Of Creeks and Kings
The whins have long since shed their golden glow of spring. Against the backdrop of greenery we now have the pomp of porphyry, as the heather steals the show. Amongst the heather clumps of ragwort rise, glistening, sharing the mantle handed on by the whins with the two-tone yellow of the common toadflax.
There are hidden gems amongst the foliage, little birds overshadowed by their noisy neighbours. Joybringers. The yeldrick sits on the topmost spikes of the whins. Harebells dance in the lightest breeze.
Before reaching those clifftops I’d passed a vast north facing bank of wild rose, dotted yet with pink and white flowers. The early blooms have given way to ripening hips, more so at the top of the bank.
Rising to these colourful heights is the soundscape. The sea bird colony. Earlier I had stood in deep swathes of clover and pinks atop the Green Castle. Below an eider had paddled round the rocks. Round towards the Three Creeks Shore.
Get down to sea level and watch, as caves open up round every turn, as you glance back shorewards. And as you potter slowly east, listen, as the cacophony rises.
Pass the Dungeon Cave and saunter across Quineland to Harry Cockie Cave. Inevitably the eye is drawn to Shitten Craig, a big, pointy, guano-stained rock, lapped by the tides on all sides. Layered, bursting from the depths to form a solid angled triangle of ancient geology. Beloved by seabirds.
The welcome comes from the fulmars, the razorbills. And the kittiwakes.
Lying in wait is an even vaster lump of rock. Dominating. My first glimpse, from the cliff edge, drew me down. And down I went, at low tide. Down into the bowl, where the call of the kittiwakes echoes all around. It bounces back out of the caves, rises up the cliffs. The shingle drops steeply, fifteen feet or so, high tide to low. That allows me to get closer, pulled on by the rock, its ledges dotted with gulls, streaked with guano.
But I’d been forewarned. A few weeks earlier local birder, and author of the marvellous The Birds of Moray & Nairn, Martin Cook, had been chatting on Out of Doors. The soundscape that thrilled me today was but a whisper of what it might have been, what it once was. Even a year earlier.
At the tail end of 2023, when the birds were on the ocean, Storm Ciaran followed quickly on Storm Babet. The impact is now evident. Further south the Isle of May shag population was reported to have shed 81%.
Here, in Portknockie, the Bow played a melancholy tune on the Fiddle. Those kittiwakes, shouting incessantly their names, were reckoned to be a mere one-tenth of the usual population. Nine out of every ten birds failed to survive those two raging storms. I stepped gingerly round too many carcasses above the high water line. Avian flu this was not. Just 10 per cent returned to breed. Let that sink in.
It was a sobering thought I took with me. In sombre mood I returned to the heights. New sounds reached me, surfing the thermals. With the colony in full song, a deeper base sounded. I watched as a yellow kayak nudged shorewards through the arch, picking a line gently past exposed boulders, hand hauling. He called his mate through, and the red kayak nosed into view.
The flushed shades of the lintie caught my eye, watching all around, perhaps embarrassed at his silence. Blushing. I longed for his song. The paddlers found clear water and chatted over their passage through Bow Fiddle’s arch.
After a moment of patronage to the survivors on the nooks and crannies of the rock face I wandered on, round the headland.
With every step the sounds of the colony receded. My path took me down the cliffs once more. Down to where the shags dried their wings. A deeper resonance to their song. In the foreground a stanechack perched on a rock, waiting on a blether. Over my shoulder I watched the Whale’s Moo open, almost a mini Bow Fiddle, clear light, and clear water through the arch.
Along the shore I came to Jenny’s Well, at the foot of a cliff lathered in fern, deep in the shrubbery. Burbling and gurgling, if not looking entirely natural. The well had been given a massive stone shrine, dotted with shells to spell out name and place. At the base the water flowed, emerging as if through a pipe.
Rich and varied wildflowers I was promised. And indeed there were. Gold and purple, pinks and clovers. I was taken by a vast array, purplish pink Chinese lanterns, on lilac stalks, rising above the undergrowth. The bees loved it.
And that, I was to discover, was part of the problem. Himalayan Balsam is rampant, to the detriment of native species and causing erosion out of season. Coming up for 200 years since brought to these lands it is now thick on our shores and riverbanks. I came across the Scottish Invasive Species Initiative, doing some excellent work. There is some hope.
The gaping maw of Preachers Cave opened before me, just as I stepped from path to shingle. A stepping stone from the heroics of Drumclog to the wreckage of Deerness, those Covenanters spread their word far and wide. Rebellious Scots.
