Christine's walking & birds blog

Yesterday at Tarbat Ness, red admiral butterflies were everywhere; and among them was a painted lady in quite good condition - not our first this year, but we haven't seen many.


A solitary peacock was also nectaring nearby.  A couple of wheatears were on the beach with pied wagtails, and our first returning turnstone was on the rocks. I spent too long trying to identify a probable grayling on the redstone cliff above the jetty - and we were caught in a real downpour. We gave up and went home.

Yesterday at Achnahaird, the godwit and the knot of the previous day couldn't be found. A handful of sanderling came close to me on the machair, most of them with the creamy/buff tints of juveniles.


One bird was particularly eye-catching, having a more black-and-white appearance.


Before driving away I stopped at the top of the hill and looked down at four redshanks on the river. Some dunlin then arrived, but almost immediately all the waders flew off alarm-calling, and a blue-grey shape cruising along the bank below landed on a rock long enough for me to fetch my camera.


It always feels strange to see a sparrowhawk in these vast open spaces, far from hedgerows and copses; but as an American lady remarked to me years ago on the Stornoway ferry: "Honey, birds are where you find 'em."

A year ago today, there was a knot at Achnahaird. Today, there was a knot at Achnahaird.



We had driven out for a fairly high tide at 9.30 this morning, hoping that some migrant waders might have touched down; there was also a black-tailed godwit.


A flock of dunlin, sanderling, and ringed plover - which had been dozing on the sand - gave a nice display of fast low-flying when people started to appear on the beach. They eventually went down on the machair and the pools with several curlews and a dozen redshanks. Six red-throated divers were out in the bay, while three black-throated were seen on a loch. Bonxie bathing was underway in Loch Vatachan, where four great skuas were splashing about in the very still water.

A little group of dark dots on the loch far across the moorland made me pull into a passing-place and glue my bins to my eyes - at which the dots resolved themselves into eight black-throated divers, indulging in one of those adults-only get-togethers they seem to enjoy when the breeding season is over.



At Badentarbat, I was sitting on a wooden seat having lunch when I realised that two juvenile dunlins were foraging close by. Several times they came within 15 ft of me - but then would pause, assess me, and work their way back the other way before approaching again. It must have been good feeding - some kind of insect larva I think, as the items seemed too short and fat to be worms.



On the other side of the headland, about twenty dunlin and ten sanderling were with ringed plover on the sandy beach of the Allt Loch Raa. I walked down to have a look in the tidal pools, and the waders ignored me. A woman cycled across the machair with two or three dogs and went really close to them, but they just flew across to my side of the river and then went back when the little cavalcade had passed.


I clicked off tons of shots, really thinking I was getting some good pics - but I've trashed most of them. Part of the problem was not being able to freeze movement because I haven't yet learned about shutter priority and exposing correctly etc.

A merlin and a greenshank were the only other birds of note, but I enjoyed my day - even if I did try once again to make a golden eagle out of a buzzard!

Saturday: In a shallow lagoon left by the falling tide, eleven dunlin were intent on feeding.



This despite the fact that they were sandwiched between us walking past and a large group of men running into the sea nearby, shouting (women going into very cold water tend to tiptoe in shrieking, while men tend to rush and holler!).

We had already seen some black-bellied dunlin on the machair, but these pretty little things seemed to be juveniles. Two sanderling then flew in, but seemed ill-at-ease with all the activity on the beach and flew off again.

 
There were also many wheatears in the sheep fields and the dunes - some at least of them probable migrants.


A small bunch of curlews flew about making beautiful music; and only one bonxie was seen.

Maol Chean-dearg (Strath Carron)

After a longish drive on a dull morning we set off from Coulags at about 7.20 to the sound of willow warblers singing, following the track past the works for a new hydroelectric scheme and crossing the river on a welcome footbridge.


A little way upstream was a dipper, with white feathers making a curious streak on its belly.


Some time later we came to a junction and turned left, climbing a zig-zag track as our hill came gradually into view.


A golden eagle appeared over a rocky prow ahead and then began to quarter the ridge of our hill.


I think it was a sub-adult bird, and the loss of some flight feathers reminds me that I made a mistake in a former post, implying of the sea eagles over Inverewe that their ragged plumage was caused by breeding. But of course these birds moult annually anyway, whether they go through the rigours of rearing young or not.

The path continued up, and was a foretaste of what was to come - being on white, slidy, quartzite scree. In the background are Sgorr Ruadh and Fuar Tholl, which we saw from the other (more interesting) side on our previous hill-walk.


Reaching the Bealach a' Choire Gharbh, we stopped for a breather and to admire the rocky Corbett of An Ruadh-stac. Some walkers take this in on the same walk, but we were confining ourselves to the Munro, and so turned off to the right to begin the ascent to the ridge. The path was again on quartzite scree, and this time it was very eroded and slippery, and pretty steep.


The best thing about rising above the bealach was encountering a breeze, which cooled us down as we climbed and also blew away the midges. There are two "steps" before the final summit dome is reached; this is the top of the first one, just after the scree path.


