Puffin Time

 Sparse with the words today.  Firstly there's a few pictures to raise a smile or two.  

And secondly I need the words for another task this weekend; the mind elsewhere.

Puffin Time then, a breezy couple of hours at Bullers of Buchan.

On the Red List

 A robin hopped on to the arm of the bench.  I had not a crumb to share with him.

The bench sat in a sheltered nook on the clifftop, high above the path past Jenny's Well.  From below the sounds of kittiwakes and cormorants rose on the thermals.  But at the top of the cliff it was the songbirds who grabbed the attention.

The robin stopped and stared.  Much higher, unseen, the skylark enjoyed the sunshine.  All Aboard, she sang, All Aboard.

I thought of dozing off.  It was that time of the afternoon, right enough.  Put the book down, just for ten minutes. Open views across the bay, to distant cliffs where the gorse bloomed.  On the water nothing stirred; neither sail nor fin.

The bench was hemmed in on three sides by dense thickest of whins.  With the air beginning to warm up so the scent drifted.  At first I couldn't place it.  Sweetness, from the golden canopy, masking those thorns.  Then it dawned on me.  Coconut.  That was it.

A scurrying startled me, perhaps from droopy eyes.  On the path, not ten yards away, wide eyes stared me out.  Sprouting little branches that one day would be antlers.  The deer had appeared from below, bounced up the coppered bracken of the cliff.  A couple of steps between the whins, and he looked around.  Then off he went, lolloping across the field towards Bow Fiddle, white hearted dock bouncing across the greenery.

He left me with the yellowhammers for company, yammering about cheeeese, as usual.  And from down below the sounds of the surf rolled on.

Coconut.  And cheese.  Venison too.

Then I realised, each one of them is on my red list.  Do not touch.  Or face the consequences.  Appetite wakened, I settled for a stick of liquorice.  And read on; in the sunshine.  As the birds sang all around.

Melancholy

 Lazing on a sunny afternoon.  Letting things happen around me.  Rather than switch the grey matter on again, and search for a few words, try to put them in the right order, I'll let you off lightly.  Here's a couple of snaps:

It was one of those days, when the woods rang with the songs of busy birds.  The willow warbler was heard but not seen.

The crested tits were away doing nesting things.  But the yellowhammer was yammering away again.

And the squirrel entertained.  No shot of the stoat through, running across the road in front of the car, heading for the beach.  So have a heron instead.

The Bin

 The day started brightly, a clifftop wander, raucous colony out at Shitten Craig and Bow Fiddle.  I stay at the upper level, wandering through the whins to look out over the golf course and surging surf of Cullen Bay.  I turn for home, the way marked by the buttery yellow of the yeldrick, perched on the golden gorse, and yammering of his love of bread, sans fromage.  Farewell seabirds and hello songbirds, to see me home

Having had a distant view of the silhouetted Bin of Cullen, the hill had drawn my eye on the homeward trip from Troup Head.  From the cliffs above the golf course the Bin owned the skyline.  If you've ever wondered how to access what looks a promising viewpoint, pondered over the route to take, then the place to go is always Walk Highlands.  Whether you're in Drumclog or Portnockie, or virtually anywhere else, there will be walks for you on that brilliant website.  And not just walks, full directions, guidance, maps, and so much more.  Over the years they've made it even easier, with an app for your phone.  Download your walk and off you go, safe in the knowledge that even when your phone signal lets you down, the route is already saved.

And so it was with the Bin of Cullen.  Two turns off the main road, parking as promised, and off we go.  Hardcore paths for softcore walkers.  320m, or 1,049ft for the auld yins, at the summit.  Enough to get the muscles warmed and the blood pumping, but no need to pack a picnic.

A smashing walk on a nice day, with cracking views all round.  

Magnificent woodlands, with mature Scots pine, tall and straight, brought alive by birdsong.  Silver birch, dotted in the margins, with pockets of gorse glowing in the sun.  The understorey is ready to burst into life, coppery bracken, bluebells, and as you reach the heights a carpet of heather.  At the upper levels you emerge from the trees, and the countryside opens beneath you.  From those pines in the lower reaches you find stunted versions succumbing to the wind.  And seats, thanks to the local BB.