As I emerged from the rocky path to take to the sands that rimmed Cullen Bay, so I passed another bank of balsam, between 9th green and the massive sand trap that is the beach.
Taking the short route round the bay, as the surf did little more than ripple to its ebb point, I watched as the red and yellow kayaks hauled up on the strand, like Portgordon’s seals. Two neoprene paddlers stretched like shags, reliving their paddle, easing tired muscles.
I reached Cullen’s Three Kings. In a previous life I had attempted to play golf here, and to that innocent teenager it seemed like playing the Arizona desert of the cowboy movies of the day. Massive piles of red rock, to play up, over, down or round. I may have lost a ball or three. And have never hit one since.
After dismissing brief thoughts of a sauna, followed by a refreshing dook, then back into the mobile oven, I turn to retrace my steps, welcoming again the waggy tails of the strand. Like most seafronts it is easy to feel out of place without a hound or two at foot. Dreams. Should I?
It was a marvellous setting to break my walk, to gather my thoughts. Rich in sight, varied in sound. From the joys of the eider to the black guilliemots that have thrived in recent years; to the decimation of the kittiwakes. Storms at sea as the planet’s temperature rises. More powerful; more frequent. More damaging.
We inflicted untold pain for the sake of pretty flowers. Near two centuries later we compound our self destruction. The colony at Bow Fiddle Rock sings a mournful song this year. Shitten Craig is a lonely lump, a bit less shitten. From the Creeks to the Kings I’m more concerned with Martin Cook’s tales, than with waggy tails.
It’s a cracking walk, Three Creeks to Three Kings. You may gasp in the beauty. Then fall silent in despair.
Never Hurray a Moray
A gentler climate, respite from the wind and rain of the west. Cycle paths where the trains once serviced the distilleries. Travelling slowly, walking and cycling those paths, the rich variety of Speyside comes out to see who’s passing.
At Portgordon the haulout plays host to several dozen seals; pups with fur to shed; protective mothers. And guardians with bobbing heads in the water. From the former railway, above the road, the view for the cyclist, safe from the traffic, reveals the seals on the ebbing tide.
It’s an easy ride from Portknockie. The eye is drawn offshore. Regular reports of dolphins, Risso’s too, and orcas. Fin-spotting though needs some time to stop and stare. Ideal breaks for the lazy cyclist. Frequent rests.
The yellowhammer had set me on the path, a spiky vantage on the whins, as I rumbled over the gravel to Findochty. A trio of roe deer had been grazing on the Three Creeks Shore, oblivious to the watchers on the clifftop. Good signs.
I had set off with the sounds of the seabird colony in my ears, though aware that the storms last autumn had wreaked havoc in the numbers surviving to regain the shore in the spring. Especially with the kittiwakes. Nine in ten didn’t make it. Bow Fiddle Rock rang to a mournful tune. Shitten Craig hosted less guano this year.
My way took me, eventually, to the richest gem of the coastal trail. The viaduct drew me like a magnet, giant meccano; a railway bridge built as they should be. Below, the waters of the Spey gushed over the gravel. I followed the path, on to Garmouth, and then to Kingston. That was where the fish-hawk soared above me, arrowing for the river. The birds of the estuary rose as one, their quiet shattered.
Back over the viaduct, this time down the riverbank path, to Spey Bay itself. I watched the osprey fish, at a distance, and take breakfast back to the nest. On another day a pod of dolphins put on a show, feeding, romping in the currents. Acrobatics.
Mother and two young red-breasted mergansers pootled upstream, exploring the various ponds. Orange and tufted, silver flanked. The water was low, a much needed dry spell on the river, snow melt from the mountains long gone, and low tide on the sea.
Spey Bay had more. From where I stood, on the riverbank, sheltered from the shingled shore where the heron stood guard, bubbles and ripples disturbed the surface. I watched, and waited. Watched some more. No glasses needed, no long lens.
A head appeared, and left again. Bubbles. A minute or so later he surfaced. On his back, rear paws and tail stretched out. Only the sand-eel between the front paws was missing. Ten glorious minutes of being ignored by the otter. He tumbled; played hide & seek. Then he scurried over low tide-exposed gravel, to explore another pool. Scenting here, sprainting there, water shaken from fur. And finally he took his leave, into the greenery of the estuary islands between the channels.
How many hours have I spent in a midge-ridden hide, at silly o’clock, searching in vain for the dawn otter on a shore? On Skye, and on Mull, at Maxwell’s lighthouse cottage. Yet here he is, out in the sun, after an hour on the bike and before elevenses, when an osprey alone would have made the day.
