Christine's walking & birds blog

Otherwise, a handful of meadow pipits and at least four wheatears made up the bird interest of the day. The hill is only 613m in height, but we were fairly tired and left wondering if we could manage anything bigger!


Scotland: Part Two - The Growling of the Auks

From the car park at Kylescu Bridge you look down onto the sea loch of a' Chairn Bhain which squeezes through the narrow rocky gap and penetrates far inland in two fingers, each with a separate name. So that's three Gaelic names you have to wrestle with! Today the surface was covered with black and white dots. Some were guillemots but the majority were razorbills; and their growling calls were something I'd never heard en masse before (the video clip caught the sound nicely but I can no longer post videos).
For our next walk we decided to go up Breabag again, although just as far as the col; last time we were on the hill I'd heard ptarmigan and golden plover there but failed to see them. After the scramble up past the waterfall we stopped for a coffee, and a ring ouzel appeared on the skyline.  A female was also present, so perhaps the male is displaying. He appears to be carrying something in his bill; nesting material, maybe. They then flew down the hillside together "chacking".


There was a ptarmigan - but he surprised us by being some way below the col; we got a great view as he flew away low with a series of grating calls. As they often do, he stood behind a rock and looked at us with just his head showing, which always makes Greger laugh; although by the time I got the camera on, he had walked further off and turned his back.


On the col there was a wheatear. Thank goodness, I thought, that we're not going any higher. Then Greger looked speculatively up the ridge. "Now we're here," he said, "shall we go up to the top anyway?" So we did, me with quite a bit of whinging. I heard no golden plover this time, and although the weather was clear when we left the col, the clouds now began to close in. This is the third time we've been up this hill, and each time the view's looked like this!


The spotted rocks at the summit of Breabag are known as pipe rock. The white circles are thought to be the burrows of ancient marine creatures, living when the rock was sand beaches at the edge of the Iapetus Ocean.


I love this area. The stream comes down in waterfalls over the rocky lip of the col and then meanders in loops across a gently sloping plateau. Last time we were here I heard a greenshank, but could see nothing in the mist. Today there were only ravens.


LATER: I originally stated that the picture below shows an example of limestone pavement, but I think the pale grey rock is actually tilted quartzite slabs.


Last time I photographed this spring it was gushing with clear water which pooled out around it before finding the rocky bed that channels it down the hillside.


Further down, below a second, gushing spring, we saw one dipper. There seemed to be no grey wagtails here this year, but two robins were giving the dipper a hard time.

             
On a second visit to Achnahaird there was no sign of whimbrels or pink-foots; but a great northern diver was fishing fairly close in.
On dramatic single-track roads to Lochinver, two golden plover flew across in front of the car and landed in a sheep field.

It was a nice sighting and made up for not seeing golden plovers up the hill. We also saw a distant pair of black-throated divers on a lonely loch.


Scotland: Part Three - "Where Eagles Dare"


We had cause to curse a tributary of that stream later on because we couldn't get across it and had to make quite a diversion before we found enough stepping stones to reach the opposite bank. Greger is just about to locate a good spot below the top waterfall in the picture.



I snapped the insect on the snow because we hadn't seen many insects at all. Three butterflies were the tally so far for the holiday! No idea what this is, though. LATER: It's a small winter stonefly of the family Capniidae, possibly Eocapnia nivalis. "The adults emerge from the water in winter and are often found walking around on the snow." Thanks to Wikipedia for that info.


There was one more awkward but do-able stream crossing. The bealach was now visible ahead, but it seemed to take forever to reach it.  From the cliffs to our right would come the odd disconcerting "crack!" and a flurry of ice and stones would rattle a short way down one of the gullies.


Eventually we reached the col. The day was becoming warm and the sun promised to break through. A long-winged raptor appeared from behind Beinn Dearg ("Ben Jerak") and I grabbed the camera. Even Greger admitted this looked like a golden eagle. It was pretty high but we had a good view as it flew unhurriedly across our path and the empty sky, and disappeared to the north.