I'll be more than happy to Get in the Bin time and time again.  

Trouping the Colour

 Of late I've been taking more than a passing interest in podcasts.  Some can be ideal for long journeys, or sleepless nights; those twilight hours just as the dawn chorus begins on the other side of the window.  Some might tell me stories, perhaps wildlife tales, or chat about books.  Others might feature birdsong.  Earlier today it was bird tales, as, for no particular reason I selected Polly Pullar's Paperboats podcast, when she discussed her Solan Goose Summer.  I had read her article, in the opening edition of the Paperboats Zine 18 months or so ago, but it was good to hear her chatting about her experience on the cliffs, and reading from that article.

She must have struck an unconscious chord, for later in the day I headed off to Troup Head; and the gannets.  The skies were kind, bright and cheery.  Much like myself, I don't hear you say.  In a sheltered clifftop spot I settled to absorb the action.

The raucous sounds of the gannetry reach you on the path across the fields.  Then the rich aroma of the guano-stained cliffs.  And finally the eyes take in all the splendour.

 

 It is like sitting in a snow-globe; perpetual motion.  Soaring and gliding, black-tipped wings and golden domes.  The surf far below catches the attention.  It is early in the season on the cliffs, nesting time rather than guga time.  Sounds of surf, swirling and rushing, battling with the squawks and squeals from the cliffs; attention drawn from all around.

Down below waters swirl and churn, at times green, then blues and greys, frothing, seething.  Fulmars and gannets patrol the cliff face.  Black-tipped wings, fully 2m from tip to tip, soaring past, finding partners in the throng.  Clashing beaks.

 Polly tells us the one of the impacts of avian flu a few years ago, aside from the catastrophic drop in numbers, has been bright blue eyes turning black.  We don't yet know the full health impact of that, on the breeding colonies.

Rather than bringing in food to the nest - no plunging of gannets today, dive-bombing the shoals -  it is  nesting materials that are brought in.  Yes, some of the lucky ones get a little scrubby grass to settle on.  Precarious rocky perches offer little comfort.  Feathers ruffle, webbed feet tucked under, ready to keep the eggs warm in the weeks ahead.

An unplanned couple of hours in the sun, with Polly Pullar fresh in the memory for company.  And if sleep escapes me on the morrow, I wonder now where that might lead me.  My podcast range is growing (I'm using podbean).  And for the next few days my time is my own.

The homeward route offers views along the rugged cliffs of Moray, the Bin of Cullen a distant silhouette.  Sun bounces off the silver surf rolling into the wide arc of Banff Links. The Bin offers 320m of viewpoint to explore.  One day.  Probably not one where the legs have trundled a few miles on The Grasshopper in the morning.

Heralding

 

Frost-rimed daffodils, heads drooping.

Gently waking as the early rays

stretch slowly across the garden.

The beech hedge still sports her

coppery coat, waiting yet on the

budding greenery to nudge it to the ground.

The red stalks of the dogwood burst

with burgeoning buds.

And the wind has dropped.

A bike ride, later, in the sunshine.

Rustling undergrowth. A merlin scavenges.

In the field the curlew capers, her

curved bill delving for grubs.

As the skylarks rise, unseen, to

herald the new season.

The Gift of the Year

 This past year or two I have made very little bread, even fewer cakes.  Or at least ones that I could safely eat.  Food intolerances.  There's a list; a long one.  Yesterday, though, I  experienced the sheer joy of cutting a slice from a home made loaf, and savouring that rich texture, fresh from the oven.  And I did so safe from any adverse consequences.

I read a book, bought new ingredients, used a recipe.  And that's all down to the Gift of the Year, from one who cares, deeply.  Yes there are good gluten free loaves in the larger supermarkets, I Promise you that.  But when the lunchtime bagel comes in at close to £1, before adding a slice or two of ham, something has to change.

And that's where Katarina Cermelj comes in.  The Elements of Baking is a comprehensive guide to producing life's essentials, and treats - these terms are not mutually exclusive - by adjusting each and every recipe for each and every intolerance.  She adds the science.  And it works.