I’ve spied his cousins on Jura, Kyleakin too. But that Spey Bay otter, on a stretch of coast rich and diverse; as magical as it was unexpected. The bar is set high now when cycling the Moray Way.
Returning on the riverbank path I pass the viaduct, keeping to the east bank for a few miles more. My ride is interrupted. Fenced off. Midstream, the Spey gushing round, are huge brick buttresses, sections of the retaining wall. The posts and wire of the fence are still strung between them. What power eroded that bank? Snowmelt on the high tops, and wild rain. Hard to imagine at current water levels. The path diverts, a narrow slash in a field of ripening barley. I return to the viaduct. Thinking of gushing torrents, and the himalayan balsam that lines the path.
The next stop along the cycle route was at Loch Spynie, a fine place to break the ride, to rest. Quint roads from Garmouth, flat and easy, with a long stretch of gravel for the final approach. Such calm; complete tranquility. The feeders at the car park are busy, demanding quiet. Red squirrel and woodpecker, amongst the tits. On the water the arctic terns cavort close by; the swans serene on the far side. Between them greylags come into land, in formation; splashing and spraying. In the pool beneath the hide, just after the camera is packed away, of course, Mrs Coot brings her two fluffly cootlings to explore. A little grebe paddles by. Perhaps next time the kingfisher will come out to play. He probably did, just after I’d left.
As I slowly explore the coastline it is easy to forget the early days of the trip. The puffins at Bullers of Buchan, readying themselves to depart; rafts on the water, as a stubborn few cling to the cliffs. Occasionally an adult brings food. The few remaining ashore take turns to appear from tunnels, to nudge along the rock. Then there were the gannets at Troup Head. Raucous. Fragrant, in a gannety way. Off the nesting ledges they plunge, and dive, wings folded. The cliffs echo, sound rising, solan song, as they wheel and turn. Endless percussion.
Along the way the little birds bring joy, from the stonechat to the linnet, the yellowhammer too. Spey Bay though surpasses all. Seals and dolphins in the water; the osprey fishing the river; merganser and goosander. And that otter. Such memories. No photos required. The return to Portknockie has never been so light of effort.
The Old Grey Thistle Test
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Dreams of Elsewhere
Above my head, at least double my height, the rocks are marked by the tides. Caves have emerged, drained. Kittiwakes guard eggs high above me, on cliffs stained with guano. Beneath the raucous gulls, beyond the rocks, waves rumbled and tumbled. I am in a special place. Serene and calm, a haven in the midst of chaos.
After nearly 30 years we plan a retirement relocation. Our rural life, in a couple of acres at 750ft, will come to an end. Our future life will be coastal, garden tools not required.
The big worry, so far, concerns cats and chickens. Aside, that is, from the books. How many will fit in? How many will have to go? And how to part with them? And I wonder if I am thinking books, or cats, or chickens. All of them. There will be tears, and not just over the books.
The children will have finished their studies, embarked on careers perhaps further afield. We hope. They will take all their clutter with them, to their new homes; won’t they?
Our time in Avondale, between horizons marked by Loudoun Hill and Dungavel, with Goat Fell on clear days, has been a happy one. Deliciously so. Thirty years is a long time; in the one place.
However the times are changing. Before the maple hedge grew we lost french doors to the winds. More than once. Once occasional blasts, now habitually Named Storms; stronger, names to defend. One of them, her name escapes me, disappeared with a chunk of the garage roof. There is less snow than we had back then. But so much more rain. Wind and rain.
The Moray Coast beckons. Gillian has been away for a long time, over 40 years. We need to reduce that four hour journey. Closer to the family, once we can put work commitments behind us. It has been a long time coming. And it has a much kinder climate; a gentler pace of life too. Which we need as we age.
Cycling in Avondale involves hills; and that wind. My old legs look forward to renewing an occasional acquaintance with the cycle paths of a fairly level coast; pottering between Cullen and Spey Bay, perhaps on to Lossie. The old railway lines have been re-purposed. In Avondale they lie derelict yet, and cycling involves traffic. Even if the dreaded A71 can be avoided.
And so to Portknockie, and my early morning wanderings. Bow Fiddle Rock at low tide; on the clifftop walk to Findochty golden whins glistened, the sun silvering the distant seas. Ancestral blethers at the Heritage Centre in Cullen, lead to the possibility of linking family tree entries from St Monans three centuries ago with the street which will become our home. Intriguing.
