The whirring of wings and slapping of feet draws the eye. A mass rising from the water. The fish-hawk makes his entrance. Hungry, after a long flight across the desert, over the ocean. He eyes the shifting, fast-flowing current below. A flash of silver marks his prey. Above the waters of the Spey the return of the osprey heralds the spring.
There is chittering and chattering in the air. House martins and swallows return. Mud nests appear, tiny dollops melded, mud moulded to clay. Eyes and ears are alive to the sights and sounds of the skies, impatient for wind drift to bring the wing beat of the swift.
Once the mower is finally goaded into life, that steady cursed walk over every square yard of the policies, leaves detritus. Mosses are there to be plucked away. Nesting season, mating season, fledging season; the lark ascending.
It is kissing season too. For the whins are in bloom, though you can usually find a patch of yellow, a whiff of coconut, year round. If an excuse be needed. The clifftop paths glory in their golden coat. More cheese, demands the yellowhammer; the linnet adding the chorus. The hawthorn has its own special after-the-rain notes. And spring rises.
Beech hedges shed their bronze mantle, unfurling a lush green coat. Colour rises on the field maple. Spring also brings the surge of those introduced species that we now witness rising and thriving, leaving a decimation in a winter scourge of erosion. Pink-lanterned Indian balsam marks the path of the water courses. American skunk cabbage might bring gasps from the unwary. Over a few weeks that spotted yellow canvas becomes a mass of greenery, swamp lanterns spreading, ripe and fetid.
On Loch na Bo a pair of mute swans build a nest, unconcerned by any activity on the nearby footpath. Soon it will be partly concealed by the reeds, well before the eggs are due to hatch. The pen settles in, her cob never far, paddling the waters. Their reed nest is as far as it can be from the corner of the loch infested by skunk cabbage.
The cob arrives for some preening, some nest tidying. Serpentine necks dance like flames. A bit of neck-grabbing; reeds added here and there. The cob paddles through the reeds, paternity practice with the mallard family, as he guides them to open waters, chivvying stragglers to keep the brood of ten together in mama’s wake.
Returning the following day I found the cob attentive. He remained nest-side throughout the hour or two of my visit. With no evidence of shells cracking, I will miss the moment. Nonetheless cygnets on the loch will be a joy soon. At the far end of the loch a third swan took to the open water. There may be a second nest site, but such is the skunk cabbage coverage that it will remain concealed.
The turn of the seasons sees our visitors depart once more. Puffins and gannets head to the colder oceans, as others, including our osprey, follow the sun to the south, long and arduous flights for newly fledged feathers. Their absence is as notable as their arrival.
As our spring visitors return south, so our winter visitors arrive from the north. On the Spey whooper swans gather, feeding on the stubble fields, the slapping of wings bringing the flock gently to a rest in the shallows. Behind the shingle, on the shifting estuary, bugles sound as they mingle.
Spynie loch has a mass gathering. Skeins of pink-footed and greylag geese gather to gaggle on the waters. Yellow-billed whoopers come in from the cold, compete in formation landing and take-offs. Resident mutes tell tales to the survivors of the year’s broods. That rhythmic beating of wings, as big black-webbed feet run the surface to gain height, necks stretching, gliding gracefully, planing to a controlled splashdown on return. The brass section honks and bugles. The conductor calls the wind section to attention.
A susurration of murmuration mesmerises as the season draws the starlings together. They arrive in broods, from all directions. Until. Whirring wings, dancing in formation, they put on a daily show, into the gloaming. Ignored by the swans and the geese, enchanting the watchers in the hides. Until, as one, they drop to the reed beds. And night settles.
On the loch the orchestra breathes again. Above, the skies throng with life. Squadrons of geese honking as they fly past. Leaders and wingmen, formations holding. Stonking silhouettes as night descends.
They arrive on the water, excited, in groups, honking after long migrations. Unprompted, phalanxes of geese take to the skies. A family flypast, touch down again. The youngsters are learning.
It is the migrations that mark the changing of the seasons. Inbound and outbound. The first cuckoo may be heard over the first weekend in May if we are blessed with a calm day, when eyes are on the skies for that first swallow. On the sacred isle the crex-crex, crex-crex soundtracks have us scouring the buttercups and docks. Hiding; he mocks.
The flora joins the fun, from those early snowdrops bursting through the frost, until bluebells carpet the woods and wild garlic brings fragrance to the banks of the burn. Cultivated lands glow with oilseed rape, bright yellow, dazzling in the sun. The golden uncultivated whins and gorse paint a natural picture, playing host to songbirds around the coast. Then those invasives start their rampant run.
Enjoying the glory of autumn colours, the hillsides are coated in ochres and umbers before dropping their cloaks. It all slows as winter begins to bite, less blanketed with snow now, more battered with wind and rain. Floodwaters rise.
And we long for the return of spring, for the osprey with eyes on his prey in the Spey; or in autumn the swoop of the whoopers, landing in troops on those same waters. Cycles and seasons; changing seasons.
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