Christine's walking & birds blog

A walk along Inverewe's forest trail brought a large family/flock of long-tailed tits and several singing willow warblers. On the drive back, Aultbea was a bit more productive with common terns fishing and a pair of red-throated divers preening in the bay. As we approached the Mungasdale lay-by a ring-tail hen harrier came flying low over the roadside verge - and one of Greger's many Tesla cameras just caught it as it disappeared behind us.

This is the third hen harrier sighting we've had along this stretch of coastline and it reminded me in these days of the breeding doldrums that there is still enthralling land-based birding to be done. The harrier's hunting ground was the strip of bracken, heather, grasses, and foxgloves just above the beach.

Otherwise, a glimpse of the ferry earlier as it headed for Stornoway and the far horizon now reminded me that I longed to be out there.....

I had a wander up through the woods of Lael Forest Garden by the side of the stream to the more open areas above. A tree pipit was singing and a spotted flycatcher was hunting low in the tangle of vegetation.

Greger meanwhile had walked back along the road to follow a different stream uphill, to investigate what a run-of-river hydro scheme that he's bought shares in looked like at the top. We met back at the car park and I suggested visiting another hydro scheme. The lay-by on the Destitution Road was almost full with hill-walkers' cars (lucky things!) but we managed to squeeze in; and then we took a familiar track through a plantation and out onto the moors. An unseen cuckoo was calling from the conifers but he must have been a bit hoarse, as the second syllable wasn't quite right - he sounded like a small distant dog.

We found it easy to cross the rough ground after all the dry weather we've been having, and soon came to the Obermeyer weir across the Abhainn Cuileig.

This is a rather larger project than Greger's - but it was apparently scaled back from the original plans after lots of protest; well, this didn't seem too intrusive in what is a wonderful wild place and if it provides clean energy then it's doing some good.

Walking back, we looked along Loch a' Bhraoin and recalled walking its length back in May 2016, when we went up the Corbett Creag Rainich - the rounded hill to the right in the picture below. Just showing behind its flanks is one of the remote Munros of the Fisherfield Forest, while the distant rugged hill beyond is Slioch, which rises from the banks of Loch Maree and which I climbed long ago. Long ago.

A second cuckoo was calling from a distant hillside where broadleaved trees like birch and rowan defined the line of a mountain stream; and the first cuckoo was still calling from the plantation. I would have thought it was getting a bit late for cuckoos, so it was a nice surprise to hear them. A small pool close to the road holds bogbean - though the flowers have long gone to seed - and the dragonflies whizzing about seemed to be mostly four-spotted chasers.

It was a hot and dusty walk up the quarry road until we reached the bridge over the Ullapool River, where we sat on rocks and had coffee and cake. A dragonfly landing nearby could, I thought, have been either a common or azure hawker; but despite some greenish spots on the thorax, the markings on the abdomen seem to confirm this as an azure.

An insect that might have been a potter or digger wasp was restlessly searching the ground, perhaps for a place to lay eggs; and a probable meadow grasshopper was present.

Just one lesser butterfly orchid was seen - I carefully leaned it so that I could see the pollinia - the only way, apparently, to confidently tell lesser from greater butterfly orchid. These are parallel, whereas those of greater form a V-shape.

Beyond the Stoer Head Lighthouse the ground rises slightly, providing a good spot from which to scan the sea.

I sat there for a couple of hours, and, hoodwinked by a cool breeze from the north, failed to put Ambre Solaire on my legs, ending up with sunburnt knees - and not a single whale or dolphin to show for it!

I think I chose the wrong day. Early on the horizon was obliterated by haar - and even when the mist eventually cleared, there was a milky quality to the air and sea. Looking to my left (south) was pointless thanks to the intense sparkling of the water in the sun, and even when I did see something mildly interesting straight out, it was almost impossible to locate it through the camera viewfinder. A solitary porpoise snorkelling its way through a bunch of shags cheered me temporarily; and it was heartening to see a bonxie, even if it was feeding on something in the water that looked like a dead auk.  But when there was a sudden burst of action involving a juvenile kittiwake and the bonxie (at least, I think it's a great skua though it could be a dark form Arctic), I just clicked away in their general direction without realising until I got home that an Arctic skua had also been present.  

That would have been a year tick if I'd realised what I was looking at, but I'm strict with my ticks and won't count it. The great skua, having apparently seen it off, then went back to picking at the auk carcass.

As I drove into Clachtoll on my way home, a magpie flew low across the grass and landed on a sheep. Magpies are pretty scarce on the north-west coast, and I stopped on the single-track road and fumbled for my camera; but the magpie was wary and flew off. I then became aware of two cars approaching from the opposite direction, and I had to quickly put the camera down and reverse to the nearest passing place; so all I've got is this image from my dash-cam, with the magpie approaching the sheep.

That was my day then. One porpoise, an unidentified Arctic skua, a magpie - and bright red, painful knees!   

The adult white-tailed eagle was flying between two of the Summer Isles, a long way away from the ferry. It was being mobbed by a great black-backed gull - and later, two bonxies joined in.

Beinn Liath Mhor a' Ghiubhais Li

As we began our walk just after eight o' clock this morning, I thought I could hear, off and on, the faint bleating sound of a snipe from the opposite direction to the one we were taking; but though we scanned for some minutes we never got onto the bird.  The tops were hidden by a cloud layer, and this would persist until we reached the summit.

Ahead of us, a cuckoo was calling from the plantation but, like the snipe, it remained elusive. Goldcrest and chaffinch were heard, and coal tit and willow warbler were seen. Only meadow pipits were evident on the steep heathery slope above the trees, and as we approached the peat hags we heard the anxious calls of golden plover. Mindful of nests or young, we walked carefully until we'd left their territory.

At last we were on rocky ground, and there I caught sight of some tiny pink flowers. I hoped this would be trailing (wild) azalea which I've wanted to see for some time - and that's what it turned out to be. In the UK it's found only on Scottish mountains, growing around 1200ft and above.    

It's the season for rock-pooling! Sometimes I see nothing but tiny fish darting about, but today there was something spherical and colourful in the crystal-clear water, no more than 2 inches across. Looking it up at home later I found that it's probably a green sea urchin (also known as purple-tipped sea urchin) - Psammechinus miliaris. Confusingly, wikipedia features another green sea urchin with such a ridiculously long scientific name that I can't be bothered to type it unless I discover that that is the correct one!

I don't know what the periwinkle (if it is a periwinkle) is doing on its back, but my ancient Observer Book of Sea and Seashore states that the purple-tipped sea urchin "may camouflage its body with bits of shell or seaweed". In this case, perhaps the sea urchin hadn't noticed that this particular shell was still inhabited! I'm afraid it might have been my attentions that caused it to start moving across the rock-pool until it could partially withdraw beneath a large rock (apparently they lack eyes but do have low resolution vision in their tube feet - Lund University, Sweden).

Bird life included a black guillemot, a summer-plumaged great northern diver, and, far out, a solitary gannet.

The old road is partially uncovered at the northern end of Loch Glascarnoch, and I walked down it to the water's edge to see if any waders were feeding on the exposed mud. Common sandpiper and ringed plover were present, plus at least three dunlin.

Seven Canada geese - unusual here in the summer months, I think - went sailing out from the shore into the middle of the loch. A willow warbler was singing from trees near the road.

At the southern end of the loch, a narrow-bordered bee hawk-moth was nectaring on birdsfoot trefoil (spellcheck doesn't like the apostrophe between bird and s, and neither do I, although strictly speaking it's correct).

House martins swooped low around me as I walked across the dam; these were my first house martins of the year.