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.