Tales of the Riverbank

 Little did I know, when I mentioned the possibility of writing on travels with otters a little while back, that it might become a very sore subject so soon.  However what had started as a wretched day and regressed further, ended with faith in humanity restored.

I try not to dwell too often on the impact which food intolerances can force into life.  Having endured more than enough some more intensive tests recently brought a further set of restrictions in shopping lists and menus, with the dire outlook of putting the annual festive cake - 2025 version finished just a month or so ago, with 2026 due to get underway before the end of next month - at grave risk.  Things are that bad.

The day started under a very dark cloud, sleep having been an absent bedfellow with the path from bedroom to sanctuary well trodden.  I'll spare you the details.  A morning bike ride was out of the question, but if the usual pattern followed I'd be allowed out post lunch.

We had chores to do.  The wreckage of a past-its-sell-by-date self assembly unit filled the boot of the car.  Off to Buckie, to the council facility.  Closed Mondays.  The Law of Sod, meaning an inconvenient trip on the morrow.  Buckie also meant a stop at the hardware store.  More padlocks, the most recent seized already, another victim to damp, salty air.  Oh, and hacksaw or bolt-cutters to remove the bugger.

The afternoon plans had included a clifftop walk, down past Jenny's Well, and subject to tide times, on along the beach to Cullen, returning via the viaducts.  That assumed the knee stiffness, following a long walk the previous day, might wear off; and the otter be up for it.  Those plans had to change.

When preparing for these trips, and other more pleasant chores involving a certain birthday girl's wish list and the excellent bookshop in Cullen; perhaps the antique centre too, the absence of the otter was noted.  Alarm bells doing what alarm bells do.  Stomach churning, more than it had done earlier.  Distraught.

Said otter had accompanied us the previous day.  A long walk through the woods and on along Kingston's wartime defences.  He was still there, following the return, after a blether with Sarah at Kingston Gelato - one chocolate and one almond croissant flavour; a seat on the bench.  And joy.  The taste of ice cream.

It was but the second ice cream in almost three years; a treat last tasted in Ullapool a 12 month previously.  Most vegan ices use a coconut oil base, ruled out in my case.  So Sarah's range of options is a welcome stop-off, though one not visited often enough after the tragedy of the Garmouth viaduct, the collapse of which means a walk or cycle from Spey Bay to Kingston remains off the agenda.

Anyway, otters it was, one in particular.  Last with us on that Kingston bench the day before.  I must have abandoned him.  Idiot.  We had better go back.  Very few people, might still be there, with his bright red collar and lead.  Sick to the pit of that very dodgy gut after the night that followed the day before.  Otters are not easy to replace.

As it happens I had been updating some notes in the morning, before becoming aware of my loss, which mentioned Chahala, and Mijbil.  The former surviving but a week; the latter the one causing chaos in a London flat before meeting that road-mender at Sandaig.  Notes for events next week.

Before bringing the car to a rest it was obvious that the bench was devoid of otter, not even a spraint.  A chat with Sarah, another treat.  Any local facebook groups?  Having disturbed her afternoon nap she quickly realised why I might be back.  There was a posting, last night.  An otter.  She thought of me, mentioned it may have been one of her customers.

Quickly on to the group, messages left, phone number.  Please.  And off to the shopping chores.

Fochabers Bridge.  Down to a single lane.  The only road across the river for miles.  Lengthy queues; long and frustrating delays.  We managed through fairly quickly early and mid afternoon.  Off to the bookshop, always a pleasure, though even the discerning stock at Beinn found little in common with daughter's desires.  Across the road the antique centre had taken the same path as the dump.  Closed Mondays, and the following two days as well.  Oh well, gift shops and trinkets.

A message comes in, from Sarah.  Those good folk who had taken charge of said otter the previous night and posted of it on the local group page, had responded to her, travelled to Kingston and left him in her care.  For me to collect.  

I could cope with Fochabers Bridge at peak hour, knowing what awaited me when I arrived at Sarah's shack.  Back and forth four times in one afternoon.  Other trips put back.  Reunited at last; feeling so good in the hand.  Joy.  And faith in humanity.  Good people there still are.

And there will be more travels with an otter.  Hopefully with a little less stress.

An Hour at Spey Bay

 

Fish are jumping

on the in-rushing tide

as the gravel and the sandbanks

give way to rising waters.

Four herons stand

sentinel, on the far bank                                                              Shades of grey, ancient

statues, hewn as if from rock

Out in the bay

beyond the shingle bank

three dolphins cavort

in a gymnastic display

The fish hawk joins

the fun.  Two dive, then                                                                   emerge, talons full.                                                                   Slow to rise.

