Midsummer snaps

Observing the wildlife, rabbits and birds large and small, as we sit eating a meal in our living room is like having a widescreen TV tuned to a wildlife programme. Naturally, without the breathy Attenborough commentary we don’t get the detailed explanations of what each animal is doing but this just means that we have to make our own interpretations of the behaviour we are witnessing.
Why do the rabbit’s ears point to the rear when it is head down feeding? Our explanation is that like us, it has a blind spot behind its head where it cannot see. So having large eyes covering the front and ears ‘keeping watch’ at the rear saves continuously head turning.
Why would a rabbit feel comfortable sitting on the pavement or in middle of the road? We assume that tarmac absorbs heat from the sun and probably feels warmer underfoot than damp grass.
We note that they seem to prefer sitting away from cover, presumably because a clear all round view enables them to see predators approaching. The road is ideal in this respect since motorised traffic past our house is rare.
Rabbits are now such regulars around the house that we are beginning to think of them as pets. They tolerate our presence at the window and are slow to move even when we emerge from the house so we have to remind ourselves that these are wild animals and their choosing to feed and spend time with us is driven by some advantage the place has for them and not by a desire to be friendly towards us. Perhaps our washing lines over the garden deter aerial predators and the large mesh boundary fence through which they routinely hop may be small enough to discourage cats and foxes.
The only piece of land we protect from their increasing numbers is our small front garden where we are growing a few herbs.

Parsley seems to be a favourite of theirs and it would not last long if they were able to get at it. Some low reed fencing surrounds what we would rather the rabbits not devour and to date this has been successful in keeping them out. I speculate that as well as forming a barrier over which they cannot easily leap, the fencing prevents them from seeing what is beyond. Sooner or later they might decide to eat their way through and I hazard a guess that if food were scarce then holes would begin to appear in the fence. But so far, with a plentiful supply of grass and weeds in our neighbouring garden, our herbs are growing well. I did read that a single female rabbit can become 800 rabbits in one season, given the right conditions and in the absence of predation. This number might be more of a challenge for our fencing.

‘Old Scarface’  (formerly known as ‘Flopsy’ until we spotted the mark just above his/her nose) appears to nod off on the grass just outside our living room window, perhaps meditating upon which particular blade of grass or clover leaf to nibble next. Choices like this must be tough for a rabbit, tiring, exhausting even. This one found it all too much on a summer’s day.
Midsummer’s day, in fact. A day when the sun sets later than at any other day in the year. In Scotland it sets far into the north-west, barely leaving us long enough for the sky to darken before it rises again in the north-east a few hours later. A wander down to the harbour gave us a real treat, a sunset with a sense of calm and peacefulness. I took a few photos, which seemed to turn out fine, then I decided that the mood could only be re-captured with a bit of music. This is the result:

So Carradale Harbour does have its attractions (and its own website) after all. And since gentle strolls about the village are all I am permitted for the next few weeks while I am recovering from my operation, I find myself steering a course to the harbour more frequently now, by some devious path or other. One of these leads over the golf course, a place where there is grass trimmed to within an inch of its life on the fairways which exist side by side with untamed wildflower meadows. These are loosely kept in check by the feral goats which seem to have little interest in playing on the greens.

For reasons I cannot fathom (without Sir David’s help) the goats seem to ignore the Heath-Spotted Orchids whose flowers are dotted around everywhere right now. The flower stems stand around bravely, each one displaying the most delicate of patterns etched on each petal by someone using the finest of paint brushes. I have always thought of orchids as exotic and rare things and it seems odd to see them growing so plentifully.
The rain we have had of late has made the vegetation lush and green. Bracken has reached shoulder height in places and the bramble stems seem to get noticeably longer each day, lengthening almost at walking speed.

One damp morning at home we look out and spy our first deer, just beyond the garden fence. I can see she is heading for a patch of fresh undergrowth and manage to press the shutter just as she sticks her tongue out. But tempted as I am to think of her licking her lips in anticipation of the next juicy mouthful I fancy this human interpretation is not appropriate. I am aware that this deer is easily capable of hurdling our fence in one bound, were there something attractive for her to nibble on. Perhaps our herbs are less safe than they might think.
As it happens in our part of the world, young deer have their own natural predators and later in the same day I spotted one of them, Aquila chrysaetos, gliding on the breeze as I drove north to Tarbert.

Although not our first sighting, this was the first time one had come remotely close enough to take a photograph (eventually). Flying with wings held flat and the body hanging below like the fuselage of a plane, this distinguishes golden eagles from other raptors when their enormous size is difficult to judge. Their long primary feathers stick out beyond the end of each wing like thin fingers and when they are hunting, little is safe from them that lives out on the hills.

Around the village

Pictured here, the Carradale beach-clean team having just spent the morning cleaning up what had collected in and around the bay over the last few months. Most of us were there to pick up litter but Rupert the horse was there for a gallop along the beach and then to eat some of the juicy grass growing on the dunes which is very much to his particular taste.

