Sunday, June 24, 2018
I returned to the area where I walked last Sunday, determined this time to get up two of the hills on the far side of Loch Glascarnoch which I first attempted on a wet September day last year. Having negotiated bogs and holes and peat hags, I was toiling up a rise of ground in the vain hope of finding it drier on the ridge when a pair of alarm-calling golden plover came racing down and over me. It seemed they didn't want me on the ridge, so I stayed low. The male bird landed and continued to call.
As I drew level he flew on a bit further.
He landed once more but remained silent, watching me off his territory.
And the next time I looked round he'd gone. Phew! But a red grouse erupting noisily from the grass shortly afterwards made me pat my heart again. After a few more tussles with peat hags and a steep climb I found myself walking on short, crisp, dry vegetation and there ahead was the summit of Meall Coire nan Laogh (666m).
For a small hill, that's one almighty cairn! To the south-east, Ben and Little Wyvis form the skyline.
Walking across the summit and a short way down the flank, I had my first-ever view of Loch Vaich. The two hills rising from its opposite bank and linked by a col are Meall a' Ghrianain (the closer one), and Beinn a' Chaisteil (the higher one, and a Corbett).
The white edges of the loch betray its function as a reservoir for the same hydro-electric scheme as Loch Glascarnoch, whose edges are also white at the moment after a couple of dry spells here in the north-west.
Further round to the north are the rounded tops of Am Faochagach (Meall Gorm hiding the actual summit) and in the centre, the more shapely Carn Gorm-Loch which at 910m is only 4 metres short of being a Munro.
I'd been hot and tired when I arrived at the first top, and all for going back down; but after a rest, a couple of sandwiches, and a lot of water, I felt refreshed and decided to visit the second top after all. It's over a kilometre away but the col is shallow - and there was no reason not to spend as long as possible in this lovely terrain. (Greger can't walk at the moment as he hurt his Achilles tendon when carrying out a recce on a route for the last two Fannichs.)
On this inviting broad ridge, cloudberry grew in several places; when ripe, its fruit turns yellow.
These apparently are the sepals, left when the (white) petals have dropped off.
At one point I heard something like a harsh trill. My mind leapt immediately to dotterel - but although I scanned ground and sky and listened for ages, nothing more was heard. Perhaps it was a flyover.
Across the dried-up end of Loch Glascarnoch and a very blue Loch Droma, the Fannich tops looked as inviting as ever.
But meanwhile this smaller hill had a lovely top of its own, a stony cap and a carpet of moss and berries. I walked all round, hoping for dotterel or at least a ptarmigan; but nothing stirred. Not quite high enough perhaps. (Later: not so - we saw ptarmigan here in May 2019.) I wasn't sure about the berries, but editing this at a later date, I think these are Alpine (or Arctic) bearberry.
The berries look like tiny ripening apples now, but in fact they will go from green to red to black before they are ripe. The plant is sprawling (cowberry is more erect) while bearberry has quite markedly oblate fruits rather than round. I thought at first these looked "flattened at the poles" - but as far as I can learn, the leaves are wrong for bearberry and right for Alpine bearberry. Confusing!
Reluctantly I set off down, a mountain hare lending interest to the descent. Pity the sun was directly behind it. A native species, the hare has adapted to survive in these special but often bleak places and forms a sort of mammalian counterpart to the ptarmigan - not compromising, not migrating, just changing colour with the seasons.
Going down from the lower hill I took what I thought was a more direct route towards the gate in the deer fence (I couldn't yet see it) and avoided disturbing the golden plovers again. Meadow pipits had been seen in several places, and here a pair of skylarks fed a fledgling. A tiny shrub that I almost stepped on was dwarf birch; the rounded, toothed leaves are distinctive. I'm less sure now of the plant I snapped on Little Wyvis, whose leaves were still in bud - so I'm glad I spotted this one.
There was evidence of work ongoing on the hillside; a sort of damning up of flushes and bogs, and great vehicle tracks everywhere. Down below the deer fence, lots of saplings have been planted - birch, pine, rowan - so perhaps they're trying to stop water pouring down the hill and washing them out of the soil. In a particularly wet patch, a frog hopped out of the way.
The fence came into view and I found I was on a bee-line for the walkers' gate; in fact I was so pleased to see it that when I got nearer I took a photo. I was nearly down! After the gate it was just a last struggle down some steep, wet, rough ground and then the plod back along the track to the dam.
It was by now very warm, and I was sheltered from the wind I'd had on the tops. There was only a gulp of water left in the bottle, my mouth was dry, and I had the beginnings of a headache. But there was a nice surprise in store - which I hadn't noticed on my way up. On the other side of the track, there were a lot of small red plants dotted along the bank of the ditch - growing here with moss and starry, yellow bog asphodel. I had to train the bins on them to see what they were.
They were common sundew - a first for me. They're not quite in flower, so I'll come back a bit later for another look. I could see tiny specks in their sticky traps (leaves) - the remains of hapless insects, lured to their deaths by the plants' sugary secretions.
House martins were still swooping and diving over the dam (although their muddy puddle far below had dried up) and a juvenile wheatear flew ahead of me along the wall. A brilliant day.
// posted by Christine @ 3:07 PM 
