Sunday 30 April 2017


Earlier this evening, I was camped on Facebook, trying to put some thoughts into words as regards the whole EU/Brexit stramash. Some ex-work colleagues from south were entering into the spirit of things and gentle banter was being gently bantered. Then, up popped our local UKIP candidate with his unique take on things (I know, my privacy settings are all over the place, which I guess is what happens if you believe in open government). But then, something amazing happened...

Another notification popped up, from a friend several islands away:

I think I got to my bins before the last photon of light from the message reached my eyes.

Yep, there they were! Hip hoo-flippin'-ray!

And so from the front door, I give you, in all there uncropped, gritty glory...

And breathe.

Lambing snow

Here in the north, and probably loads of other places, as soon as lambing season is upon us, it snows. You could probably market it as 'Bleat and sleet'. It must be a bit of a shock for all the new ovine life, but at least they're well-camouflaged.

Last Monday was such a day. No time to take photos of cute lambsies, mind, it was off to work for me.

Here's the view on opening the curtains, first thing in the morning.

Later in the day, things had improved considerably. Well, let's just say that it was brighter, if not less snowy.

We're into a spell of dry weather now, which will allow the ground to recover and give me the opportunity to tackle some belated mowing duties. The wildlife patches in the garden need their once yearly cut, and I'm determined to have another go with wild flowers to help pollinating insects. There's a slight change of tack though, this year, after I read this article by Adrian Thomas of the RSPB.

Second place Finish

As wildlife watching goes, seeing the largest animal on the planet must be spectacular. You wouldn't be blue, if you'd seen a Blue whale.

Indeed, seeing the second largest animal on the planet is going to be up there, too. Not just one Fin whale, but three of them. And from your very own front door.


Sadly, I was on a different island, so missed all the excitement.

Yep, I came a very distant second in that race. Gah!

Wednesday 26 April 2017

Hunger pangs

I was transported on two trips down culinary Memory Lane at the weekend.

On Saturday, Our Lass and I were invited over to West Mainland for afternoon tea with a couple that she knows through work and a book club. So, with passports and visas at the ready, we made our way to the Lyde Road.

After the obligatory tour of the premises (including some blue sky thinking about uses for three out-buildings) and before I stood at the window gazing out at the amazing view for much longer than was reasonably polite, we were served tea. Crivens, the cakes were delicious! There was an assortment of queen cakes, flapjacks, rock cakes and shortbread. I've not sampled such a spread since I was a lad. It took me back in time faster than the intro for a temporal anomaly episode of Star Trek. In fact, if my taste buds were to be believed, I should really consider the possibility that a Federation food replicator may have been used. Talk about "just like my mum used to make"!

The next day, as Our Lass sat down to watch Countryfile, the BBC's flagship 'Let's not upset any farmers with anything too controversial" programme, I thought my ears were deceiving me when the presenter (a good Durham lad) uttered the word 'panackelty'. Again, this was a dish that I hadn't sampled since I was a mere Tenselet, and having just returned to 2017 following the Cake-athon, I was swiftly whisked back to the 1970s once more.

All this calorific cogitation reminded me of a visit to a tea shop a couple of months ago, which I had been meaning to blog about, but I'd not got around to it. Amongst the many wondrous cakes and confections on display was something that I hadn't previously heard of, let alone tasted...

Fifteens. So named because the recipe requires 15 marsh mallows, 15 digestive biscuits and 15 glace cherries.

Sadly, there were only two slices.

Sunday 23 April 2017

The pain within patience

It is that time of year, when places far south are already experiencing the verdant delights of Spring whilst, in the north, there is still an amount of patience required before the full spectacle of greening and singing and fluttering ventures forth.

This is the moment of greatest difficulty for me because, despite a trickle of returning Summer migrants, despite roadside verges glowing a vibrant floral yellow, nothing quite assuages the longing for dragons. And, ironically, St George's Day is a month shy of the typical first emergence date for Large Red Damselfly in Orkney.

So it is now that the yearning is at its keenest, with a palpable absence of some missing thing, some sight or sound to put the world back on an even keel, to end this misery in an endorphin-fuelled natural high.

It is said that you always remember your first time, but in truth, I cannot. There is no recollection of my first acknowledged odonate. This is quite strange, because I've always been interested in Nature and could travel in time and space to show you the when and the where of quite a few first species sightings: my first Corn bunting, atop an Ash tree on a lane near my boyhood home; my first Swallowtail butterfly, in a garden of a small village in the hills of Rhodes; and my first (and only) Black woodpecker, which flew past the trench I was stood in, within a German forest. It's a list full of pleasant memories: Basking shark, Otter, Waxwing, Marbled white, Edmonston's chickweed; but for the life of me, I cannot pinpoint the exact moment of the inaugural ode.

A childhood steeped in natural history was strangely bereft of their colourful lives. I noticed everything else, surely I would've seen one and remembered, if they had been there? Then, living abroad, where there's more of absolutely everything, still nowt, though I 'clocked' Black woodpecker, Black kite, Black redstart. Perhaps dragonflies were just too colourful?! It is so strange and perplexing to think that I had some sort of odo blindness, some blinkering effect that rendered them invisible to me but did not hamper an appreciation of other wildlife.

