Seize the moment

Orkney is a landscape with big skies where the power of nature is both very visible and incredibly awe-inspiring. More prosaically, this means that weather forecasting can be done on the hoof and, if necessary, the decision taken to high-tail it for cover or dash for a camera.

In fact, toting a camera at all times is almost obligatory, if a little impractical.

As my DSLR is normally fitted with a 300mm lens, in the eternal but faint hope of dragons, it is a bit of a lump to carry around, as well as being unsuited to landscape shots. Thankfully, mobile phones conveniently step into this photographic breach.

Some of our weather is very ephemeral, so being in the right place, at the right time and also facing in the right direction is rather essential. For instance, this morning, looking up from the book I was reading in bed revealed a rainbow just down the road.

Mobile phone through a rainy bedroom window

Later in the day, I glanced out of the lounge window and saw an even more transient meteorological moment. Away over the other side of Scapa Flow, a shower was crossing the island of Hoy. A few of the foot hills were picked out by a diffuse spectral paintbrush, not so much a rainbow, more of a rain splodge.

DSLR from front door

Orkney seems to be a place that lends itself to seeing odd bits of rainbows, though I guess it probably happens everywhere, just not so visibly.

In the spirit of carpe diem, when Our Lass nipped outside to check the temperature and wind speed, we discovered a harvestman on the threshold [he said, segueing seamlessly from seven colours of the rainbow to eight legs of the arachnid] and it was swiftly recorded for posterity.

If you go down to the woods today...

The big surprise, this being Orkney, is that there was a wood to go to, in any direction. Ok, I suppose Olav's Wood isn't that large, but in the context of the supposedly treeless Orkney, it is a veritable forest.

Located in a valley on the east side of South Ronaldsay, the wood is a mixture of habitats and planting. Late Summer (as it is here) probably wasn't the best time to sample its delights, but as a means to escape a stiff northerly wind, it fitted the bill perfectly.

Paths wind sinuously through scrub and wood

Bench, bridge, burn

The path often runs alongside the burn

A small glade between conifer, willow and rose

Rosa rugosa avenue

Common Carder Bee on Devilsbit Scabious

We are still in Orkney, aren't we?

The big question,Yes or No?

Almost from the first moment we moved to Orkney (an archipelago which has been under Scottish control since 1468), there has been a big question hanging in the air. A question as yet unanswered, but one that will be resolved before the next UK general election in 2015. 

It is a question with significant local ramifications, but one which is global in its reach. In fact, its roots are just about as far flung as you can be from here. And to be brutally honest, as English incomers, we wondered if it was entirely appropriate for us to be part of the debate at all.

Our Lass and I have talked it through, argued over it and changed our individual stances more than once. On wild and windy walks in Winter, on sheltered Spring saunters and, lately, on jousting July jaunts. However, in recent days, I feel that a consensus has been reached and a decision will be made soon.

Aye, in a sudden u-turn, whose g-forces would come as no surprise to many a Westminster politician, our policy of only using native plants in our garden has spun 180 degrees around the compass, as we contemplate the introduction of New Zealand Flax, Phormium tenax.

Surely you didn't think I was referring to the other big question? See here and here.

From the off, we had wanted to establish a garden that was big on native planting, so as to maximise the habitat opportunities for native wildlife and promote biodiversity. You see, the problem with non-native plants, even if they are not invasive, is that they all too easily reduce the available space for native plants. And other native wildlife has evolved to live in, on and around native plants.

So a vote for non-native plants can potentially reduce the biodiversity of the area. Tricky, eh?

OK, you may well ask, why has New Zealand Flax suddenly become so de rigueur? Put simply, it's because it can survive in the Orcadian climate (i.e. windy and wet), can provide shelter for more tender plants and other wildlife, is very architectural and can produce this effect when it flowers...

The calm after one storm and before another

After yesterday's rain that washed out the County Show in Kirkwall and brought a touch of muddy Glastonbury to the proceedings, today was absolutely gorgeous. Never mind that the remnants of ex Hurricane Bertha are headed our way for tomorrow, today we enjoyed the sunshine.

