The Birds In The Meadow

When I went out to do my chores, the sky was spectacular. Against the deep viridian green of the sycamores the clouds were a startling, indescribable blue grey, lit from below by late afternoon sunshine. The sky had been sliced down the middle as if by a knife, dark and light; the other side was the sunny turquoise of summer skies everywhere. White clouds raced and boiled across the darker half, and the sky suddenly felt like what it is - a layer of skin. Our atmosphere, in constant motion like the delicate skin of a bubble is what the astronauts marvel at, incandescent and only millimetres thin from their point of view. From below, the vast depth of the sky and my insignificance beneath it was plain. The dark, heavy vapour became a high cathedral roof or the surface of the sea viewed from its depths, then a wave, its exquisite white horses racing to capture more of the blue.

As I was busy staring, no doubt with a particularly absent expression on my face, the wave broke. An almighty clap of thunder shook the air and the clouds fell to earth with a slap, sizzling rain liberating that summer thundery smell. No-one was prepared; grimacing people started the half-run that only the rained on do, hiding under sodden trees, holding pointless newspapers over their heads as the rain bounced back up at them from the pavement. A man in a thin t-shirt shouldered his tiny child, and the child laughed, shaking its drenched curls with glee.

…as Christopher Robin would have put it. Gon out to beautiful Snowdonia, where we visited a friend and hiked in the midsummer moonlight, saw rare flowers and rarer skies. Needless to say, there are pictures, and stories, and soon I will be able to share them, but not just yet. This weekend I’ll be exploring summer meadows in Hampshire, and I’m also preparing for an exciting new work commitment which I will no doubt bore you stupid with if it comes about; I’ll keep writing here and reading along with you my friends, but I’m not going to be so productive for a month or so - just to let you know.

This weekend we felt giddy with summer and took a spontaneous day trip along the South Bank. There is usually something entertaining happening there; this time it outdid itself. It was the day of the Coin Street festival, an intimate, quirky event that saw Polish experimental musicians rubbing shoulders with riotous gypsy bands and local heavy metal kids. The Meltdown festival hosted by Massive Attack was opening at the Royal Festival Hall, there was a wacky architecture event on at the Hayward gallery, plus a glorious exhibition about coral reefs, impossible mathematical objects and crochet. The sun was out, the sky was a riot of restless cloud, the pavements full of happy, strolling, culture guzzling people.

But what lies below the thronged pavements of the Thames Embankment? On this particular Saturday old lady Thames was having a particularly low tide, so a glance over the embankment railings revealed a pocket of golden sandy beach. It’s true that most of the wide and neglected Thames beach is shingle and quite a bit is mud, but it seems strange to me that aside from the work of these sculptors even the sandy parts lie utterly deserted. I have always loved walking along this secret shore, but the tide has never been out as far as this on the other occasions I’ve come to explore it.

We raced down the stone steps to beach level and walked the relatively short stretch from Waterloo bridge to the Tate Modern, revelling in the unique views to be had from this unusual angle. The tide must have gone out by about twenty or thirty metres, revealing bridge supports and hidden structures built below street and river level, invisible to the oblivious crowds on the busy pavements above. A pier which normally juts out into deep water was completely exposed, and St Paul’s Cathedral and the glass towers of the city could be glimpsed through its massive legs.

One of the fun things about such low tides (if you are like me) is the chance to examine the strand line. The Thames is no longer the filthy stinking river it once was; it is home once more to (reintroduced) salmon, and quite fabulously, a rare colony of seahorses has been found in deepest industrial Dagenham. Even in the very centre of this great Metropolis the water is reasonably clean. Lady Thames is grand enough to be, to some extent, still untamed. A serious beachcomber on the Thames is supposed to obtain a license - the swift tides and estuarine mud further downriver can be treacherous and if you are to spend long hours gleaning the shores you need to understand the dangers. Just as important, many items of historical significance can be found and it is important that such discoveries are recorded. Those licensed to search the shores are known as Mudlarks. As well as antique bottles, ceramic shards and old clay pipes, Roman coins have been known to get washed up on the strand.

I’ve never been that lucky but I don’t care; it’s all interesting to me. True, there is as on any shore in the world now, a certain amount of plastic rubbish (I have helped with the clearing up after a Reclaim the Beach festival in the past but sadly I rarely remember to take a bin bag for litter picking on my solo jaunts) but the items stranded are fascinating in themselves. Why are there so many ceramic shards in one particular place - was there a china factory there? The pub a couple of hundred metres upstream could explain why there is a large amount of brown and green glass below their establishment, but I doubt that they’d know anything about the large quantities of delicately coloured art glass that is to be found all along the stretch we walked. One part of the shore is littered with eroded but still distinctive yellow London clay bricks - a spoil heap for a building site, or was there once a brickworks in the area? Are the clam and oyster shells a tip off that these creatures are living somewhere in the river, or were they simply dumped here by a local restaurant?