At the bottom of the street I find The Green Castle, and The Twinnies. Three Creeks Shore is a big change from Mill Rigg. Shitten Craig and Quineland; new words, new views. We’ll put the Covenanters’ Trail behind us; swap Trumpeter’s Well for Harry Cockie Cave. A deep carpet of thrifts and pinks, ready to burst into life, enveloped The Green Castle. Below a solitary eider pootled slowly towards the shore.
The ancient and distinctive volcanic plug of Loudoun Hill will be exchanged for the ancient and distinctive Cullen quartzite of Bow Fiddle. There will still be skylarks, but they’ll have shags and oystercatchers for company, turnstones too. Where once I cast an ear and eye for the buzzard, I’ll look now for the osprey. And there may be a glimpse of a dorsal fin out on the firth. At Troup Head the gannets and the puffins are but a short trip away.
In these early days we begin to measure up. Spaces, book cases; floors for rugs, and walls for pictures. And we realise, finally accept, that much of our accumulated detritus will need to be purged. The old piano; great-grandfather’s walnut bureau; the rowing machine. Pictures on the walls, plenty more unhung. Clutter in the kitchen; too many gadgets. The necessity of downsizing.
Then there’s the contents of shed and garage. Both bursting. A house with no garden, a simple yard. There are plans for pots and planters. And that will need an irrigation system for the next few years. Which is why I find myself browsing bowsers; water butts and drip feeds. Strange times. Bike storage. Think about that.
We need to delve for distant memories of things long lost; living with neighbours, and streetlights. Dark skies will go. But with hopes of aurora, looking north, out to to sea.
Our life’s journey starts out on a new stage, with a plan. And with so much hope. If only two us make the final move, the younger generation will be on their own journeys. And we will all have the excitement that comes with new horizons. New places, new sights to photograph; words to find, in a different dialect.
As the plans begin to take shape thoughts of what we will leave behind threaten to overwhelm. Our memories come with us, secure; but some things we leave behind, precious things. We’ll not be that far away. Open to guests and visitors. And always the threat of a trip south, descending on absent friends. Especially in January. It’s a Celtic Connections thing. Don’t even mention football. Buckie are doing well; Islavale perhaps more my level.
As I sit on a rock, at Bow Fiddle, low tide, all of these thoughts, and more, birl round; as the gulls whirl above with the skirl and claik of aeons. And I know we do the right thing. At the right time.
From Avondale to Moray, with hope for the years ahead.
As I Walked Out
Frost rimed fields
Angled sunlight, dissipating
Flowers
And Goat Fell
To Cample; a Trample
A new day dawned, new year as it happened. A day absent of what had gone before. No rain, no wind. And no company, other than the cats; for the family had headed to the Northern Wastes. The remaining clouds drifted off, clear skies, clear mind, no plans. Should I ride or walk?
I drove; through the Dalveen Pass, always a joy. Through Thornhill, turn for Cample. Parked, boots on. Solitude. Through that little green gate. Slippery underfoot. Thick with leaf litter, churning into the mud. Should have protected that knee, brought a walking stick. Careful.
The burn burbled and tinkled. I eased along the path; squelch, squelch; birch and beech mulch; coppered oak too; oozing. The burble became a tumble and a gush. 
I took the steps upwards, into the sandstone; that carved canyon, as the waters tumbled below, deep in the gash.
I lingered not, ultra careful with the footing on the slippery stone. The legends in the stone remained, names etched. I stood in the footsteps of many; of Burns and Scott, and I recalled those Covenanters, hidden from view. 
Like the Elves before them, the Men of the Covenant would have cast prayers from their illicit kirk. Now there was just me; me and the water nymphs.
Upwards, more steps, across the little burn at the top, before it tumbled and fell to join the waters deep down in that slash in the sandstone. I followed the path further, ducking under fallen trunks, stepping over others.
The copper floor of the gully, steep on both sides, festooned in bright green velvet. 
Where the trees rose tall and bare, stretching for the light, reaching far above, I was lost in a wet world. A world today with more light than the brightest of summer days, absent that green canopy above. It was green in the depths, thick with moss. 
On tumbled trunks of fallen trees; on remnants of ancient dykes. 
And on the bedrock through which the water rumbled and tumbled; leaving behind, as the centuries passed, perfect circles where eddies spun into nymph pools.
Far below a familiar sound, from days long gone. Water broiled and foamed, swishing back and forth.