There was excitement in the village this week as various local groups had meetings with an architect engaged by the Harbour Group to come up with a plan to develop the harbour area. Carradale Harbour was once busy with fishing and even as recently as ten years ago it was very much the place for anyone living nearby to go and spend some time on a fine evening. There was always some activity going on, fishermen arriving back in port, tying up and unloading their catch, so it was the place to go for a blether, a natter. It was the place to be, a place to stroll down to for a promenade beside the sea, the harbour being the centre and focus of village life.

Over time all this has changed. The fishing fleet has declined due to over-fishing (and some would say over-regulation) and as the village population has changed (and become older), the strong bond that the village had with its harbour is being put to the test. Usage of the harbour declined to the point where it is now no longer the centre of the village and sadly it has now taken on an appearance which reflects this.

No longer is it an interesting and attractive place to promenade about at the end of the day. More usually now it is quiet and comparatively empty of life. When viewed from the sea this is hardly surprising as part of the private land beside the harbour has become an eyesore, a rubbish dump, due to the untidy lifestyle of just one owner.

Time cannot, of course, be made to run backwards so the harbour can never be re-created exactly as it once was. The world we live in is forever changing and on our travels Kate and I have seen the effects of this in old fishing harbours all around Britain. Some have remained unchanged, stuck in the past, but there are many that have adapted successfully, bringing in people and life once more. Who would have thought, though, that one day we might find ourselves participating in efforts to re-vitalise a small village harbour, to breathe new life into the place? We certainly didn't. Yet here we are right at the sharp end doing what we can to improve our home. Not everyone in the village is involved, of course, but there are enough here who feel like us and will try to make a difference, who will keep on pushing to make better things happen, to make this a better place for the community and for visitors alike.

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Medical update: Once again I find myself under the surgeon’s knife in Oban Hospital with Kate anxiously waiting for me nearby. For the second time an inguinal hernia has popped up and I need patching up. As I lie here writing this entry I am feeling sore and rather sorry for myself but I know this will soon pass and in a few days I will once again be leaping about, maybe gently at first.

To take my mind off the soreness in my groin we are planning for a couple of momentous and life-changing moves, not for us but for two members of our family. Carradale is sucking them in, just as it did for us. First is my mother who will buy the house next door to ours and, some time in the next month or so, move in. Then there is our middle son, Mike. He too is re-locating to Carradale. It makes me wonder whether I have painted too rosy a picture of this place in these pages. No, not possible.

Time off on Cirrus

We start our wee break on Cirrus (not a holiday, of course, as retired people don’t get these) by having a close encounter with a paddle steamer, none other than the newly restored steamship, Waverley.

She was making a brief stop in Campbeltown, just as the steamers would have done a hundred years ago, and her departure, reversing away from the quay at speed, her decks lined with waving passengers, was exactly how it would have been on any of the Clyde steamers. Out in the centre of the loch she performs the nautical equivalent of a handbrake turn before steaming off south (forwards) around the Mull and heading off north to Oban. As it happens we time our own departure just before she got underway and thus we have the best view possible of this little slice of living history.

The rest of the day passes more gently as we drift north trying to persuade Cirrus’ sails that there is enough of a breeze to fill them. Unlike on our two previous encounters with Kilbrannan Sound, both in strong winds, we now have a chance to sail and then motor close by the shore, dipping our twin bows into each bay in turn. First we pass the ruins of Kildonan Dun, where we are surprised to note how the tiny Ross Island creates a good sheltered bay, an attractive place for the ancient people who settled here to build and set up their home. The relationship between land and sea is not evident from on shore – only from a boat does this place become a logical stopping point.

At Saddell Bay the castle peeps out from the corner in fine style as we creep in, as close as our echo sounder tells us is safe. The sun beats down on us as we cross Torrisdale Bay then finally we slip slowly to anchor in Carradale Bay, just a short distance from our home. Three and a half metres of water is all that separates us from the bottom but it feels like we are in a world of our own here, bobbling gently up and down on the slight swell. Those on land are no doubt suffering the midges, which are particularly troublesome just now whenever the wind falls light, but these little insects are poor flyers so we have every hope that they find it difficult to cross the short stretch of water that separates us from land; and so it proves.

After a peaceful night we wake early to find the motion of the boat has changed. Now Cirrus is wobbling from side to side as waves pass beneath her although the wind is still very light. Whatever is happening it is getting uncomfortable so we decide to leave, early though it is, but as soon as we leave the shelter of the bay the true wind hits us, a north-easterly blast at 15 to 20 knots, and the waves driven by this are rolling down Kilbrannan Sound. The nearest shelter from this wind is Lochranza on Arran, some 10 miles away, so we motor upwind as best we can and attach ourselves to a blue visitor buoy there. This place, which lies west of the most mountainous part of the Isle of Arran, has a reputation for ‘williwaws’, strong wind gusts which can occur to the lee of high ground, and these now sweep down on us throughout the rest of the day and through the night, creating much noise and fuss. Cirrus takes all this in her stride, however, so we feel safe and secure.