We gleaned a few pretty ceramic fragments and some interesting bits of old glass, watched the cormorants and herring gulls and feral pigeons squabble and wheel, idly turned over a few stones, then climbed the steps back up into the other world, the world of busy crowds and conventional city views.

After exploring all the good clean civilized fun to be had in the Tate and the Royal Festival Hall, we re-emerged to find the sun had gone down. In a mere two hours the tide had turned, the water having risen almost to the level of the pavements, and the buildings and bridges were lit up and shining as if gilded. The places where we had stood in sunny daylight were now under twenty metres of black water, the mysteries that the river had briefly shared now taken back into its depths.

In this built up and heavily populated place, below the inky ripples gaudily lit by street lights, over my footsteps from this day, the fishes are now swimming.

I’ll be honest with you… I wasn’t the one doing the navigating, so I’m not going to try and name all of the many lochs, rivers, mountains and glens we crossed - I would only get it wrong and make a fool of myself. What I do know is that for a relatively short hike without any challenging bits I’ve rarely come across a route so beautiful. Unfortunately, shortly after disembarking from the Bella Jane, I managed to fall flat on my face doing nothing more challenging than putting one foot in front of the other. Two things you should know about me and hiking - I am clumsy, and I am scared of heights. I know I’ll probably never manage the more glamorous ridge walks like Crib Goch or Striding Edge, but I don’t do too badly considering. Still, there I was, at sea level, sprawled flat on my face on a slab of “non-slip and beloved of mountaineers” gabbro rock. Apart from gaining some cracking day-glo bruises all I really hurt was my dignity (I fell so hard that the resounding comedy “thwack” turned heads quite a long way up the trail) but it certainly slowed me down. Enough of my foolishness; I know what you are here for - pictures! And pictures you shall have.

We climbed the slopes at the foot of Sgùrr na Stri, and as we looked back a chain of Lochs spread out below us, starting with the Sea Loch Scavaig in the distance, and followed by Loch Coruisk.

A series of shallow climbs and descents saw the lochs disappearing then reappearing again, each time more distant, cradled in the widening, ferocious landscape.

On one such descent, a greenshank began calling querulously. The further down the trail we got the more the bird whistled, wheeled and fussed. Its nest must have been close by - and as another bird joined in the commotion it is possible that there was more than one nest to be protected. The lonelieness of the place intensified - a path with birds nesting along it cannot be commonly used.

At the top of a wide, rounded ridge we stopped to take in the view and eat. This was the highest point on our walk, and although we were maybe only a thousand feet up or so, it felt like the top of the world as we gazed across at the crests of the brooding red hills, sailing among low cotton wool cloud.

From here was a slow, gentle descent back into Glen Sligachan from its south side. We didn’t make for the cloud obliterated top of Sgùrr na Stri, and it’s a good thing we didn’t try; I was so stiff from my bruises we wouldn’t have made it back before the midges descended. It’s a walk to be savoured another day.

While working in a friend’s neglected garden this weekend I found this common frog lurking in a shady leaf strewn bed. Despite all the disturbance around its home, the frog kept returning to one particular spot, so we mulched the area with a touch more leaf litter and left the prettier wildflowers (Herb Robert) intact to provide cover. We watered the area well, then left froggie in peace to guard the nearby strawberry patch.

When we got home, we sat in our own back garden and breathed deeply, for the air was filled with the scent of jasmine. Tiny, delicate moths were enjoying the scent as much as we were, and providing supper for a spectacular hunting dragonfly. The nearest standing water is almost a mile away, so our garden must provide rich pickings to tempt them so far. Swifts careened overhead and the song of blackbirds filled the air. It may lack the grandeur of Skye, but even a tiny London garden does not lack for wild natural beauty.

After our lazy day exploring Glen Sligachan we decided it was time to do something a little more adventurous. Rising early, we caught the bus to Elgol, then took a trip on the Bella Jane across Loch Scavaig. This mini wildlife voyage would take us to Loch Curuisk, deep into the heart of the Cuillins. As you can see the weather this day was most atmospheric, and swirling cloud lent the black mountains a sombre grandeur.