I was in a kitchen, decades past, and the old top-loader was doing its thing, mangle at the ready. I recalled an image, just a day before. Only now did it seem clear why a random picture, a pair of ancient wooden washing tongs, had appeared on my twatter feed.
Back at the car, having changed from muddied boots and removed a layer or two, I sat with a drink, and a can of mini sausages – don’t ask – scribbling a few more notes. A car drew up alongside, the peace of the woodland solitude gone.
I had never met Mike, though we had once shared a zoom call, some months back. I’d suggested this walk to him then. We had one thing in common, our reason for being on the call. But unprompted by our common Mistress, unknown to either of us or to her, here we were in the same place, at the same time. Meeting for the first time.
I hope he enjoyed the coppery mud and the velvet greenery, the sounds of the burn, every bit as much as me. And I hoped the nymphs and the elves danced for him too. I left with an image of Angela, haunting me, a pair of wooden washing tongs gnashing in her hands. Prompting, surprising, inspiring. Some things are meant to be. Here’s to 2024, whatever may lie ahead.
Red in Fur and Feather
You may be forgiven in thinking there could be little in common between the nuthatch and the red kite. Both species established in Scotland in 1989, and both run to only 260 breeding pairs. The latter has a wingspan reaching the height of the average man; the other weighs in at less than ounce. Blue-grey the dominant colour of the smaller bird, though she does have a patch with the colour of the larger one.
However, on one sunny spring day I enjoyed the antics, and listened to the pee,pee,pee trill of one; and the peeee-ooow squeal of the other, in the same place. A rumour of warming air, more whisper than psithurism.
The kite, having been persecuted out of our skies, and fled our glens, in days gone by, has a gaelic name Clanihar Goblach, but the nuthatch has yet to receive such a title. Having spread it’s little wings, and headed a little further north, over close on a quarter of a century, perhaps it will one day, if it continues northwards.
In mixed woodland sunlight dappled the lower branches and the leaf litter on the floor, whilst a wren sang her morning welcome. I looked around to a palette of fallen trunks and living trees; to needles and broadleaves; to moss and lichen; to ruined walls, crumbling boulders thick with emerald mosses. I gazed out from the Studio Hide, three open windows, to the front, to the left and down at ground level.
At first glance the birdlife was familiar, with tits and finches from the home feeders, blackbirds and robins. Finally my gaze rested on that singing wren.
My woodland quest, my view through the lens, was more fur than feathers. And the fur appeared, the fun started. Chasing games; down trunks, up poles, across the floor and the fallen logs. It came in a variety of shades; dark, dull, bright; red and bushy, chocolate and ginger.
My woodland quest, my view through the lens, was more fur than feathers. The fur appeared, and the fun started. Chasing games; down trunks, up poles, across the floor and the fallen logs. It came in a variety of shades; dark and dull; bright red and bushy; chocolate and ginger.
The wood was home to red squirrels, sciurus vulgaris. Ears limned yet with winter tufts. They scampered, and they fed; squabbled and fed some more. To get to the wood I crossed fields from time gone by; fields still with ancient trees to hinder the plough or the harrow. Sheep grazed under the oak, and the ash, and the lime. Molehills, all too familiar from the home policies, dotted the ground.
“I really think I’ve found the spot”. And that was how Tom Bowser began to nurture the reds at Argaty, the farm in Stirlingshire that had been in the family for almost a hundred years.
Patience, tempting with nuts, daily visits and long hours watching. Eliminating greys. And the reds thrived, survived those early days, to entertain today. And they do so in numbers.
After the early freeding frenzy, a quieter spell found my gaze drawn back to the feathers, for the birds were hungry too, and nuts were on offer. Slowly I became aware of shades not seen on the home patch. Blue-grey, patches of white and rust, a broad black stripe from beak through the eye, like a punk monobrow.
I had to look that one up, dismissing a possible male wheatear before realising I had been watching a nuthatch, sitta europaea, for the very first time.
The wood had other surprises, for I soon had another first. More blue, dazzling, fearless, and not fifteen feet away, staring back. I was out-gazed by garrulus glandarius, the jay, gallus as we may say in these parts, as the shutter tried to capture his better side.
Breast feathers tending to pink, hints of magpie towards the tail; and a grey streak which in his case was not age. A real woodland beauty.
The woods though had more delights to reveal to me. Movement, camouflaged, rising on the bark of the tree in front was what I learned to be a treecreeper, certhea familiaris; another first for me in this Argaty delight.
White undercarriage, long curved beak, walking up the trunk, propelled by tail and legs, probing deep in the bark, beasties for feasting. Tom was not wrong. And over the years he had nurtured a gem.