 

New flours had to be found.  My basic loaf started with a blend of tapioca starch, millet flour and sorghum flour.  Then we add psyllium husk to the carefully weighed jug of water.  With a few other bits and pieces, we have what is recognisably dough.

Previous attempts at gf bread have been disastrous; sloppy batters, the produce of which ends up on the bird table.  That all changed.  With the right ingredients; the right measurements.

There was kneading, that rhythm, and elasticity.  Oh how I've missed that regular pounding on a floury surface of a Sunday morning.  Therapy.  There was proving, and then baking.  And then the taste test.  What joy, such a relief.  Such a treat.

 

I think I'll be putting in regular orders to Shipton Mill.  And I'll be keeping Katarina  Cermelj very handy.  For there's so much more to explore in her lab than just a basic loaf.  But what a great start that was.

If I made one mistake with this one it was in a dusting with rice flour.  Eggy wash next time methinks. 

 

Trundling in the Sun

 In the Spring sunshine, the lightest of breeze chases
the cyclist along familiar roads, the windrush in the ears.
Still in cool weather gear, full gloves, as we
head uphill.  Panting.  Wheezing, just a little.

Up towards Lambhill, then along the High Kype.  Past
Deadwaters and round Greer Hill, down into Sandford.
Back along the Low Kype, the Roman Road.
Whizzing down to Gilmourton, the childrens’ school

which started them so well.  Two classrooms,
three teachers.  Endless memories.
Another loop to the ride, legs still working, a bit left
in them yet.  The Meadowfoot circuit, steady climb.

Then the steep one, up to Drumboy, and recover
the breath, before Rough Diamond.
Loudoun Hill, those big, bare crags.
And following the path of the River Irvine

between the bike and the hill, there’s a chorus,
above.  Honking and chattering.  Formation flying.
Eighteen in the flight.  A whiteness of swans.  
And I cycle home bursting with joy.  I will miss this place.

The Drover's Dog

 At the recent Festival of Arts, Ideas and Books I had a blether with Mike Smith after his reading from his beautifully crafted The Drover's Dog.  We were at Maryport's Senhouse Roman Museum, meeting up with old friends, listening to some fascinating talks on books, poetry readings, and much more.  And wallowing in some Allonby memories.

The Drover's Dog intrigued me.  There's a tail to tell, a tale perhaps.  Firstly the author; is not named as Mike Smith, but as Brindley Hallam Dennis.  And therein lies another tale.  Although he publishes his fiction and non-fiction under separate names, it's not so much a split personality, more that BHD came to Mike later in life, despite being there right at the start.  He doesn't go into the detail on his own blog,  but it's very much part of him.  And warrants another tale being told.  In his own inimitable style.

 

From Haldane's The Drove Roads of Scotland, Brindley, as we'll know him from this point, learns that the drovers of old, having driven their beasts to the London markets, sent their dogs to find their way home, whilst they enjoyed a little longer in the city.  He had an idea.

His tale is of a dog, Bonnie, arriving home much later than expected, and battle scarred.  She had been slashed, and then stitched up.  Drover Davy wanted to thank both parties, and set out to find out what happened; who did the slashing.  And who the stitching.  He walks south, on the drove roads from Fort William.

We pass through familiar landscapes, all the time on the old drove roads, and into the less familiar.  Davy meets some interesting characters.  Some he knows from his droving treks, wondering why he is alone, out of season.  Some remember Bonnie.

This is a traveller's tale, set in 1791, rich in history, sparkling with dialogue and dialect.  Several dialects, which Brindley does so well, especially in his readings.  I'll spare you any spoilers, save to say that you'll have noted the date is within living memory of the journey another Bonnie made south, to Swarkestone Bridge.

At the moment The Drover's Dog is only available from the online retailer I refuse to do business with; privately published, one of their print-on-demand volumes.  But I couldn't resist, phoned a friend.  You shouldn't either.  Join Davy on the drove roads, plaid on your shoulder, oatmeal in your bag, firesides to sit round.  It's a long walk.  And a fine read.