Christine's walking & birds blog

On this sunny but windy day we got up onto fairly high ground (well, 300 metres) in a walk from home that blew the cobwebs away. Social distancing was not a problem.



And in sphagnum bogs and pools were water boatmen and this small beetle, which I think is an Agabus species (thanks to a photo on the assyntwildlife website).


There were deer fences everywhere. We negotiated the "dog-flap" in the first fence, and in the next two found a gate which opened easily and then a gate we could squeeze past. We sat down for a drink and enjoyed the view.


Several days ago I'd heard faint wood warbler song from deep in the river gorge, but nothing since. I'd thought that was my lot for this year. Today I heard the song in another location - but again, it was fairly distant, and we caught only glimpses of the singer. As we scanned trees for the wood warbler, there came the thrilling, bubbling call of a female cuckoo, very close; and we looked round to see a cuckoo (either the female or a male that had also been singing) speeding off up the hill, pursued by a pipit.

Finally, a raptor flying about way beyond the river looked too long-winged for buzzard and with the wrong sort of flight - and it turned out to be an osprey.


Which is a very acceptable bird for my lockdown list!    

My car has stood still for 9 weeks, and I haven't driven for ten. We're now allowed to visit friends and relations from different households (social distancing always observed and car journeys limited to 5 miles); but I don't have any people to meet up with. My friends are wild places and wild things, so as Greger was washing the cars and needed to juggle them anyway, I decided to drive to Ardmair (3 miles away) and see what happened.

Nothing much happened, as it happened. The car started first time and I sped, unimpeded, north from the village with a sense of elation. There were a few people on the beach at Ardmair - a family sitting together, and a solitary woman sunbathing. I got out - and almost immediately heard the calls of dunlin. There were two at the edge of the waves, and I sat down on a boulder to watch them.



Yesterday: The quarry road was hot and dusty, and we saw our first fritillary of the year - a small pearl-bordered. It was nectaring on birdsfoot trefoil. We continued on from the bridge to the tip of the loch, where we heard the chipper call of a snipe and caught a glimpse of a common sandpiper. Not our finest birding hour.

We're into the tenth week of lockdown. We still can't drive anywhere for exercise, but we can at least go out more than once each day. I took a quick walk down to the spit at high tide, but could see no waders. A juvenile great northern diver in the river was a nice sight however, and I watched it for some time; it caught a crab.


A man and his small son walked to the tip of the golf-course spit to fish, and the diver moved gracefully down the river and out onto the loch.

I returned home, and Greger and I then set off on our longer walk. A photo of a birch sawfly I'd seen this morning on the Assynt wildlife website reminded me to be on the watch, as I've seen large sawflies up the quarry road before. This one zoomed by and landed on an emerging bracken frond; it's not large enough for a birch sawfly and anyway, its antennae clubs are black. I think it could be a Trichiosoma lucorum, but I'm not sure.


There was no sign of a wood warbler (or anything else, come to that) and I was feeling a bit down. Waders are almost certainly visiting Achnahaird on their way north but it seems I won't see them this year. It's also been a terrific spring for hill-walking but Mountain Rescue requested walkers to stay away from the hills so, like many others, we have. It's absolutely maddening to learn that some haven't.

Well done Daily Mail!

I never thought I'd say that - but their front page this morning was terrific, with an apt headline followed by an editorial comment that covered the Johnson/Cummings situation nicely.

Meanwhile, I've managed to see the common butterwort in flower for once; a small colony was found in a ditch with a sedge of some kind.


Tree pipits were displaying, but I think this is a meadow pipit. Dunno.


Johnson is a two-faced liar. This letter was sent to every household - and it means nothing to him. But then what does mean anything to him? He takes nothing seriously, except for his latest woman and his sex life.



We've now turned off the radio because we don't want to be driven even more mad by that jumped-up little twerp Cummings giving a statement (does he have the right to do that?!). Johnson, you are a ****. Supply your own four-letter word, there are plenty that fit.

Scotland is still in lockdown; so we set off on the longer of our daily walks. The newts continue to fascinate me, and several had taken over a very shallow puddle where breeding was also in progress. This puddle had almost no vegetation for egg-laying - but perhaps I have it wrong, and the females go off somewhere else to do this.


It was great to walk without a jacket and not be buffeted by the wind. The summer birds seem to be thickening up at last, with several tree pipits singing and displaying; the insects in this pic are probably hawthorn flies or St. Mark's flies. I would have added them to the Other Species Lockdown list but the novelty of keeping lockdown lists has worn off.


This is probably a tree pipit; meadow pipits are also present here, and I'm not good on separating them without hearing the song.


Thinking I was snapping another, very distant tree pipit I was surprised to find it was actually a spotted flycatcher; although I don't know why I should be surprised as I had been hoping for one here - a pretty guaranteed site for them.


