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.

A Familiar View

 And one to which I may not return; one which I had not planned to see.

Those fears of arthritis have been confirmed.  It seems the condition was noted in a similar x-ray back in 2019, though I was never advised of those findings.  I'll come back to medics shortly.

Living with pain, constant pain, is very trying.  It detracts from the ability to concentrate for any length of time; any creative juices that I may harbour are well and truly quelled.  I try to manage daily tasks, whilst also finding time to take what exercise may be possible.  The bike remains pining in the garage, as those rare sun-kissed days drift by.

Confirmation of my new arthritic status comes with a route to physiotherapy.  That however is not a cosy chat, a session on the treatment couch, warm hands doing their thing.  Oh no, first there is a questionnaire, I suspect an AI chatbot thing.  Then I have to download an App.  Is this the way forward?

I have a set of exercises, twice daily.  Feedback to give, boxes to tick.  I can't honestly tick the boxes that confirm the exercises to have been Too Hard, or Too Painful.  Or indeed Too Easy.  That leaves only one option.  I Loved It!  Really?  No box to tick for, I Managed; it was OK.  Whose Key Performance Indicators are we ticking off here?

I'll stick to the regime.  Promise.

Without the patience, or comfort, to sit down and try to produce something that might resemble music, I head out for another walk.  I pack a bag.  Camera, field glasses, drink and a biscuit.  Prepared to do a bit of sitting and watching.  Listening.  Walking poles, best used now with a pair of old finger-less cycling gloves; round my neck the microphone attachment for the phone; for Merlin.

Loudoun Hill.  I opt for the low path, round the outside.  But I keep on walking, up the road, past where we used to be able to park to access those rocky slopes.  I cross the field, still no firm plans.  Three stiles, not easy, with a pair of poles and a very restricted knee, trussed up with a hinged brace.

Through the trees, lambs scurrying to mama.  Merlin tells me I am listening to willow warblers, and a goldfinch and a wren, amongst others.  I gaze up from the foot of the slope.  Could I?  In this condition, with this pain?  Would I cause more damage?

After a bit of puzzling through the rocky bits, which foot where; and how, I reach the summit.  Those familiar views open out.  New wind turbines, partially built, towering.  They're bound to have red aviation lights.  And there lies the house.

Reaching the lower woods again, after the same struggles through the rocky parts, I chat with a group gathered to watch the lambs, mothers and teenagers, the girls a bit upset.  During my spell at the summit twins had appeared.  One had taken herself off.  She and mama knew.  The survivor tottered for a drink, from those sagging udders.  She had birthed on the dusty path, the placenta still there, red and shining, to be picked off by the crows.

Never has a lamb been so manky in taking her first drink.  In the fields we see them bright and white, and shiny.  This poor wee soul was dust covered, stumbling.  Trying to get legs to work.  Nature and mama took over.  The lost twin forgotten.

Later there was pain, increased levels, after enduring the evening exercises.  I reached for the pain relief.  With some trepidation.  I had mentioned, in the surgery, that I knew ibuprofen to be off my list, reaction with the hiatus hernia something to be avoided.  It's external, a gel on the knee, won't affect the digestive system...

I read the notes.  Do Not Use...if you are asthmatic.  But the GP that prescribes my asthma inhalers, and the chemist that dispenses them, were happy to supply, to encourage me to use it.  I despair.

Grumpy Old Man mode seems to kick in with ease these days.  And don't get me started on the election that calls for my vote later in the week.  Let's just enjoy a familiar view.  And I wonder if I'll stand there again, before we complete that move, From Peelhill to Portknockie.

Feeling the passing of the years

 As we approach the end of this first month in the new stage in life known as Retired, it is painfully obvious that the years do not pass without leaving their mark.  For as well as being in the early days of a new regime I am also approaching five weeks of having had an x-ray taken on a staggeringly painful knee.  And I have been staggering ever since.  As yet the GP still awaits results from said scan.  The pain continues, undiagnosed, and absent any possible remedy.

This particular knee has been damaged in the past, had some minor surgery a quarter of a century ago.  This time round the onset of pain was not triggered by any further damage, no accident or sporting injury whatsoever.

Thus the walking and cycling elements of the retirement plans remain on hold as yet.  That said these weeks have been busy; well wishes and many kind words from those I now need to refer to as former clients, as well as easing through the passage for new advisers to grasp the reins.  Letting go is not easy.

The painful knee, and I fear it may be the onset of arthritis, has left me limping very slowly, every step racked in pain.  Life involves regular ice packs, and too many disturbed sleeps.  Painkillers offer little help, though sleep may be aided by a pleasant 12 year old from Bowmore.