A walker was seen in the distance; he and another guy we met coming up when we were on our way down were the only walkers we saw all day. Greger was determined to make the top this year, and is seen here leading the way towards the nameless summit and beyond, Cona' Mheall itself.


We faltered several times on the steep flank, and I did a bit of whinging. The sun was out by now and I had winter clothing on, which didn't help. But Greger was relentless, and soon we were on the narrow plateau and approaching the summit cairn.


We collapsed at the cairn and had something to eat and drink, and then Greger rigged the camera up on his rucksack for a piccie. This was our first new Munro for six years - and the way I felt, it might well be our last!


It isn't often that you can sit on top of a Scottish mountain and really enjoy the view. But we still had the long, long walk down and so set off once again. I scanned the tundra-like plateau for dotterel but there was nothing at all to be seen. This is the great scoop of the Coire Ghranda, looking out to the Dirrie Mor.


Trying to avoid an unnecessary climb on the way back to the col, we traversed the flank in drifted snow. Someone (probably the chap we'd seen) had walked across earlier but now the snow was melting, and at one point I stepped forward into a footprint on what looked like crusty fresh snow - and plunged in up to my thigh while my foot dangled in mid-air somewhere below. Not pleasant.


Further down, Greger narrowly missed getting wet feet where the snow had formed a sort of cornice over meltwater.


We stopped for coffee and cake by the high pool. A common sandpiper zoomed along the bank and climbed up into the heather. A dipper flew from rock to rock and did some swimming and diving at the deep end.



From the far side of the pool, under the forbidding cliffs with their flurries of icefalls, came the sweet song of a wheatear. I'd just got onto the wheatear when two ptarmigan flew across the rocks behind it and landed, one remaining in view long enough for a record shot.


Descending further, our fears that meltwater would have swollen the streams proved justified, but we managed the first crossing by scrambling along the broken, sliding bank until we reached a narrow part with two precarious footholds just above the water. When we came to the second stream, we knew there was no point diverting to our morning rocks; they would be completely submerged and there would be a massive amount of water thundering down from that waterfall. We might as well cross here. I decided I would rather have wet feet for a while than wet boots, and paddled across barefoot. The water was freezing.  Greger threw my boots over to me, then tiptoed very elegantly across on some submerged but flattish stones to show how it should be done.

Back down in the forest a singing and displaying tree pipit was a nice addition to the list. There were also coal tits, willow warblers, wrens, and mistle thrushes, while a cuckoo called unseen. But I looked in vain for spotted flycatcher, which I've had here before.

We were extremely tired after this walk, but worse - poor Greger had been badly burned by the sun and the following day his face was bright red and his eyes puffy. I'm so annoyed with myself, because I had sun-cream and baseball caps back at the house - I just didn't pack them for the walk, thinking it would remain cloudy. On the other hand, I had packed extra gloves. Doh! Nevertheless we agreed that it had been a really great walk, total length according to Greger's Runkeeper - fifteen miles.

I'm trying not to look too miserable on our last morning, but I hate leaving this place. And it's a perfect morning, with soft blue skies and the sea as calm as a mill pond.


The last bird sightings at Ardmair were red-throated divers and a rock pipit.

We bought our last Danish pastries from Tesco in Ullapool and drove along Loch Broom. The Beinn Dearg car park was full; I counted sixteen cars. It was lovely to have been up on the tops on such a quiet day and to have had those high snowy wastes to ourselves. We stopped for morning coffee on the Dirrie Mor; and from here we had good views back to Beinn Dearg (on the left) and Cona' Mheall (on the right), seeing our hill's other side with its fine scrambly ridge. It's not often climbed from this side though, because the ground is said to be extremely wet and boggy (and when the guide books bother to warn that an area in the Scottish mountains is wet and boggy it must be bad!) while the river is usually difficult to cross.