I was in two minds about the third summer visitor in evidence in the same area - the cuckoo. Some of the pipits are going to lose their own offspring and bring up cuckoos instead; and yet we couldn't help but be thrilled by the fluty song echoing from plantations above and more distantly from across the river gorge on another hill-side. And then - from a dense copse of birch and alder just ahead of us came a loud sound which I suppose was the bubbling call of the female. I still think it's more of a "wik-wik-wik" sound, although the first time I ever heard it (in this same spot) it did sound like a bubbling call. Greger said it put him in mind of a quail's song. Anyway, it was great to hear it (we heard it three more times in different places) even though we never saw the bird.

Two days ago, a recording was posted on the Portland Bird Observatory website of a migrating dotterel at 11pm on 25th April. On 23rd April, I was out watching for meteors around midnight when a single, trill-like sound was uttered somewhere above me. I rushed indoors and told Greger with some excitement that I'd just heard a dotterel passing over; but on reflection, I wondered if that could be right. It seemed early in the year for one thing - and was a dotterel likely to overfly the village? This close to the sea, it seemed more likely to be a dunlin, and that's what I said on my blog.

But the date of the recording on PBO's website suggests it wasn't too early for a dotterel; and the call sounds much more like the call I heard. The dunlin's call is higher-pitched and a bit "screamier" - and often, although not always, longer. I can never be sure, but my feeling is 90/10 in favour of dotterel. When I have to hang up my walking boots and settle for a quieter life, I know what I want to do; I'll get myself set up with some equipment and try night-time recording. My imagination was caught hugely this year by the reports from down south of common scoter migrating overland at night; I would love to hear that.

Meanwhile, unlike England, we continue in lockdown. Our long walk yesterday brought very few birds, although we did see breeding palmate newts in their usual puddle.


The male (lower individual) started by folding his tail and shivering the end of it. There was some frantic movement which bubbled up the water so we couldn't see, but presumably the male was depositing his packet of sperm for the female to pass over and pick up. She then grasps the vegetation (pathetically sparse in this case!) and lays her eggs on leaf or stem.

Right across the centre of this puddle was a clear wide tyre mark from a mountain bike. I don't think I want to do this walk any more; what with seeing the tadpoles' puddle dry up, and then watching newts breeding in another puddle that's at the mercy of booted feet and mad cyclists, I'm becoming a nervous wreck. The main thing I take from all this is that amphibians are not very bright!

Today was rainy, on and off; but we got our short walk in during a dry spell. We watched a sedge warbler singing for several minutes and I got a better picture than last time.


Also on the spit/bull park were at least two singing whitethroats.


A willow warbler was near the pond.....


.....as was another sedge warbler. The edge of the pond was dark with hundreds of tadpoles. Last time we were here, the pintail appeared to be in a ménage à trois with a drake and a duck mallard, but we couldn't see him today.

A walk between showers brought two singing whitethroats on the bull park, and my first sedge warbler of the year.


There were still three dunlin whizzing about on the spit, and it was nice to hear their wheezy trills again - like heavy smokers having a laugh.


Seven turnstone were foraging close together in the seaweed.


There was a pair of goosanders on the river, and as I watched them my first house martin of the year swooped across the spit towards the loch.  

Yesterday was mild but wet, and I spent some time thinking about and regretting my moans of the previous day. After just seven weeks of a lockdown that isn't all that onerous here, I'm whinging - whereas my parents' generation had to cope with nearly six years of war.  My mum had a small son and was pregnant with her second child when her husband was called up. He was allowed to visit her for a couple of hours after the birth and held his baby daughter for the first and last time; he was sent to France and there he was killed.

My dad served in North Africa and Italy, and on demob, moved from London to Buckinghamshire. In 1950 he met Mum; they married, and I was born.

During the run-up to the EU referendum, Radio Four was interviewing people on the street. "We won two world wars," one man bragged, "so I think we can look after ourselves now!" What blatant ignorance. There was, to start with, a little matter of our allies. Secondly, no-one really wins a war when so many are left dead on both sides; and thirdly, the country didn't look after its citizens that well even when it was over - with Mum receiving a pittance as a war widow and food rationing continuing until after my birth. Fourteen years of food rationing! I can't even begin to imagine that. Mum had no-one to help her, and she worked as a cleaner to feed her family. When the war ended, I'm pretty sure she didn't feel she'd "won" anything.

Belonging to the EU was one of the best things we've had - its very existence could minimise the risk of future wars in Europe. And that stupid git Johnson is still giving more time to brexit than to facing up properly to the corona virus crisis. Have to stop now or I'll get angry all over again.


A tree pipit checks in! Probably newly arrived it was wary, and I could get only one shot.


