Windswept Again

 Leaving behind the surf surging on the shingle I headed for the protection of the woodland path along the riverbank.  Eight swans sheltered, heads tucked deep beneath white wings.

The wind burst through the birch trees and danced over the barley field.  

Early season, still green, seed heads just beginning to form.  Surging in waves, in colour-shifting shades.

                               

                                                        Warm westerly wind,

                                                         ripening barley ripples

                                                         a palette of green

I rest downstream of the viaduct.  

Windrush in the ears.   Silver ripples dancing like nymphs on the water as it burbles over boulders, whilst the wind gusts through the girders;  and the river meanders between shingle banks.

After storms, when the Spey is in spate, entire trees are swept downstream.  As levels lower rootballs find footholds on the shingle.  Skeletons remain, leaching.

A lone fisherman casts his eye to the sky, 

whips his rod and darts his fly over the current.  He edges slowly down river.

I return over the viaduct, holding on to my hat.  Where I had gazed upstream and down earlier, taking in those dancing water sprites as the river forged a meandering path through the shingle banks, a young couple put their golden Labrador to the test. Trained to the whistle he sits at heel.  And waits.  On command he dives, into the depths of the current.  Swims and retrieves.  Back to heel.

Then it's the turn of his kennel-mate, the black one.  I watch as she repeats the task.  A draw perhaps.

Returning to the river mouth, the tide has turned, covering the mud banks and the greens of the weeds and the moss-covered stones.  The swans had taken shelter in the lee of the far bank. 

Bands of turbulent blue and translucent turquoise marked the mingling of the fresh and the salt waters over the shallows.  The river gives into her fear.  They meld together.

Contented I head for Loch Spynie, and a blether with the birds.

Cheeeese

 

Small World

 It was a huge pleasure to take a trip into Aberdeen.  Other than a football match at Culter I don't think I have been near the city since perhaps 1969 - washed out of a caravan site in Stonehaven, and a trip to the Bon Accord Baths.  However I had a special reason to detour on my travels north.

It was the launch of the Gray's Degree Show 2025, at the School of Art at RGU.  And young Thomas was graduating with First Class Honours!  I was privileged to be asked to join him and his family for the celebrations.  On the day I first met his mother, Yasemin, she had been heavily pregnant with the lad who would be Thomas, walking with sticks.  We have been through a fair bit together over the years, personally and professionally.

Thomas was largely written off at school, my own alma mater as it happens, advised that his art would only ever be a hobby around whatever menial job he could find.  First Class Honours.  Such a proud family, and so good to be able to witness their joy in his achievements.  Onwards Thomas; the world awaits your talents.

Anyway whilst waiting on them to arrive another familiar face appeared.  The family from the next farm to us had also made the 162 mile journey, their daughter Arrabella also graduating and showing her wares at the same ceremony.  Small world.

A little later I turned the key in the door at Portknockie.  Sitting down after bringing my bits and pieces in from the car I caught up with news online.  Orcas, passing the harbour close to shore, and on to Bow Fiddle Rock, just as I had been arriving.  Missed them.  Again.

Rain promised all of next day.  But it broke bright and sunny.  And warm.  Gardening chores.  Tidying up our little arrangement of planters, some refilling.  And all done without the expected soaking.

Time for a walk, past BFR, and round the cliffs.  A seat in the sun as the birds sang.  The whins have shed their golden blossoms.  It all seems a bit dull, a bit green.  Deep carpets of ferns up the cliffs; heather and grasses.  And larks ascending, unseen, of course.  I sat on my favourite bench, the raucous colony distant, the songbirds close; Cullen Bay stretching out in the sun.  A yacht drifts slowly across, two sheets to the barest of breezes.

A wren sits; and she sings.  I wander along to the benches high above the golf course.  The chaffinch and the wren compete.  Three rhythmical thunks drift up towards me.  Below, three golfers head in different directions, from the 10th tee.  The yeldrick pleads for more cheese.

Cullen Bay sunshine

More cheese for yellowhammers

swallows flash over grass

Patches of rosa rugosa add little hints of pinks and whites to the palette.  The recently mown football field is attacked by swallows, inches above the turf, darting here and there, twisting and putting on a show.  Formation flying.  Almost.  From the shrubbery above the cycle path the goldfinch and the blackbird join the concert.

At Spey Bay, a little later, there is excitement, a brief visit from the osprey setting the seabirds aloft.  The air roars, and twin red trails appear.  Six flights, formation flying, coloured trails, loops and hoops.  Red Arrows, doing their thing over Lossie way; Typhoons roaring in.

I wander the path up to the viaduct, slowly.  The white-dickied dipper heads for safety.  By the viaduct the sand swallows join in the formation flying; swooping in threes, low and fast.  Too quick for the eye far less the focus finger.  They outdo the boys in red, and without the racket.

I message Stevie, knowing he's a fan of the roaring birds.  No surprise; he's along the road, with the family.  Having missed him and Lucas at Wednesday's ping pong night, I find them a couple of hundred miles further north.  Small world.

We blether outside the Tugnet Ice House.  It was that very morning the same venue had been the subject of a tale on Out of Doors.  As fine as that story was my ears had picked up when the story of the stranded Orca, across the river in Kingston, in 1967, emerged.  They blew it up; guessed the weight, worked out the required explosives.  Then tripled the amount.  Off she went, high and wide.  And far from handsome.  Lumps of stinking whale carcass falling from the sky.  On washing day.  Sheets and knickers rancid with rotting blubber.  For months.  It's the way they tell them; on Out of Doors, at 6.30 on a Saturday morning, and podcasting twice weekly.

I arrive back at base.  And find the dolphins have just passed through.  In this small world.  Missed them.  Again.

Keep a note of the name

 of Cal Flyn.  Her second book, Islands of Abandonment - I haven't read her first, Thicker than Water, yet.  But I may well do, before too long.

Her islands, are those places of neglect.  She takes us to derelicts, abandoned spots, hostile places.  Contaminated places.  And also to islands.

We learn of the current state of play in Chernobyl, and Detroit.  Of what the passage of time has done to the flora and fauna.  Without human interference.  The battlefields of Verdun - there's a harrowing tale.  And the abandoned island of Swona, where the cattle are left for nature to do what nature does.

 And that's just some of them.  We visit the aftermath of volcanic eruptions, of floods and deserts.  Places we humans have had to vacate, whether responsible for the devastation or not.

Cal Flynn brings us the return of the wildlife, without human interference, dreams of aurochs.  There is so much, such a huge amount of research and travel.  I'd better not tell you any more.

The girl can write, beautifully. This is one of those books where I really want the hardback in a bookcase, whereas I read this one on kobo.  I might just treat myself, if not just for the pictures (which is where the e-reader lets you down, and I suspect will continue so to do, even with kobo's new colour version).  You really can't beat the real thing, and I did sell one this week so space on the shelf to fill...