A low flight to the far bank

clutching the prize

as two more ospreys watch

from high above.

Seven watching swans remain mute.

The ospreys are teasing

distant and high

plummeting behind trees

before emerging with fish

to rise again.

A curlew flies past

with his scimitar bill

as the merganser dives,

graceful as a dancer, to 

swim as the waters rise

Up pops a seal

clears his tubes

and gazes around.

Another tease; wonder

where he'll reappear.

Upstream, high above

The gurgling Spey

four ospreys circle, and

dance with one another.

Another month and they'll be gone.

At the Otter Pool

 Reedbeds unrippled in the evening calm

Insects danced over mirrored water

Layered reflections beneath lily-pads

Muted shades of green from banks

of reeds.  Peach blossom seedheads 

ripe and full, golden on the banks.

Movement catches the eye.  Wigeon

wing-flapping amongst the lilies.

An hour passes.  No words

required.  Tranquil moments at peace

with life.  With each other.

A smattering of rain drops

shimmer the water.  The open

viewing platform dry, under

the foliage, the midges the only

intrusion.  On a scene undisturbed

by the flick of an otter's tail.

New Friends

 For various reasons - the tragic loss of the viaduct and being unable to cycle for four months chief among them - I haven't been in Kingston for quite some time.  That despite having a driving urge to get there.  It is 12 months since I last enjoyed an ice cream, Ullapool that was, and I recall every slurp.  That cone had bridged a two year gap into what I could easily have as a daily habit.  But gluten and dairy and a wide range of foods to avoid put paid to that.

Until last year, when I came across some information from Kingston Gelato.  Special treats were just a bike ride away, until the viaduct succumbed to the shifting currents of the Spey.  However, out in the car, after a brief stop in Fochabers I had decided to head for Spynie Loch, not wanting to end this trip to the area without at least one afternoon.  I had known the wee roads between Garmouth and Lossiemouth from cycle trips made some years previously.  It was easy enough to detour from the A98, down to Kingston, then enjoy a quiet drive to Spynie.

And so I found Sarah's cabin, the maestro hard at, churners turning, as she stocked up for an Aberdeen Farmer's Market.  We had more than a blether; she had more than an understanding.  Never a huge fan of sorbets - often the only item on the puddings menu that isn't a red-flagged temptation into danger - I opted for Sarah's raspberry sorbet.  Delicious doesn't have enough syllables; unctuous too few vowels.  Yummy will do fine for now.  Kingston is back on the map, and a fine place for spotting ospreys heading across the estuary.

Spynie calmed as it always does.  A rest at the feeders, watching and listening.  Woodies and the obligatory squirrel, amongst so many others.  The loch stole the show though, despite appearing quiet if the terns ever allow such a word in their presence.  All the action was on the far side, too far to even attempt a few snaps and some cropping later.

The osprey called in, and through the glasses I had him, rising, fish in talons, water cascading as he struggled to gain height.  May have been a juvenile, for in that move to bring the catch into flight mode, he lost his prize.  It was a good watch, enjoyed by the few in the hide.

Otter, was the call, by the bay.  Again far side of the loch, distant.  But there they were, a pair, cavorting.  That familiar shape of body arching, tail flipping.  A good twenty minutes they provided the entertainment, including what looked to be a bit of thrashing with an eel over by the reed beds.  Smiles on faces.

And so to the woods, beyond Lossie's east beach.  A quiet sit to bring a fine day to a close.  Gosh the birds were a bit flighty, nervous.  It was like watching in sepia, as the juveniles were out gathering.  All toned down, earning their colours.  There was the great tit, perhaps the brightest of the youngsters.  The blue tit recognised only by pattern, washed out.  The robin, almost just another speckly wee brown job; but for that eye.  

The squirrel came in too, just the one this time for the hazelnut rations had long been pilfered.  She was a show girl, showing the birdies a bit of confidence, ignoring the big human infiltrator.  Putting on a show.  And stopping for the photo call.

An alarm went up, all scattered.  A rush through the canopy, sparrowhawk.  In time they began to gather again.  This time the crestie came too.  Goodness was she a flibbertigibbet. 

One finger closes on the shutter button, and she's off; think about the focus ring and she reads your mind.  Always reminding of those angry punk days, the aggressive looks, those spikes - haven't seen anything like that since, oh, Tam Callister of MecLir at Speyfest last week.