Lots of newts were seen in moorland pools and the refreshed puddles along the hill-paths; but the rain has come too late to save the tadpoles.  Ending with the loop around the spit, we saw two wheatears near the point and were accompanied by a handful of twite which flew ahead of us along the west shore and past the harbour, where they found some weeds growing through the paving near the fish-and-chip tables.

Our walk was nearly 10 kilometres and on it, we experienced a cold north wind, sunshine, hail, and snow.

On this calm, windless evening after a day of intermittent drizzle, we walked out after dinner and made our way along the river to the spit; and as we did so, a haunting sound drifted over from the loch. I've heard a great northern diver's call several times, but this was the best yet - clear and full. We hurried to the other side of the spit but alas the diver didn't call again. It was intent on preening, evidently, contorting itself into odd shapes, standing up and flapping its wings, and several times scooting fast through the water as if to take off - only to sink back onto the water again.


A handful of small scurrying figures on the tip of the spit turned out to be dunlin - not sure if there were two or three.




It's such a joy to see these birds on our local walks as I'm now beginning to realise with a sinking heart that I'll probably not get to drive out to Achnahaird this spring in time to see any migrating waders. My car has stood outside unused for six weeks - but how much longer will I be obedient? How can we ever know it's okay to go out? The answer is, we can't. At some point we have to take the plunge - and I don't believe we can be expected to watch a whole summer go by.

The long walk brought the first skylark for lockdown - spotted by Greger.


Unfortunately I didn't notice that the camera was set on ISO1600 instead of Auto - but it's quite a nice effect in some ways. A couple of days ago this walk provided an unexpected great spotted woodpecker.

Yesterday, we worked in the garden and took a walk round the village in the evening. A common sandpiper was on the far bank of the river - which was pretty wide at almost high spring tide.


The sad thing about today's walk was that the puddles along the hill-path have all dried up, and the tadpoles are dead. My efforts to replenish the water supply were not enough - but I think it was always going to be a losing battle in this unusually long period of dry weather.

A female stonechat was seen carrying food; but there was still no sign of any tree pipits.

I visited the grasshopper warbler site earlyish this morning, and heard a few bursts of reeling further into the scrubby end of the field. It fell silent, but then a brown bird flew up from long grass into the gorse, where it began to reel again.


I walked on round the spit but the tide was already quite a way out and I didn't linger. A whitethroat was singing and flying up in display from suitable perches on the bull park.


A wheatear and around a dozen twite were still at the point beyond the camp-site. From there it was a swift walk home by road - and that was my exercise outing for today.

The walk along the loch from Ullapool to Rhue is a beautiful one scenically speaking, but in other respects is a bit of an obstacle course. But first we had the dog-walking field to negotiate (I've never seen it quite so pooey!) and as we turned onto the long sloping path that leads down, up from the scrubby area came the reeling of a grasshopper warbler - which Greger unfortunately can no longer hear. We failed to see the bird, and soon carried on as we had a longish way to go.

We followed the posts along the edge of the golf-course but eventually the grassy path petered out and we had to walk on the pebbly beach. Looking back towards Ullapool (all scenic shots from G's smartphone).....


Three Bonxies were out on the loch  - evidently practising social distancing. A first for the year.


Several wheatears were encountered along the Morefield crofts.


The coastline began to take on a rocky ruggedness, and even at low tide some headlands couldn't be walked round. We clambered up this one and found a pleasant path along the low cliff-top - though later in the year, bracken might be a problem here.


Several fences also have to be dealt with - fortunately they're low enough (just) to swing your leg over.


I thought the greyish bird ahead was a rock pipit, but I reckon it's a rather sombre meadow pipit.


At last we were free of fences and approaching the lighthouse at Rhue.


We sat on the rocks and had a packet of crisps and some water, and then set off for the road. A cheerful runner came down the path as we climbed up through the still-dead bracken. The road walk through the hamlet of Rhue was pleasant enough, especially as a cuckoo was being fairly vocal from the parallel river valley and seemingly moving along with us. It wasn't until we were plodding up the main road though that we finally saw the bird - and by finding a narrow gap through the undergrowth I was able to get a passable shot.


Once at the top of Morefield Brae it was downhill into Ullapool and all the way home. A common lizard darting across the verge gave me an "other species" tick for lockdown.


This was the first time we've done this walk - which was just under 12 kilometres - and it will probably be the last!

Greger was incredulous when he read in my last post that I "turned for home with a heavy heart". According to him I was singing Captain Sensible's Happy Talk all the way along Moss Road! Well, there you are then; I can't have been that disappointed at not seeing a grasshopper warbler :o(

Today, the pintail was on the pond near the golf-course, in the company of three drake mallards.

 
This offered a good opportunity for a piccie - but I expect a bit more wildness in my ducks than this!