Up Country

April 3rd.  Amazed by the good weather, and in dire need of an escape from the computer, we decided to take a trip up Deeside; in the end we went much further than we expected. We followed the winding road along the southside away from the main tourist traffic and, with a minor diversion (well, round in a circle actually!) along a backroad, ended up in Braemar where we headed northwest to the end of the highway.

The Dee is a salmon river, and all along its length there are bothies and benches and parking places for anglers who have the money...the last, I think, being the critical element.

Mar Lodge lies beyond Braemar, up towards the headwaters of the river (the Dee rises in the Cairngorms, somewhere in the Lairig Ghru) - the valley is broad, flat-bottomed, the result of glaciation, and the river loops lazily across it in wide meanders. It's a lovely spot at any time of year, and there was a real feel of spring in the air at last.

Still plenty of time, and the weather staying fine, we decided to go back the long way, over the hills to Strathdon, the other river valley leading to Aberdeen.

The pattern of muirburn show that the land is managed for grouse shooting; it's a pity the grouse don't realise it. At this time of year they are more interested in displaying to each other, and we crested one hill to find this chap strutting his stuff in the middle of the road.

Finally he wandered off into the heather, and we headed for home.

Turning Seasons

Getting up at an unearthly hour to count the geese every month can sometimes be a bit of a trial, but there are some things that make it worthwhile - the song of a skylark, giving it laldy somewhere overhead in the darkness before dawn; groups of roe deer grazing along the field margins, coming within twenty yards before catching sight or smell of the car, and bolting away into the sunrise, or leaping over the fences with astonishing grace; a flight of whooper swans skimming low over the wood and straight over the car, 'whoong-ing' to each other as they pass overhead. And of course, the geese, in their thousands, rising from the loch and the Low Ground where they have been roosting and feeding to head out into the dawn in search of more food, building strength for the new breeding season.

And the sunrise... each early morning this year, the sun rises a little bit further north. In mid-January, it rose in a scarlet and fuchsia glory behind the Rookery Wood. This morning, it was a full hands-width further round, beyond the airfield; pink filigree lighting the clouds before the gold-on-blue brilliance made using my binoculars a distinctly unsafe business. It marks the changing seasons as much as the snowdrops that flourish in the damp woodlands, or the sudden appearance of lambs, which pop up as if hatching from the turnips their mothers are feeding on. (Or are they helping them to hatch? My passing aliens might suspect so.) Spring is finally showing signs of returning.

And one day I'll figure out how to stick a video into a blog post without have to do it separately!

Happy Mother’s Day

‘You have got to admit,’ I say to Mum, as we peer out into the gloom through the windscreen, ‘there are not many mothers that get to celebrate Mother’s Day like this.’
‘Hmmm.’ she sounds singularly unimpressed.

It’s 5.30 in the morning, in the dark, and there is a howling gale blowing from the north-west. Somewhere out in the dark, there are geese….. yes, it’s counting time again, and here we are, waiting for take-off!

A harsh rattle of sleet hits the back of the car, and the sky grows a bit lighter, lowering stratus clouds flying away above us, dumping their load of precipitation as they pass. At about 6.00 a.m. a few geese can be made out struggling through the murk, fighting a strong head wind that blows them straight back to the loch, where they give up and land again. The rooks and jackdaws are enjoying the wildness, tumbling and diving in the wind, but little else seems to be happy about it. Three roe deer cross the field, pausing to check out the car parked in the middle before springing easily over the fence and heading for the shelter of the Badger Wood. The wind rocks the car, and a gusting veil of snow reduces the visibility to a few hundred metres. I wipe the condensation from the windscreen and crack open the side-window a few millimetres. The howl of the gale is too loud to hear what is happening among the geese that I know are out there, but cannot see. I put the window back up. We spread a blanket across our knees to try and stay warm, burrowing into our fleece jackets and pulling woolly hats low on our heads. In a gap between snow-showers, a few more geese try to make their escape, wheeling around overhead only to be blown back again. One or two groups of very determined birds actually manage to make it, heading out to forage.