If you ever go to Skye I can recommend this boat trip; though the one way journey that we took is only 45 minutes, you get to see a wonderful array of wildlife as well as listen to a genuinely entertaining and informative guide.  Gannets glided around us, and Atlantic terns swooped and squabbled. Razorbills and guillemots floated in little rafts close by, but I am sorry to say my camera wasn’t up to capturing them. The water was dead calm, and I had high hopes of spotting dolphins or a basking shark, but these charismatic animals eluded us. Still, with mountains like these looming up to surround you, you don’t lack for things to feast your eyes upon.

I tried to photograph the mountains as we pulled closer to the shore, I really did. Sadly, the several thousand vertical feet of jagged black spires marching into the distance on every side refused to be crammed into the confined space that is my viewfinder, so I had to just goggle at them open mouthed instead. Our guide claimed that it is the most dramatic natural harbour in the British Isles, and I could only nod dumbly.

Close to the landing stage are two tiny islands, which give basking space to a small group of common seals. Fairly rare on British coasts and normally shy, they have learned not to fear man in this secluded spot. I’ve seen atlantic grey seals before but not common seals, so this felt like a privilege.

There were pregnant females, ready to pup, and last years young ones among them too.

It’s a lousy picture, but I was so excited at seeing these Common Eider I had to share them. These are the ducks from which Eider down is obtained. Like the seals they are normally very shy, but these mollusk eating sea ducks know that they are safe and unmolested here.

Although the journey had been a short one, it felt as if we had been plied with riches from beginning to end. Had we chosen to explore the loch and go back the way we came, hot drinks and a small picnic would have been served to us - luxury on such a little boat! As it was, our friendly skipper and guide saw us off with juice and shortbread to help us on our way, as we set off through the hills on our way back to Glen Sligachan.

Much of Skye consists of boggy moorland, a habitat I know next to nothing about. I was so blown away by the profusion of orchids and sedges that it took me a little while to spot the locally common (but thrillingly unfamiliar to me) sundews. These tiny plants with their elegant succulent leaves sporting glistening red nectar tipped hairs are so small you’d be forgiven for not spotting them. On a sunny day however, large colonies of the plant are clearly visible, glowing warmly like alien jewels in the mud. Once I’d discovered one colony and knew what to look for, I glanced about in surprise, suddenly realising that I was completely surrounded by them for some distance.

That is when I began to feel glad that I am several feet tall and human, because this dainty botanical wonder is carnivorous.

Sundews inhabit soils with poor nutritional value and in order to obtain the minerals they need, they have evolved the ability to lure and capture small insects using their mobile, sticky tipped tentacles. Attracted to the bright colours and sweet, glistening dew an unlucky fly will become stuck, the tentacles of the plant slowly enveloping and smothering its victim. The plant then exudes enzymes which will digest the insect and extract valuable minerals. Some sundews are even capable of enfolding their prey completely in their mobile leaves.

I felt fairly certain that the plants I had seen were round leaved sundews and oblong leaved sundews, but upon further research I’m no longer sure about the oblong leaved ones. Oblong leaved sundews are supposed to be rare in Skye, yet the ones I had seen were staggeringly common, suggesting that they could in fact be Great sundews. It may seem like splitting hairs to you but I’m a keen amateur plant geek and I care about the details. Plus, if I really was lucky enough to see huge numbers of a rare plant in an unusual place, I really should report it. I only wish I knew for sure.

Anyhow, that’s the science bit over. I will now invite you to imagine that you are 5 mm tall. You have struggled through head high spongy moss and swum through carnivorous beetle infested waters. Somehow, the gigantic, whirring dragonflies have failed to spot you. Eventually you spy an island, a safe place, and greatfully haul yourself up a blade of grass onto it. Huge bog-myrtle trees tower over you as you pick your way toward a patch of bare mud, and the air is filled with an oddly enticing sweet scent. A dried sedge stalk trips you up, and you stumble headlong into something…sticky. You look up, horrified, and see the questing scarlet tentacles tipped with sickly sweet goo, and no matter how you struggle, the supple, asphyxiating leaves are getting closer and closer….

Don’t ever let anyone tell you that mother nature is kind, be greatful that you are the size you are, and above all, don’t have nightmares!

We didn’t climb any of the Cuillins I’m sorry to say, but we did get a cracking view of their glorious slopes as we walked through the glen. Once out of sight of the hotel the landscape becomes utterly prehistoric - the volcanic mountains and sweeping, glacier gouged valleys should by rights contain roaming herds of ancient megafauna. Our growing suspicion that any moment we might spot a herd of wooly mammoth was unshakable.

The glen is crisscrossed by many small streams which run to meet the Sligachan river, and there they pool, creating miniature waterfalls over the rocks and boggy areas all around the path. Here large green dragonflies whirr and dance and fight, the only moving creatures (beside ourselves) for many miles.