Ah music, and so back to base, thoughts of all that had been, of raspberries and otters, squirrels and cresties; and a good dose of Natalie MacMaster to wind down for the night, her Golden Eagle bringing back other memories.  Best kept for another day.

Views from the Bin

 They're splendid, really - think Beinn, in the original Gaelic.  We've been here before.  Reaching the summit again, though it is only 1,000ft or so, had been the next goal set on the long recovery road; now four months since that arthritis attack.  It's been a long, slow and painful road, but finally there is progress.

I look down at the various coastal villages.  The arches of Cullen's viaducts remind me of further progress just the previous day.  I had cycled across the viaducts, adding a final few miles to a ride of a dozen or so.  Nothing remarkable about that, other than it being the first time since March that my knee had allowed the pedals to turn, the joy of a bike ride.  We are making progress.

Later I'd walked through one of those arches, taken the riverside walk in the hope of a glimpse of the white-dickied dipper.  The walk was promising, the dipper elusive.

I gaze further afield, to Spey Bay, a regular bike ride away (pre arthritis), where the osprey fishes, the swans gather, and the otter teases.  Ben Rinnes is a big lump, nestling in deep range, shades of grey above the treeline.  To the south two of Bennachie's triple peaks nudge their way aside the much closer Knock Hill.  And there's Bow Fiddle Rock guarding the bay.

From my new vantage point I plot a possible cycle route, over that same viaduct then a short run on the road before heading through the arch and along that same riverside path.  I should be able to find a way back to base, traffic free, through Robber's Wood and on to Bauds Wood, back on to familiar tracks.  That'll add another interesting ride to the regular repertoire, though it will mean a short spell on the A98    (slightly less fearsome than the A71).  Perhaps once I've burned off those four months of enforced idleness I may even have knees strong enough to take The Grasshopper along that route.

For now though it'll be battery assist, though even with that the much loved Maud Meander will have to wait a while yet.

My path through the woods to the summit of the Bin, and the rare but welcome sight of benches and a picnic table, was also with some assistance.  The old knee still needs some protection.  Again though there are signs of progress.  Dispensing with a pair of walking poles, essential just a few weeks ago, it is a cane that offers support.

I'm beginning to have a bit of a theme working on me - Riding with Grasshoppers; Walking with Otters - both ripe for development.  I'll be sure to keep you posted.  Onwards.

Sun, Sea and Puffins

 Having failed to make a trip to the Treshnish Isles from a recent Iona visit, we had explored the possibilities of a day trip from home, but it had to be before the puffins began to leave their burrows and headed out to the Atlantic until next spring.  We found the way to do it; looked forward to a date etched on the calendar.  And then weather intervened.

Such was wind and rain on 28 June the boat could not sail.  Disappointment was tempered with agreement to move the trip forward a week.  Tenterhooks, daily forecasts not great.  Then it got worse, no chance of sailing.  Another week, fingers crossed.

And so we were blessed, a day where Scotland showcases all her glories.  On the road a little after six of the clock, return expected around midnight.  Sandwiches packed for a long day.

And what a day was served up.  Oban for the morning sail to Craignure.  The harbour hosted the Round the World Clipper fleet, colourful flags and banners, on the final stop before the last leg of an eleven  month  race.  A few of the off duty race crew were taking the opportunity for a day on Mull, multi-lingual stories to tell. Been a while since we took the Oban road, for our usual route for many years has been via Corran and Fishnish.  We met our mini bus, relaxed as we crossed the island to Ulva Ferry, last seen a couple of decades ago or more ago.  Our vessel awaited, in the sun.  And from there a Beach Boys earworm played through the day.

The Jack B took us out to the islands.  Staffa was a break in the journey, an hour.  Eschewing both the cave and the trudge across to the puffin colony, we took the new stairs aloft, the trig point, views all around.  Down the Sound to Iona, abbey limned in the haze.  The minor caves, basalt columns, a baker's dozen raft of puffins on the swell.  Beyond lay the isles of Treshnish.

Further afield Scotland was showing off.  Jura's Paps, and Skye's Cuillin, with small isles in between.  Over on Tiree the Music Festival would be in full swing; Coll seemed closer than ever.  Even little Canna put in an appearance, a trick of light refraction, rarely seen on the horizon.  Eigg's meringue peak.  And on the mainland, mountains, and ranges and shifting shades and silhouettes, from Ben More so close, with cloud trails, to Nevis and so much more.  Scotland's glory out in her finest.

