Christine's walking & birds blog

A willow warbler in the birch saplings on the far side of the dam betrayed its presence with a call.


Similarly, an osprey might have cruised over high above unnoticed had I not heard an unfamiliar but raptorish call (Lars Jonsson describes it as "piteous", which does the job quite well).


It was especially satisfying, in these eagleless days, to see such a wingspan crossing the empty, empty sky. But if I thought to myself "Good start!" I was in for disappointment, as this was as good as it got!

Leaving the track I negotiated rough, wet ground up to and through the deer-fence gate, only to face the next struggle over a large area of rush patches, bogs, pools, and peat hags. Several frogs were seen, and one common lizard. On the skyline of my hill, tiny figures could be seen approaching the summit from the Black Bridge approach. They kept going past the huge cairn, probably heading for Am Faochagach which is much further along the ridge.

The alarm call of a golden plover came to me faintly on the wind, but in that huge green morass I failed to spot it. I plodded upwards, swearing to myself, and after what seemed like an age, I reached the summit. The wind was now unpleasantly strong and I had to sit in the shelter of the cairn to phone Greger, letting him know I'd arrived safely. I was very tired and I decided not to go on to the second top - the wind was just too much for me, coming on top of the ankle-turning efforts to reach this point. This is the third time I've been up here; you would think I might learn.

Enjoying the fabulous view as I ate my lunch, I recalled that I was forever noting the twin-topped hill in the distance (seen here beyond Meall a' Ghrianain) either from this ridge or from Ben Wyvis, and meaning to look it up. I hadn't got round to it so far, but as I wasn't going any further today and as the birds were rubbish, I fished my map and compass out of the rucksack and took a bearing. It's Carn Chuinneag and at 838m is a Corbett, with a trig point on the right-hand summit.


After a while I had to accept that no dotterels were going to materialise, and I set off down. I lingered where the vegetation clings close to the ground, both because I love this terrain and because all too soon I would be descending into boggy hell again! As usual, I had trouble with berries. I think this is bearberry. There is an unripe berry on the right-hand side of this picture; but I wonder if it's oblate enough for bearberry.


This, I think, is Arctic bearberry.


The flank of the hill was still steep when the grass began to be tussocky and long, and any relief at reaching more level ground at the end of that was countered by the beginning of peat-hags once more. I paused to listen for the plover but could hear nothing. I scanned the sky constantly, but the wind was probably too strong by now for any sensible bird to take to the air above the hills. And as I scanned, two red grouse erupted from the ground just ahead of me and nearly gave me a heart attack. As usual, they flew low and went down some distance away - and completely out of sight.

Never mind, I'll snap this dwarf birch. I love these tiny trees. Their rounded leaves - somewhere between scalloped and serrated - look as though someone's pressed them out crisply with a pastry cutter. That's part of my boot top left, for scale.


Actually, the peat hags themselves weren't too bad - we've had a fairly dry spring; it was more the areas of sphagnum in between that caused the trouble. A large dragonfly caught my eye - but it vanished in a twinkling. Then came the three patches of rushes or reeds (I've never looked them up because I hate 'em). Judging by the fresh poo and the odd "form" of flattened stems, the dozen or so red deer I could now see on the skyline had been spending time here recently. I thought of ticks as I brushed my way through the rushes thigh-deep, but there was no way round the things - and I had at least sprayed my legs with insect repellant before putting my walking trousers on. The rushes, or sedges, or whatever, also hide trickles and pools so that you're ankle deep in muddy water before you know it.

When I reached the gate I had a long drink of water and set off on the next stage, on very uneven sloping ground with quite a few holes where they've been re-foresting, through long tangly grass and foot-catching heather. It was a relief to reach the track.

The stonechat, which was attending juveniles, was first seen on July 3rd; it has a deformed bill, which is better seen in this photo.


As I walked, I became aware of a canoe out on the water with three people in it. I don't think I've ever seen a boat of any kind on Loch Glascarnoch before. I would have thought it was a bit dangerous - after all, from the intake tower, a large pipe carries water away, under the hills and then down into Lochluichart. We always look out for the huge black pipe, at the surface in the village, coming down the slope to the power station.

        
Anyway, it all looked serene and safe enough, and I was nearing the end of my walk feeling fairly happy when these five charmers spoiled my day. They were taking large stones and rocks from the sloping upstream side of the dam, and throwing them down the downstream side, sometimes crashing them on the dry concrete far below, sometimes into one of the rectangular pools there.


I took a second picture after this, when they're all standing at the wall, large stones held on the parapet, and looking down. When I showed it to Greger, he agreed that they seemed to be looking either at something, or for something. And the horrible thought occurred that they were waiting for the house martins to fly out from their nests, which are under the dam wall. I hope not. Let's hope they're "just" destructive hooligans and nothing worse.