The weather, as you can see, was blindingly sunny and as such not at all typical of Skye. A local had told me the previous day that it had been gloriously sunny for weeks, but that the mountains looked wrong in good weather and he was missing the cloud. The people of Skye appear to like their weather ferocious and gloomy, which from what I’ve heard is just as well.

We were very lucky. I’ve heard and read accounts of the Sligachan river as a raging monster, but in late May it barely tickled its banks, and the bogs and streams that criss-cross the glen were not nearly as impassable as they often are. The breathtaking slopes of Druim na Ruiage gleamed emerald and dun against a brilliant sky.

Across the glen to the right, the fearsome Black Cuillins tower over the almost dry river bed. Don’t be fooled by the picture - they are a hundred times more impressive than they look on my tame little blog, and if approached from Loch Coruisk to the south of the range they display a staggering hostility. Beloved by mountain climbers the world over, they are made of Gabro, a black volcanic rock which is so rough it will take the skin off your fingers. Apparently this is what makes them so wonderful to climb - it is almost impossible to slip - although as I will reveal in another post I proved the exception to that rule!

Our gentle amble doubled back to the campsite when we drew level to Marsco, a handsome and inviting red hill. The glen walk was so peaceful and idyllic that not even the super-fit hikers among us were tempted to go up it. If there are any keen walkers or climbers reading, I do know it is terrible blasphemy not to sample those delicious peaks and crags in weather so rare but we were new to the island, not all of us (and by that I mean me) were in full fitness for a proper climb, and here’s the real reason perhaps - the two hundred varieties of Single Malt Scotch Whisky in the hotel bar ensured a late and hungover start to every single day. Next time we go, we’ll have to be a bit more pure of body and get up those wonderful hills.

We camped at the head of Glen Sligachan. As we rounded the final bend on our bus journey and the driver called out to let us know we had arrived, the emerging panorama thumped me in the belly with a disorientating awe. No word or picture can begin to describe the immensity of the landscape, and I am sad that the pictures I include here can’t help but diminish the vastness and beauty of the place.

The campsite nestles beside the river, and it’s a short and happy walk to Hotel Sligachan with it’s jaw dropping single malt whisky menu. Glamaig, the highest of the Red hills was the first thing I saw every morning, and if I troubled to glance to the right, there were the stark and towering Black Cuillins. The latter mountains are considered a fair challenge to any climber, and although the red hills look impressive enough to me, Glamaig is host to a race from the hotel to its peak and back again, the fastest time being under 50 minutes! The wild landscape is not the only source of fascination on the inner Hebrides. Equally noticeable if you are camping (and a little disorientating to be sure) is the fact that at this time of year, the sky never gets entirely dark. There is still light in the sky at midnight, and wandering back to the tents from the hotel bar after a gruelling session of whisky tasting, we would be treated to the sound of cuckoos calling in the eerie half light.

How do you pronounce Sligachan? Well there’s a question, because while I’ve had the pronunciation described to me as “Slig-a-han”, the locals seem to swallow most of the middle of the word completely. To my untutored ears it sounded more like “Sliaccun”, and that’s only an approximation. It’s a friendly island, and despite my usual shyness I found myself chatting away happily to whoever I met, and whoever I met, they all seemed to be fiercely proud of their wild and beautiful home.

Of course, nowhere is perfect. Before your eyes start to cross with the grandiosity and smugness of my depiction of our campsite, there was one significant (ahem) fly in the ointment that you should know about. Midges. But more about that later…

I’ve just got back from the Isle of Skye, a place of such ridiculous beauty that I’m almost stumped as to what to say about it first. The journey itself was mind blowing - a two day long, three train extravaganza including one of the most dramatic and beautiful train journeys in the world, from Glasgow to Mallaig. Sure we could have taken a sleeper train pretty much the whole way, but I wouldn’t want to sleep through a journey that revealed a red deer standing aloof on a bleak moor, mountain ranges framing him on each side, or a solitary seal basking by the side of a glittering loch. We passed Ben Nevis, tallest of the Scottish mountains and rattled over the viaduct which (in the film at least) carries Harry Potter and friends to Hogwarts in style. Searing yellow gorse competed with the improbable, incandescent greens of springtime; the season seems to be a full month behind London and all the more beautiful for it.

We were there just short of a week, but in that time I gorged myself on beauty. I’m still trying to identify orchids I saw in profusion and the birds that sang in the tree near our tent every evening - these habitats were unfamiliar to me and the flora and fauna excitingly novel. Needless to say I have many pictures to share - once I’ve unpacked, caught up on sleep and pulled myself together generally, you’ll be the first to know.