Christine's walking & birds blog

The shoveler was Greger's find at Poolewe on Monday - after I'd assured him all the ducks dabbling in the shallow water near the beach were mallards. Oops.


In the roadside tangle of grass, weeds, and thistles was my first painted lady this year. It chased a large hawker dragonfly, displaying the strong flight that would be expected of a migratory butterfly.


A trip to Achnahaird today was a mistake; I've hurt my knee quite badly and could only limp around a small area. But I saw half a dozen golden plover, five black-tailed and one bar-tailed godwit, good numbers of dunlin and ringed plover, and five curlews. Meadow pipits, pied wagtails, and wheatears were running about on the cliff-tops.

Best of all were four sanderling which flew in and foraged on the shore.


These tiny waders (probably juveniles) have come from their breeding grounds in the high Arctic - a phrase that seems to ring with the very essence of cool, wild places. Several wader species breed in the high Arctic but sanderling and knot, according to the BWP, are "the most exclusively super-cold forms on open, northernmost parts of the circumpolar tundra".

It looks idyllic at Badentarbat, and it was certainly sunny and even warm - when you could get out of the south-east wind.


At Achnahaird, only six black-tailed godwits and one bar-tailed remained of yesterday's flock. I had to crouch behind a sand-dune and peer through the marram grass to avoid disturbing them.


Driving away from the high lay-by, I stopped on the road to take a pic of Achnahaird. The saltmarsh is bordered by dunes in the middle distance (oddly on one side of the beach, not at the back), and by the channel of the river in the foreground. It's quite a big area for birds to lose themselves. It's difficult to scope the whole thing from one vantage point; and if you go walking on the beach and the machair, you run the risk of flushing everything. I love this place - but it's a fifty-mile round trip from home and the petrol is eating into my pension, so once the migration season's over I'll have to ration my visits.


As if it's not enough that the road in is single-track, the sheep are determined to make things even more awkward.


They don't bat an eyelid as cars pass just centimetres away, but if you stop and get out they scramble to their feet and run off bleating.

A bar-tailed godwit was with thirteen black-tailed godwits feeding on the grass where the cliff-top dips to the dunes.


Another wader was half hidden in a gully. After about twenty minutes they all flew off and landed on the beach.  I got a bit closer and took some optimistic shots across the ebbing tide. I could now see there were two ruff among them, making sixteen birds in all. The bar-tailed is third bird from the left.


The ruff on the extreme left is quite a bit larger than the one on the right. They stood together for most of the time, except for when the smaller one strode off and had a go at one of the godwits - for no apparent reason. After a while the two ruff flew over me towards the dunes, and the white underwings were very conspicuous on at least one of the birds.


A whimbrel was also on the beach, a little apart from the flock.

The merlin was on the fence beyond the godwit field (no sign of them today).


He had plenty of choice - pied wagtails, meadow pipits, wheatears, and starlings. As for the rabbits, they once again had to run the gauntlet of buzzards and at least ten ravens, not to mention a marauding stoat.


Fifteen to twenty curlews were restless what with all the human activity on the beach, but they landed close to me in the dunes, although out of sight.

The promise of a fine day evaporated when clouds rolled in, and a cold north wind picked up with a sudden odd whistling noise that set the sheep all running. Back at Achnahaird most people were leaving the beach. I felt sorry for them. It's been a god-awful summer; and I hardly dare read the southern birding sites because the mention of warm weather fills me with anguish.

Four black-tailed godwits and four redshanks flew over and alighted near the river, where the godwits promptly went to sleep. A reddish knot (far left) was with them. The shot is a distant one as it's impossible to approach birds on the open beach without disturbing them; and it now began to drizzle with rain.


Later, seven or eight knot were seen together. There were also about ten curlews. Twenty or so oystercatchers were close together near the sea. There was a man with a gun stalking something in the dunes - rabbits, I hope.

At Badentarbat, shoals of fish had come close to shore and were breaking the surface of the water, some jumping out. A great black-backed gull dipped its head in and caught one; but the bonxies didn't seem to be having much luck. Often they would land on the water only to find that the shoal had moved elsewhere; and in the end they flew off, bad-temperedly having a go at all the gulls as they went.