But it was puffins we came for, a corncrake too hopefully.  The Jack B chugged to the north end of Lunga.  As we neared so the puffins enticed us on, fast flapping wings rising from the water.  A floating pontoon awaited, roped on to the boat,  trailed to the shore.  We picked our way over the boulder field, and followed the painted arrow.  Up, and a up a bit more.

Puffins, on display, putting on a show.  Razorbills too.  Food brought to burrows, nesting materials too yet.  Over many years we have watched puffins, photographed plenty, from Staffa to the Isle of May, Bullers of Buchan to Handa, Birsay too.  Delightful as these all are nothing comes close to the Lunga colony, on a day of sunshine  with barely a breeze.

Crex crex,  crex crex.  Of course the corncrake teased.  I followed the sound, climbed paths, wandered off.  A patch of nettles.  Photos have appeared this past month or two, corncrakes on Lunga, out in the open.  Not so for me.  Scouring the nettle patch, listening.  They have the skills of the ventriloquist.  And all around the puffins played, nature's showbirds.  Those big orange feet, the multi-coloured pantomime bill, with it's cornflake rosette.  Waddling, in and out of burrows, wings a-flap, taking to the air, whirring and diving.  Bringing smiles to every face.

It was Turus Mara that made it all possible.  What a day they gave us, linking with the big CalMac ferry, the minibus across the isle, that sail to Staffa and beyond, and then round the various isles of the Treshnish, rich in history.  So well run I'm convinced they had arranged those two bad weather days only then to present us with the beauties of the endless sun and perfect sailing conditions.

Already I'm looking at their other options, more time on Lunga, for photographers and birdwatchers, four hours, even a six hour visit.  They'd need to arrange that weather again, for on other days it could be a long and cold vigil.  Nothing ventured, get over to Turus Mara, and see what you can put in the diary.  There's magic to be found out there.  And all with a smile.

https://www.turusmara.com/

Random Iona corncrake in full flow.

And to take us back to Portknockie, one of Spynie's red squirrels.

New Life

 I mentioned previously that I'd been watching a pair of mute swans on a nest at Loch na bo.  I've been back a few times through the spring, keeping a watchful eye on the nest, always hoping that I might be lucky enough to be there around hatching time.

On occasion I watched as pen and cob changed position on the nest, allowing her time off to feed.  However I had no vantage point that allowed me to see into the nest cup, to know how many eggs there may be, or the timing of laying and thus expected hatching.  My guess was laying early April, hatching late May, though it could have been a week, or even two, sooner.

They remained settled on the nest mid-May.  A month later and the spring growth on the reed bed meant that the nest itself was no longer visible.  Not a glimpse of white amidst the greenery, and I knew we were then well beyond six weeks since I had first come across the pen on the nest.

On that visit to the loch I did get a distant view, from the far side, of one of the pair on open water.  Too far for detail.  I had a lingering hope that there may have been cygnets cosy and warm, tucked in between the wings.  Out for a wee hurl.

My next visit, after a spell of warm and wet weather, brought a much changed lochside.  My viewing points had given way to dense undergrowth, beneath a canopy of full leaf.  The water had a covering of green algae before the reed bed that hosted the nest, those reeds now tall and tightly packed.

A pair of swans paddled nearby, on open water, edging closer together.  Very much a pair; alone.  Any cygnets would by then be too large for a parental ride.  The only other life on the water was the mallard family, hale and hearty, last seen as tiny fluffballs.  I could only surmise that either the nest had failed, eggs failing to hatch, or there had been significant predation, with no survivors.  Sad times either way.

As I wandered widdershins through the woods, brooding on what might have been, sheltering from the rain in tunnels of rhodedendron, a break in the greenery brought me again to open water.  Such joy.  A pair of mute swans, feeding with a quartet of youngsters.  Spirits soaring.

From my nest at the northern end of the loch I'd occasionally caught sight of a distant and lone swan in the furthest corner.  Though I'd suspected there may be another nesting pair I'd never found the nest, that corner of the loch being inaccessible due to a large spread of American Skunk Cabbage.  As my walks round the loch continued through the spring so that skunk cabbage rose and spread, glimpses of water becoming ever rare at the southern end.

To come across a family of swans, surviving and thriving, feeding happily, so soon after the despair of accepting the failure of the nest I'd been watching, fair lifted the spirits.

Perhaps the northern nest had been too open, with the skunk cabbage providing cover at the southern end.  That breeding pair may have been more experienced.  I'll be watching the progress of the youngsters on the loch.  And will be hopeful that my pair either return to the nest for a second clutch, or perhaps build a new nest as summer progresses.  It is good to see them together.