The summit is reached by negotiating that most dreaded of features - a boulder field. But after much balancing and swearing we got to the end of it and walked on the firmer ground of grass littered with smaller sandstone rocks to the huge summit shelter.


We had good views, for instance to the north-east and our last walk, the ridge of Beinn Liath Mhor....


.....or at least, we did until what another walker who had arrived called "clag" (and he was Scottish, so he should know) closed in.


It crept in around our hill from the right, and then from the left, so that we were left with a tiny window - and then nothing. But it didn't prevent us from seeing a ptarmigan, whirring across the summit plateau and disappearing over the edge.

We waited until it had cleared before setting off down - the same way we'd come up, as the hill is said to be too steep elsewhere. But first I went over to the edge where the ptarmigan had last been seen, hoping to look down on a lower shelf where it might have landed; but sure enough, the ground was just too steep. Tucked in below this northern side is a fairly large lochan, but even that couldn't be seen. The path we had turned off from to climb up to the bealach continues past these lochans to Torridon - a fine walk if you're not interested in getting up on the tops; or you can simply use the paths to circumnavigate this hill and then return to Coulags.


Meanwhile we had to renegotiate the boulder field, and later, the slippery scree path down to the bealach - which was even worse going down.

Despite plenty of their droppings, we would have no more sightings of ptarmigan; and I had to be content with a pipit (presumably meadow) among the larger quartzite blocks.


As we made our way past the men at work with their diggers, Greger pointed out two grey wagtails on the far bank of the river; I heard and then saw a male stonechat; and the woodland at the end of the walk produced blue tit, goldcrest, and a large family or flock of long-tailed tits. The hill is 933 metres high and the walk was around 14 kilometres long; and with great will-power, I managed to avoid three of cheeky Greger's seven stages.

Greger has identified seven stages to my hill-walking projects.

1.     Planning optimism on sofa with map in hand:  "This hill looks close to the road, not a very long
        walk-in - we could even bag two Munros in one walk!"
2.     Day-before anxiety:  "I'm not sure I can do it tomorrow. I feel as though I'm catching a cold. I've
        got pains in my knees/hips/head."
3.     Start-off determination: "What a lovely morning! I feel okay, we can do this."
4.     Hard-phase despondency - usually about two hours into walk on unrelentingly steep slope/peat
        hags/spongy grass/heather-and-bog: "I can't do this any more. I don't think I can get to the top."
5.     High-ground elation: "This is wonderful, look at the views, it was hard work but I can still do it,
        look at the ptarmigan/eagle/ring ouzel - this makes it all worthwhile."
6.     Never again. During the long trek out (after just one Munro) and the drive home: "I can't do this
        any more, that was my last mountain, I'm hanging up my walking boots."
7.     Next-day recovery and second thoughts: "I don't feel so bad now - and I'd really love to see
        dotterel again..."

Start again at Stage 1.

The sea eagle was spotted from the road high above Loch Ewe, and Greger kindly stopped the car for a few minutes for me to grab a couple of pictures. It was so close, he also had good views - even without bins.



On our last hill-walk, we had seen two possible eagles in the distance, drifting away to the west. Research on the internet revealed that sea eagles have nested on the wooded island off Shieldaig - which fitted perfectly. Today, however, a long drive round Glen Carron and Torridon - encircling our hill and with a prolonged (ice-cream eating) stop opposite Shieldaig Island - brought nothing; so this sighting on the way home was compensation.

Today's eagle doesn't show missing flight or tail feathers corresponding with either of the pair we saw above Inverewe six days ago; so unless the feathers can grow back in that time, this individual was a different bird.

Yesterday was sunny and quite warm, so we set off up Ullapool Hill to walk out towards Loch Achall. The first sign of life on the steep path was a toad, half-hidden in the shadows of the bracken; it was lucky that Greger spotted it since it didn't seem inclined to move out of the way. In April we saw palmate newts mating and egg-laying in water lying across the path, and now there were several newt tadpoles in the shrunken, shallow puddle. They still had feathery gills which will soon be absorbed, and they will set off across land to find damp dark places to hide and semi-hibernate.


Otherwise, the high moorland seemed empty of life; and it wasn't until we came down to the sheep-fields at the far end that we began to see a few things. Redpolls flew around calling as we ate lunch, and a large, bluish hawker dragonfly whirred past - and kept on going. As we set off towards home, a tiny froglet hopped across the road and gained the safety of the lush verge, and three dragonflies settled right in front of us - common darters, I think.


When we reached the waste ground above the lower quarry, I had a scout around for butterflies. Four dark green fritillaries alternately chased each other and nectared on buddleia or thistles.


Common blues were present on seeding grasses.


Two small tortoiseshells looked smart in the bracken.


And best of all the Scotch argus have emerged, their velvety brown flutterings bringing the hillsides to life.


At home in the last few days, there have been red admirals on our buddleia, and a juvenile willow warbler and a juvenile blackcap in the tangle of undergrowth over the wall at the back. Today has been cool, windy, and wet;  Ullapool Hill, that we climbed yesterday with rising spirits in breezy sunshine, can hardly be seen for low grey cloud and mizzle. To use a Scottish word, it's properly "dreich".