A glaucous gull flew over.  A juvenile black guillemot, a shag, and three red-throated divers were on the sea, and two black-throated divers landed and proceeded to fish - their summer plumage still quite stunning.

Ben Hee

The name means "fairy hill" and is nothing to do with laughter. We didn't find much to laugh about  - at least to begin with. We didn't see any fairies, either. We unloaded our rucksacks (and me) here, at West Merkland - where, a notice makes clear, you may not park!


Greger then drove back to the only place we could leave the car on this single track road (A838), unloaded his bike, and cycled back.


After a stretch on a track we followed a path up into the narrow valley; I'm glad Greger took a pic with his mobile because I was too bothered by various things to get the camera out.


Firstly I'd forgotten to put the insoles back into my boots after cleaning them last time we hill-walked, which caused discomfort for the entire walk. Secondly the path - often non-existent where it had fallen into the stream - was also very boggy. Thirdly the day was still and warm, which meant midges. This went on for at least two kilometres, and it was good to get out into the open where a breeze blew the midges away.

Greger was feeling uncharacteristically tired and so did a bit of whinging of his own. We left our rucksacks by a cairn on the broad col and walked up to the summit unencumbered.


Even without them it was a stiff pull to the top, with lots of loose rocks in the boulder field. At last the rocks gave way to a lovely tundra surface - and there was the trig point! (FB no. S7672)


This must be one of the most beautifully-sited trig points I've visited, thanks to its dramatic position on the edge of a sharp drop - and to the fantastic views. To the left of the pillar is Ben Hope, the most northerly Munro, and beyond is the sea.


It was a beautiful day, we had the hill to ourselves, and we lingered for some time. Two small patches of snow, wet at the edges, were holding on in the eastern corrie.


A mountain landscape to the north-west included (on the left) the pyramidal Ben Stack and the Corbett Meallan Liath Coire Mhic Dhughaill, while to the right are the beautifully-named Arkle and Foinaven.


Looking south into the haze we could see Loch Fiag and beyond that, long Loch Shin.


Further round to the east, the Munro Ben Klibreck rose in brooding isolation from the rolling Sutherland moors.


A dozen or so meadow pipits flew around, settled, and zoomed off again; but a possible merlin I'd glimpsed earlier failed to show again. Reluctantly we left this magical top, and returning to our rucksacks, sat down for a coffee before starting off along the ridge that would take us back to the road.

A little further on I looked in a pool and thought with a shock that a jellyfish had somehow made its way there! But there were also smaller green blobs at the edges of the pool, some attached to reeds - and researching on the internet later, I found that they are made by "a colonial single-celled protozoan called Ophrydium versatile" (info from Tom on askanaturalist.com).


Greger was intrigued, but not as intrigued as I was, so he carried on walking. He said he had to keep moving to stop his feet hurting, and in the end I had to almost run to catch up with him. The next distraction was a seam of white across the grey rocks. I learned from the internet (can't remember which site) that it was a vein of quartz. In places, it bore a remarkable resemblance to a row of teeth. Oy, you 'aving a laugh?


Still hoping for ptarmigan, we followed the broad ridge to the cairn on Meallan Liath Mor; but all we saw was a number of darkish birds flying in the distance which were possibly golden plover.


Just as we were saying how nice the walking was along the ridge - it ended! No gently tapering spur, but a sudden steep, rocky drop.  Well, we didn't mind steep. We've done steep before. We didn't mind the rocky bits, either, although hands were needed in places.


And at the bottom of the rocks we were cheered by the fleeting sight of a wheatear.


But from here on down, the hillside was just one steep, seemingly endless sponge. Twice I went into mud up to the ankles. I didn't get whingey, I got tearful. Greger kept calling out "Not far now!" but every time I looked, the road below seemed further away than ever. Eventually we got down, a bit more than a kilometre from our starting point; Greger left his rucksack with me and set off; there he goes, a little dark dot on the long and winding road.


It didn't take him long to retrieve his bike, cycle back to the car, and drive up to fetch me. If we'd known about this place we could have parked here and saved Greger his bike ride - but on the other hand, the gate (with a padlock) is clearly in use, so there would be the risk of getting locked in!


Despite our travails we wouldn't have missed that summit and the fabulous views it commands for anything. The hills of the north-west Highlands might have their feet firmly planted in bogs - but on days like today they have their heads in heaven.