And so, it was not until well into my fourth decade that the scales were finally lifted from my eyes. The first actual memory, but I'm pretty sure not the first dragonfly sighting, was in the mid 1990s, with a Southern Hawker in the small garden of our home at the time. An early evening in Summer, a sun trap concentrating insect life and, for the dragonfly, a fast food restaurant. Me, mesmerised.

Yet it was still several years before I joined the British Dragonfly Society, a few more until I began recording every dragon and damsel seen, and yet more before I felt confident enough to acknowledge that they were an all-encompassing passion. Now, with four weeks to go to the beginning of the local flight season, the crushing weight of waiting presses hard upon my shoulders.

Soon, lad, soon. Not long until the bonds to an aquatic life are severed, until the ungainly emergence of new from old, an unfolding of wings, a burst of heat to flight muscles and the light of three hundred and fifty million years flashing in those all-seeing eyes. Soon, lad, soon.

Sunday 16 April 2017

A splendiferous Sunday

With only one free day available over the Easter weekend, we were fortunate that Sunday was dry and bright. This gave us an opportunity to head across Orkney to look for some Springtime wildlife.

Our first port of call was Marwick Bay on the west coast. We walked south for about half a mile to some old fishermen's huts, where boats and equipment used to be safely stored above the high water mark.

As we returned to the car park, a Wheatear was flitting to and fro along the rocky shore and a skein of Pink-footed geese flew over our heads.

A little further inland, we tarried for a while in the bird hide at The Loons RSPB reserve. This was probably our most productive visit ever.

We saw our first Little Grebes and Shovelers for the year, and had smashing views of Gadwall, Teal and Reed bunting.

On the way home, we stopped off in Finstown and wandered into Binscarth Wood. The air was full of bird song from Wrens, Robins, Chaffinches and, another first for the year, Willow Warblers. The banks alongside the footpath were thronging with white Ramsons, yellow Lesser Celandine, Pink Purslane and a few early Bluebells.

The invasive Salmonberry was trying hard to recover its reputation by being the flower of choice for bumblebees. I managed to capture an image of this one, possibly a queen Buff-tailed bumblebee, with my phone. I'm not sure I could have done any better with my DSLR.

Then it was back home for that other traditional Spring activity... the first cut of the lawn. With the added responsibilty of being very careful to mow around at least some of the patches of Celandines.

Monday 10 April 2017

Wildlife last week

We didn't lead a very wild life last week or, indeed, see much wildlife. Between the stormy weather and, er... rumblings of a more internal nature, we were laid low and bereft of our natural highs.

I made it back to work on Friday, with the result that my first meaningful wildlife encounter of the week occurred not in the gloriously open vistas of an Orcadian Spring, but in a dark, cramped loft. It was a close encounter, although regular readers can probably predict the actual words I uttered at the time. It's a spider from the genus Steatoda, more commonly known as a False Widow spider.

By Saturday afternoon, we were feeling better, so took a trip down to the old kirk. As soon as we stepped from the car, we spotted a male Wheatear perched on a grave stone, quietly running through his musical repertoire in sub-song. This was our first Wheatear of 2017.

In the ditches by the roadside, the Coltsfoot, Dandelions and Lesser Celandines had been joined by Marsh Marigold. A profusion of golden yellow welling up from the ground in a floral homage to the warming sun.

More signs of Spring were visible on Sunday with a fly-by Sand Martin as we wandered along a West Mainland track. However, the highlight of the morning was a distant view of a food pass between a male and a female Hen Harrier, way over on the opposite side of the valley. The below photos aren't great, just horrendous crops of images that weren't in focus anyway. For reference, the male is predominately grey, whilst the female is mainly brown and sometimes only visible against the background due to the white patch at the base of her tail.

The male approaches across the hill side, bearing a gift of food.

The female appears, seemingly from nowhere, to investigate the suitor's offering.

She closes in as the male extends his legs to offer the gift.

Food pass complete, the male banks away.

He resumes hunting (top) as she carries away the gift to consume elsewhere (bottom). Presumably, she is also testing that the male is a sufficiently attentive partner and a good hunter, factors that will have a beneficial effect upon her raising a brood this year.

Sunday 2 April 2017

Something in the air

Afternoon on the 1st April saw us enjoying some fresh air by the shore near to home.

Here are a couple of panoramas. Above is the panoramic view of Howes Wick, a small bay within Holm Sound, whilst below is another panoramic view, at Wester Sand, just around the corner from the Wick.

The kirkyard of St Nicholas' Kirk can be seen in both views. As can Our Lass too, as she continues her convalescence from recent surgery.

Spring was very much in the air, with pairs of Oystercatchers and Brown Hares feeling rather amorous. We are eagerly await the arrival of 'our' returning Summer migrants, as the whole breeding season gets into gear and releases its clutch.