I find it quite heartening, with all this 'ex hurricane' stuff, that we're recycling someone else's weather, rather than wasting precious resources on coming up with our own name for it.

To give you a sense of just how nice a day it was, up here in jolly old Orkney, Our Lass was persuaded to go for a walk BEFORE breakfast. Uh huh, that's how meteorologically fabby it's been!

As we wandered down the road towards St Nicholas' Kirk, a female Hen Harrier drifted over the fields, pursued at a respectable distance by a flock of Starlings. A large group of Curlew were spooked into the air by the raptor, but soon settled down again after it had passed. Incidentally, today is Hen Harrier Day in England, a day of peaceful protest at the persecution of the species. There are fewer Hen Harriers in England now than in 1981 when they were given legal protection.

The bays either side of the church were looking splendid. 

Plenty of waders were visible on the shoreline, including Redshank, Turnstone, Ringed Plover, Curlew and Golden Plover.

We made our way to the cliffs at the Bay of Semolie and sat watching Fulmars, Great Skuas and numerous gulls gliding back and forth along the coast.

Eventually, the lure of a cooked breakfast became too much to bear and we headed for home. By now, there were loads of butterflies on the wing, mainly Small Tortoiseshells, but with a Red Admiral, a Painted Lady and a Green-veined White thrown in for good measure.

And some day-flying moths.

We had worked up quite an appetite too.

Northern lights

As the sun set this evening, I stepped out of the front door with my camera, to take a few photos from the step, before the light faded too much for hand held shots.

From OTT, we can see five different lighthouses. Below are photos of two of them.

First, a familiar view to readers of this blog, Dunnet Head light on the north coast of Scotland, some twelve miles distant across the Pentland Firth. The light flashes white, four times every thirty seconds.

And then, just visible above the roof of a byre of the neighbouring farm, Pentland Skerries light, situated on Muckle Skerry, off South Ronaldsay, about seven and a half miles distant, out in the Pentland Firth. The light flashes white, three times every thirty seconds.

Autumn migration and the art of serendipitous lateness

Yesterday morning we were supposed to leave the house early, as we had been tasked with helping out at the Dounby Show, organised by the West Mainland Agricultural Society.

Our Lass and I were part of the pinny posse for the East versus West Cook Off on the Orkney Zerowaste 'Love Food, Hate Waste' stand. There's photos on the OZ Facebook page, if you're that interested in seeing me in a pinny, but just don't expect me to make your life easy and link to it!

Anyway, as is the way of these things, we didn't quite hit our marks and were a bit tardy in our morning routine. We were still odding about with stuff, well after our intended departure time, when Our Lass pointed out a bird flying past the lounge window. It took me a few seconds to cross the room and grab my bins, so all I managed to see was the back end of a bird, brown above, white below, with much barring.

Probably a Sparrowhawk, I thought. At which point, it turned sharp left and flew off across a field, presenting a side view of pointed wings and an odd wing beat that just screamed Cuckoo.

Flying low to the ground, it kept disappearing behind a ridge, then re-appearing and disappearing again. Eventually, it landed on a fence post at the far side of the field. Our Lass also disappeared, clambering on to the wooden seats at the front of the house for a better view. I scrambled for my camera, before joining her on the adjacent chair.

There was just time to grab a few long range photos before the bird took to the air once more and was gone. Later in the day, after sharing this image with folk eminently more qualified than me to comment on bird ID, the consensus was juvenile Cuckoo.

I don't know about you, but I find this part of the Cuckoo's life cycle just as amazing as all the brood parasite stuff. If your mum and dad don't bother to build a nest or take the time and trouble to raise a family themselves, by the time you're ready to migrate south to West Africa for the Winter, there's no-one to accompany you or show you the way. That's a journey of 5000 miles into the unknown, on your own. Incredible.

And jolly decent of it to fly past our window.

Zoiks! Oycs!

In the absence of any oysters to catch, here's some Oystercatchers doing what Oycs do best. Feeding, bathing, preening, loafing, displaying, flying...