There was no sign of yesterday's waders near the pools on the salt marsh (which had much reduced levels of water in them); but looking farther along towards the dunes I spotted three godwits in a field. Driving round to the car park I set off to stalk the birds. It was the first time I'd been on this part of the beach and this close to the strange, eroded sand towers riddled with rabbit warrens.


I surprised a buzzard (a probable juvenile), no doubt on the lookout for an unwary rabbit; while a raven could have been on the same quest, waiting above one of the many holes to ambush one.


At last I was close to the field I wanted; and creeping along a wet gully until I could crouch behind a tumbled dry-stone wall, I had good views of the three black-tailed godwits.


Yesterday's ruff, however, was nowhere to be seen. I retreated carefully and left the godwits still feeding peacefully. There were still loads of dunlin and a few ringed plover on the machair, but no sanderling.  More wheatears were around than usual so they were probably also migrants.

On the beach there were twenty or so oystercatchers; and as I looked back towards the machair four long-winged waders flew over, coming in off the sea and heading with steady and rather slow flight to the back of the beach. I thought at first they were ruff, but I think maybe they're knot.


However: when I drove away later I saw at least three waders in the long grass sloping down to the river; and these were almost certainly ruff. Confusing. I just don't know.


But I do know that being there when migrating waders fly in off the sea is just so exciting. Whether they landed immediately at the water's edge or flew higher up the beach I felt quite emotional watching them. (On the 11 August - there were loads of waders around the pools on the saltmarsh; mostly dunlin, but also three black-tailed godwits, and what looked like a ruff on the extreme left.

The osprey was spotted eating a fish above the Moray Firth, the Kessock Bridge in the background.


A few hoodies were hanging around at the base of the osprey's perch picking up titbits; while curlews, lapwings, and redshanks foraged among the seaweedy rocks as the tide fell.

We stopped next on the bridge over the Cromarty Firth, where I was pleased to see terns fishing as I thought they'd all left. It was a warm and pleasant day so far; but while we were in Tesco in Dingwall, the sky darkened ominously and the rain began to fall as we ran for the car.

And the rain continued to fall hard all the way home, although it eased off slightly as we dropped from the Dirrie Mor. Streams and waterfalls raced down the hillsides like silver ribbons, and there were huge puddles in places across the road.

After a stormy night, I reckoned that the waders might still be grounded at Achnahaird; and I drove out there at 8.30 this morning. Battling my way across the low cliffs to the beach against an incredible wind from the south (down the beach towards the sea), I could see quite a few oystercatchers still on the far side. A glaucous gull was with them.

I made my way to the back of the beach along the dunes, and could soon see loads of sanderling with (probably) slightly lower numbers of dunlin. I felt like a fox in a hen-house. I didn't know where to look, or point the camera, next. The sanderling seemed to be mostly adults.



On the sheep fields beyond the houses, there were six black-tailed godwits.

It began to rain as I set off across the cliffs at Achnahaird - and I almost turned back. The high part of the beach was covered in scurrying dots - a fall of waders had probably been brought down by the weather.


I couldn't see anything other than dunlin, sanderling, and ringed plovers, but that was fine: the sheer spectacle of so many small foraging birds on the sand and the machair was mesmerising.

The rain continued to fall and a huge flock of oystercatchers flew in. I just shot into the flock; there must have been a couple of hundred altogether.


More small waders arrived in off the sea, many landing at the edge of the waves as though too tired to go further.


Most were dunlin and ringed plovers, and with one flock came a single turnstone.

A black-tailed godwit was the next thrilling sight, flying high above the river towards the back of the beach.


I had never seen anything like this before; and with great reluctance I retreated to the car to dry out the optics!

Back in May we had been for a walk near Loch Craggie when a Google Street View car went past. We forgot all about it until Greger remembered yesterday and looked up the map for that area. And there we were on their photos, parked at the end of the forestry track and just ready to drive off. They've blurred the registration plate.


And then I remembered that I'd taken a picture of their car as it passed - and I still had it.


On this occasion - they got googled back!

The walk (a better word would be "struggle") was just over 9 miles, climbing to no more than 250 metres; but we felt as weary as if we'd bagged a Munro. In an odd sort of way though, it had been an enjoyable day.