied wagtail chicks in their nest on the shelf

I write a weekly nature column in the local paper and over the past three summers this has always featured the pied wagtails that have taken to nesting on a shelf in the old stone shed. They always get in there early, make a flattish nest (full of Nosy Norris’s hairs this year, of course), and are usually sitting on eggs by the time the swallows arrive. This has been bad news for the swallows, who still come looking for their old site just outside the shed and are chased off by the wagtails.

Good news for us though; we love having them there. This year, they moved to a shelf in a different corner of the shed and the PL was able to get a photo without disturbing them (this one’s zoomed in). That was last week, and today all four have fledged and are dashing around the shed and the covered walkway that joins it to the house, already wagging away whenever they stop for a rest. The PL had to rescue one that had stopped for a rest in a bucket of rainwater, but its ducking didn’t deter it one bit. That’s wagtails for you, they’re all wee daredevils, wandering about on roads and nosying into things. We once watched a pair attacking a bat that had come out of the roof during the day. They might look comical with their funny bobbing tails, but they’re not to be messed with.

We’ll keep an eye on the nest, as the parents have always got another brood off pretty quickly. All being well, we’ll have wagtails everywhere again in August.

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?

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.

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.

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.

This is the time of year when I get the best views of the brown hares that live near the cottage. 

They must go elsewhere in the territory for their spring boxing games, but in summer I often see one, or a pair, enjoying long lazy suppers on the west-facing slope of the field across the dry-stone wall. They appear in the evening when it’s dry and the shadows are long; they choose their spot, and settle down for hours at a time, nibbling the grass and taking occasional breaks for a wash and brush-up. (more…)