Nature notes #674
Wildlife round here doesn't seem to have the patience for the full on test match. I kept an eye open for cricket fans when the last test was on, and other than an occasional midge, there wasn't a hint of interest. Twenty:twenty seems to be greeted with a similar degree of indifference, but, one day cricket, now you're talking. I was half listening to the game today, as I wrestled with recalcitrant pieces of furniture and was pleased to see one if the buzzards fly into my back garden (causing great consternation among the swifts). A minute or two later and my eye was caught by the weasel, skulking around by my car, eventually it moved right up to my back door, and hopped onto its back legs, presumably so it could enjoy the wit and wisdom of blowers et al. I was pleased that it was joined by a rabbit and two grouse, the succession of shoots don't seem to have got to my garden residents yet.
Nature notes #673
There are a number of shy and elusive creatures that live up here, and in true trainspotter style I am gradually ticking them off my list.
It pleases me greatly that we have red squirrels, and not the brash grey ones that have colonised most of the south.
I quite frequently see weasels and stoats going about their business, although I have yet to see a mink (which are apparently a problem), today, returning from Aboyne, I saw a Pine Marten dash across the road, as I was already going slow (escaped cow on the road), I was able to observe it quite closely; I was struck by how bouffant its tail was.
The sheep in the field behind my hut seem to be suffering from a tendency to drop dead, I was walking the other day and found a dead lamb which appeared to have crash landed (the lambs are pretty big now, I suspect the chop will not be far off). I called the farmer, and it was buried. Tonight I saw him towing away another fluffy corpse behind his landrover (I did say they were quite big!). There was no sign of a predator attack on the one I found, I do hope that this is a normal level of decease.
Blue skies and fluffy clouds
The last couple of days of unfeasibly lovely weather herald, at least in Scotland, the end of the school holidays. I remember when I was growing up in West London, the start of the new school year always seemed to coincide with the return of the sun ((which had mostly been absent since the exams had finished).
The other less welcome feature of high pressure when I was growing up, was that in those circumstances we were on the takeoff route from Heathrow, and every couple of minutes another Jumbo would labour overhead, engines screaming in the thinner air. You did become accustomed, as you can get used to anything. I do still have moments of nostalgia when I hear someone interviewed on the radio, and the soundscape incorporates the familiar sounds if sirens, or rattling tube trains.
I was slightly reassured, when I moved to my shepherds hut, to discover that I was living under the runway approach to Aberdeen Airport, so every now and again a small to medium jet passes low overhead. However, at certain times all is quiet, and I know that the Windsors are in residence at Balmoral (about 17 miles away as the crow flies).
The only exclusion to this embargo seems to be the RAF, which continues to roar sporadically up and down the valleys, trailing black smoke. Maybe they are reassured that the realm is still being defended while they take their holidays.
Glorious 13th.
First shoot of the season, and once again my little patch is filled with shiny late model estate cars. Actually, today's planned avian slaughter seems a bit more muted than previous occasions. Just four vehicles laden with tweed have set off up the track towards the delightfully named Fungle Road, an ancient drovers road that crosses the hills from Aboyne to Glen Esk. Although, as far as I can tell, there are no more than half a dozen guns, the quantities of wicker hampers, cool boxes, cases of beer etc, still require a pick-up truck to themselves.
Never having been on a grouse shoot, I can only assume that the modus operandi goes something like this: drive into the hills for half an hour or do, get set up to shoot things, shoot at things until the ones with a talent for survival have run away, stop for a little stiffener and maybe a bridge roll, move on and repeat in a new location, and continue to repeat until the food and drink runs out.
I'm actually quite fond of the grouse that hang around my gaff, even though they take off like startled bricks if I catch them unawares. I don't suppose it has penetrated their feathery little brains that they are actually much safer in my garden than out there in the heather; after a tipsy pheasant extinguisher mistook our telephone line for a long thin bird a couple of years ago the shoots have been very careful to avoid discharging firearms anywhere near to dwellings or wires.
The only thing I find difficult to understand is why a shoot is considered to be sporting? Grouse at least are wild, but they're not very clever and not very aerodynamic, pheasants, if possible are even dimmer and prefer to walk. I can see the attraction of a stroll in the hills, taking an occasional potshot when you disturb a bird, but standing at a post, while the birds are driven towards you seems a little pointless. I suppose if you have paid around £1000.00 a head to slaughter birds, you'd want some sort of guarantee.
It does occur to me that if the sporting pleasure to be gained from killing stupid and bewildered creatures is that strong, then maybe some sort of arrangement could be made with spent battery chickens; they've fulfilled their primary function, and could give one more service before becoming stock cubes or pet-food. It would be a lot less complicated than maintaining a grouse moor, rearing pheasants etc, and the survivors (for there would be survivors), could create little enclaves of top quality free-range birds to assuage the consciences of the guilty middle classes. A satisfactory result all round, I'd say.
Otterly unexpected.
When I first moved here I asked the gamekeeper if he thought there were any otters in the burn. 'I don't know, I've never seen one,' was his reply. An answer which I viewed with slight suspicion.
Otters are very reclusive, but tend to leave quite a lot of evidence; mainly partially consumed corpses and poo (aka spraints) I stayed in a mill cottage in Brittany one time, which must have supported a healthy population, judging by the carnage spread all over the grass most days.
My kitchen window looks out onto what passes for my road, and the ancient stone bridge that crosses the burn, and I quite often see wildlife doing its thing as I contemplate the washing up. Tonight I saw a large black/brown thing lollop across the road on the other side of the bridge and vanish into the grass. Although its movement was very weasel like, it was way too big. I assumed, with great pleasure, that it was a fleeting glimpse of an otter and after mentally ticking it off the list, went back to the dishes.
Two minutes later, however, it reappeared, in hot pursuit of something small, fast and very squeaky. It chased it right up to my gate, before crashing off into the nettles. Re-emerging a moment later to chase its quarry back the way it came. It eventually overtook and despatched its victim, and vanished in the general direction of the burn. I was surprised by how swiftly the local bunnies returned, I could still hear the squeaks of dinner being despatched, while they hopped out, seemingly unconcerned, to continue their interrupted grazing.
The House Martins and various small brown things that have nested inconveniently close to the back door have now fledged, and various wobbly feathered things sporadically bounce off the windows. Yesterday I had to evict an hysterical small brown thing that had taken a wrong turn, and half an hour later, an adult House Martin flew a brief sortie round my sitting room, before, thankfully, it had enough common sense to retrace its path and return to the outdoors. I didn't relish the idea of trying to catch such an agile aerobat, chicks are relatively straightforward, they tend to forget what to do for long enough to make a careful grab, adults just shriek 'predator' at you and employ all their survival skills to get away. As a third feature to the days entertainment one of the newly fledged chicks flew into the house and promptly vanished, I checked all the windows (glass just doesn't feature in House Martin world) and eventually tracked it down, desperately battering at the front door.
Naturally, as soon as I carefully took hold if it, it began to shout the place down. I've always admired the careless aerobatics of swifts and martins, but living with them isn't quite so straightforward. Either way, they crap everywhere.