The snow has built up on the window on Mum’s side of the car, blocking her view. We slide down the window to clear it, and a small drift falls in, onto her lap. A car pulls up behind us.
‘This is ridiculous!’ Vicky sticks her head in through the rear door ‘we’re abandoning it for today. Breakfast back at the farmhouse!’
We are not sorry to retreat.

Later, after bacon butties, we go over to the visitor centre to see if we can see anything. The field to the left of the centre is full of geese, packed in tight, heads tucked down into feathers or feeding in a desultory manner on the grass. Fortunately, the winter has been so mild (until today!) that it hasn’t stopped growing, and they can find a decent meal. The few ducks visible are tucked well in under the banks and in the reeds. There’s no sign of the visiting sea eagle; it’s either sensibly tucked down somewhere out of the storm, or – if it’s tried to fly – is probably halfway to Norway by now.

Before we finally go home, we call in at Kinnaird Head to watch the gannets wheeling and diving offshore. The sea is a mass of white-marbled slate green, foam whipping off every ripple and crest, breaking over the rocks, spume flying through the air. A couple of scoter duck, black against the whiteness, battle their way rounds the point. An eider rides the surge, white on grey. As we drive round the harbour, a large bull grey seal bobs up in the sheltered water, safe in his refuge. We take the hint, and go home.

Sex and Violence in Suburbia

Early March, and there is an amphibian orgy at the bottom of my mother’s garden.

Go out in the dark and there is a constant sound, a low throbbing underlying the distant hum of traffic and the barking of the dog in the next street, audible even from my bedroom. It’s the croaking of frogs. Recent warm weather has spurred them into amorous action, and they have gathered in Mum’s ponds to indulge in some hot frog-on-frog action. Huge billows of spawn bear testament to their activities, and there is a mighty splashing whenever we venture down the garden path, as they dive below the surface in a flurry of waving legs. In twos and threes, or even more, they cling together, each male trying to grab hold of a compliant female, even if he has to share her with several other males. He locks his forelegs around her ponderous middle and hangs on until she’s ready to lay her eggs, to make sure he’s in the right place at the right time. But it’s a wise frog that knows its own father, as any one of the attendant males could be Mr Right. Sometimes their cumulative enthusiasm is too much, and the female is so beset by suitors that she drowns.

Feeling rather the voyeur, I venture down the garden and try to count heads (or legs). It’s a losing battle, as they pop up and vanish all over the place, in the ponds or in the undergrowth – I lose count at thirty, and under the reproachful stare of many gold-ringed amphibian eyes, retreat to the house.

In revenge, they croak loudly all night.

Clout Casting

As the saying goes - 'Never cast a clout 'til May is out'.

Apparently, it means 'may blossom', not the month of May - up here in the North-East of Scotland, it isn't too confusing in this year of weird weather, as the may blossom ( aka hawthorn, Crataegus monogyna unless someone has changed its name while I wasn't looking) didn't appear until last weekend, so both May the month was out and so was the blossom - all at once.

And oh boy, is it out - I wondered for a moment if there had been a major whitewash explosion over one hedgerow - the trees are absolutely covered with thick white blossom, and the bumblebees are loving it.
Butterflies seem to have emerged at last - there have been a few painted ladies and this morning a red admiral flew over the beach and (rather appropriately) headed out to sea...

This morning saw the last beach session of the summer term, and with the tide well out, we found a lot of stranded jellyfish, both moon jelly (Aurita aurita) and the metallic blue Cyanea lamarki, which caused excitement amongst the kids (0nce they'd finished digging holes, of course). Bucketloads of wobbly jelly were brought for identification - 'can it sting?' 'can I pick it up?' and of course 'can I keep it?' (The brief panic that passes over the teacher-in-charge's face at this point is priceless!)

As to clout casting - well, it's the first day I could leave my jacket in the car, so I guess it counts!