On our latest trip north, to move the retirement home on a bit, I did manage to reach the cliffs at Troup Head.  Gannets a-plenty, doing nesting things.  

I have a little woodland wander, aided by much strapping and a fine pair of walking poles, on the agenda, for I want to check up on a fine young lady I happened across in the last two visits.

Loch-na-Bo is set to become a firm favourite.  My first venture, that weekend a month or so ago when the knee first called for help, took me amongst tall Scots pines and silver birch, rhododendrons gasping for spring, and a carpet of American skunk cabbage, yet another invasive non-native species that is banned from sale here.  At this stage I realise I have yet to finish the articles drafted after that walk.  The woods are filled with song, from treecreepers, and bullfinches and all the tits, finches and warblers you can imagine.

Out on the water a pair of mute swans had chased a couple of whoopers, bugling and flapping across the loch.  Swans in flight are a marvellous sight.  I feel an addiction coming on.

Our return, through the Easter weekend saw me introducing Gilly to this woodland delight.  She took Merlin with her and we ambled slowly - all pain and poles for one of us - to the far end of the loch.  There we found my mute quine, watching and wary, but settled and comfortable.  She sat on a wide nest of straw but a handful of yards from the shore.

She has been calling me back, perhaps a clutch to show me.  It will be too soon for hatching, but I'm keen to check on her wellbeing, assuming that old knee grants permission.  I'll report on that shortly.

Retirement

 A massive step in the Peelhill to Portknockie Project this week.  The working days are coming to an end.  In this my 50th year in the tax profession, the last 32 of which running my own tax consultancy, the end is nigh.  The letters to clients are out, and I enter my last week in the workplace.

Fifty years without a break, though it has been increasingly part time these last few years.  I guess I can trace my working life back further; back to those of the morning paper round, earning £1 per week, before shelf stacking in the supermarket at £1 per hour, and then, in October 1976, full time work.

As I begin to relax and to look ahead, those plans take a little more shape.  We've had the builders in all week, and they'll be back next week.  That all started with a slate falling from the roof in August last year.  Eventually we found someone prepared to come and have a look.  The critical, professional eye was quick to spot other works needing done.  Thus this past week it has been chimney stacks and skews getting attention and bit more than TLC.  Only the thickness of the walls has prevented water penetration over the years.

Next week it will be slates - the one that came down has been replaced and the ridge tiles reset, but there's another couple of dozen needing replaced; cracked, broken, or simply 'repaired' with sealant and glued down.  Then there's rough-casting to be repaired and sealed; new gutters and facias.

All the sort of thing that you might think would be hinted at in the Home Report, budgeted for.  But no.  Hey ho.

There is a parking space at the end of the yard, and some concreting and sealing has been done there, the possible source of water access under the building.  I'm of a mind to block out the parking access, which we rarely use, by moving the fence that separates that space from the yard, bring it all into what might loosely be termed a 'garden'.

One of the legacy issues in closing the office, is the retention of files and papers, client records, until such time as GDPR compliance dictates they have to be destroyed.  Where to put them?  Rent a lock-up, perhaps a container?  There are facilities nearby but I baulk at £150pm for five years.  So, that parking space...

One of our first additions at Portknockie was a bike shed, courtesy of Pads Sheds.  It is ideal, and a solid bit of bespoke timber construction.  We could do something similar, in the former parking space.  We have the space; and Pads Shed have the skills. With paper in storage for a lengthy period there would need to be insulation involved, perhaps a tin outer layer at least on the roof.

Once Kevin and James and the gang from McGregor Roofing have brought the house up to scratch, fit for whatever years we may have left, having got to the glories of the retirement stage; then I could be in touch with Lora and Pad to find a route to resolving the storage problems.  I reckon we might be crying out for the available space, once I can safely destroy all those old office files.

That retirement word seems to have infiltrated the old bones.  Knee surgery 25 or so years ago has always left a lingering weakness.  Just as I start to put work behind me, and cast an eye to extended time on the walking routes and cycle paths, so the knee flares up.  I suspect wear & tear, old age, perhaps arthritic, for I have had neither accident nor injury.  Isn't that the Law of Sod, more time imminent, and scarcely able to shuffle along, feart to turn a crank.

Oh well, there are other projects for this great retirement.  Ones that involve sitting down.  And patience.  And there's Peelhill to be addressed.  The Departure.  Scary.  Very scary.  30 years this May, memories.  And no shortage of accumulated clutter.  Plans for that anniversary have just been laid down.  Plans that may involve a puffin or two...