The following day is a Sunday, and to our surprise we notice buses running on their usual routes around the island. So after pumping up the dinghy we scuttle ashore and soon find ourselves on our way south to the settlement of Blackwaterfoot which lies in the Lowland part of the island. Like Bute, Arran is also bisected by the Highland/Lowland divide and the character of the south of each island is typical of the Lowlands in both places. There are steep cliffs of red sandstone here, identical in every way to the rocks we noticed just south of Rothesay on Bute only a few weeks ago yet the two islands are separated by the waters of the Clyde.

In both cases these are all old sea cliffs, formed before the land rose up above its present level and on Arran around 6,000 years ago the ancient sea cut massive caves, one of which was reputed to have been once used as a hiding place by Robert the Bruce. This would have been around the same time as he visited Port Righ (royal port) just across the Sound in Carradale. Of course Uamh an Righ, or King’s cave as it is locally known, is bound to have seen human habitation prior to King Robert’s time, it being such an obvious choice for someone needing shelter from the elements but lacking the time or the skills to build. This imbues the place with almost mystical significance, in my view. Of what other places of human habitation can it be said that so little has changed. The walls, the floor, the smoke-stained ceiling, are all exactly as our ancestors left them.

And as if to emphasise this quality just along the shore only a short distance from the cave there is a ‘grove’ of stone cairns, each stone magically balanced on the one beneath and somehow surviving despite the ravages of wind and rain. Created by some unknown artist, perhaps, or else by ancient man and lying undisturbed ever since. And maybe there is some critical alignment of the stones that I missed for out across the sea to the south lies Sanda Island off the tip of Kintyre and beyond this, Ireland, another country. Arran is full of mystery, it seems.

When the morning brings us lighter winds we motor off across Inchmarnock Water to the island of the same name. Uninhabited, unless you count the cattle, there is a small cove on the eastern shore in which a boat like ours can drop an anchor so the crew can eat their lunch. We take shelter from the powerful sun for a time then raise sail to float away northwards again up the West Kyle. White sails are now to be seen in most directions, although this place can never be called crowded, but as the Kyle narrows we begin to wonder whether our chosen anchorage at An Caladh will be full. Not to worry, of course, for there is always Wreck Bay on the ‘Buttock’ of Bute with space for us to drop the anchor, pause to ensure it is well dug in, then settle down for the night.

Come the morning, Cirrus is still in exactly the same place, which is always a comfort when you are attached to the land only by a slim length of chain. The day started cool so we light our diesel heater (the same troublesome stove we were swearing at only a few weeks ago but which now has a ‘New, Improved’ chimney attachment to carry the waste gases higher than ever before into less turbulent air) and just as it was supposed to, the temperature inside our boat begins to rise. A heron lands with perfect grace on the edge of the shore beside us then stands motionless waiting for fish to come its way. This is the most patient of birds and lives by proving the adage, ‘Dinner always comes to those who wait’ and is a treat to see at close quarters.

Our local weather forecast promises some south-easterlies so a plan is hatched that might give us some decent sailing a little later and we motor off down the East Kyle towards Rothesay.

Imagine our surprise on arrival, however, to find the substantial Victorian houses here dwarfed by a mighty cruise ship, the Ocean Countess, which has dropped its own anchor in the bay. I wonder whether the captain goes through the same procedure as us when anchoring – let the boat run back until jerked to a halt by the anchor biting into the sea bed, let out some more chain, check the boat has enough room to swing, set a depth alarm, light the anchor light – or does he just give orders and let someone else worry about these things. I rather fancy things might be dealt with rather differently on a ship of this scale.

After passing Rothesay, Bute’s principal harbour, there are two more islands, Great and Little Cumbrae which we motor past because the wind has not as yet performed as the forecaster promised. Indeed we soon begin to feel he was having a little joke with us for instead of a ‘south-easterly backing easterly’ the wind is set firmly in the south, exactly the direction we had decided we might like to head. Since beating upwind is not something we choose to do with any relish, and having the whole of the Clyde at our disposal from which to pick an alternative destination, we bear away (a nautical term for steering away from the direction from which the wind is coming) for Lochranza and soon find ourselves charging along at 7.5 knots with all our sails straining hard. Massive dark clouds blot out the horizon and are creeping ever closer so that by the time we pick up a mooring in Lochranza the rain has overtaken us.

Thus it continues throughout the night and early morning, to the disappointment of many, no doubt, who would have arisen early to try to catch sight of the transit of Venus across the face of sun. Our own position, with Arran’s biggest hills to the east of us, gives us no chance at all of seeing anything close to the horizon no matter how clear the sky.

So instead of Venus, here is a nice picture of a swan.