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.