The squirrels though put on an entertainment; and what a show it was. A cheeky darker one, more plain than milk chocolate, appeared on the window ledge, in touching distance. I heaved my bones down to the floor, and lay and hoped, lens at the ready. Cramped, waiting, futile.
And as soon as I took my seat, so bright eyes and bushy tail appeared one more at the floor. Teasing, demanding more. Feet scampered o’er the roof above, and then he appeared again at the window. Chuckling.
Argaty had drawn me, not for squirrels or woodland birds, but for a larger beak, a hooked one, for yellow claws, for red feathers, and a forked tail. The promise of another feeding frenzy.
For some years the Bowser family has been diversifying the family farm, re-wilding, conserving. As well as protecting the red squirrels in the woods Tom and his mother Lynn had a long-standing red kite project. More recently beavers have been added, though for me that may be another lens, in another hide, on another day.
My red kite journey has been a long one. It started further north, in the skies above the Waters of Kylesku, long before I could even hum the tune far less belt out the chorus in a manner completely unrelated to Calum Kennedy. As I drove the curve of the bridge, a forked tail appeared above. I wanted to know more.
An Argaty kite had drawn my attention too, in the very early days of Tom Bowser’s project. On the road, not far from Doune, a bird swooped on road kill, securing a lump of carcase before the car closed.
Just last year, outside Kirkudbright, a similar experience. Road kill feeding. We managed to track a pair of kites, through binoculars and long lens, to distant woodlands. Never close enough.
Back in town I picked up a copy of Tom’s book, A Sky Full of Red Kites, at Gallovidia Books, plucked from a shelf rich with nature writing and in particular birds. The owner was a keen birder, and a huge kite fan.
I had heard Tom’s name, and mention of his book, before that visit. A couple of interviews with Euan McIlwraith on Out of Doors, my early morning radio fix to start the weekends. A very special blether between Euan and Tom followed, with Euan’s final broadcast on his retiral after many years on camera and behind the mic, saw him back at Argaty for what became a hugely emotional first sighting of a beaver. A sighting in the company of Tom Bowser, as he marked the next stage in his Argaty project of rewilding and conservation. Then we had Euan and his genial co-presenter, Mark Stephen, with whom I had enjoyed some very precious time in days gone by, exchanging memories and gifts by the fire pit in the Beechgrove car park, with nary a dry eye anywhere on the airwaves. The quaich was filled, and emptied, before the 8am news.
I recall also a previous fascination with the forked tail and red feathers, this time in Wales, at a feeding station in the hills inland of Aberystwyth. The children were young then, the old man a little less old. But the sight, and the range of sounds, of red kites circling, and wheeling, scavenging, lingers long, and leaves you longing for more.
More it had to be be, and in Tom and Lynn Bowser I had perfect hosts, allowing me a day of indulgence at Argaty.
After a morning in the woods with the squirrels, and the jay and the nuthatch; after a brief lunch by the visitor centre, it was up to the Photography Hide overlooking the red kite feeding area. Bio-security was in place, the farm hens indoors, after an avian flu contact within 10 miles. With chickens at home I was well aware of the risks, and the precautions.
The birds exceeded all expectations. Swooping and snatching; circling and calling, laughing perhaps. For these magnificent birds with their 6ft wingspan, and that very particular tail, do not stop for photos like a jay in the woods. They take their food not on the floor, but on the wing, like an osprey sweeping the loch. They put on a show, and display. Solitary swoops for food, and in the air, hints at spring, dancing in pairs on the thermals. Always on the move, snatching food from the turf, whirling back to the tree tops.
And leaving my skills with shutter and lens shattered, longing for more. The learning curve continues.
Just an old…
Romantic, or something.
If anyone finds a ten bob note near Taylor’s the Bakers, I know who dropped it, and how many months of household chores were required to make good the debt to her mother.
Barbara Hamilton left the family home at West Brackenridge Farm, on the outskirts of Strathaven, on 14 March 1919. Embarking at Liverpool she sailed to Canada and, after crossing to Vancouver, boarded the RMS Niagara which took her to Auckland, New Zealand, arriving early June.
That trip brought to an end a long series of correspondence between Barbara and another Stravonian farmer, Andrew Dykes. Andrew had left his family home at Kirkwood House, in 1909 at the age of 20.
Barbara and Andrew had been friends through their school years at Strathaven Academy. They kept in touch after Andrew took up the NZ government offer to immigrants, and settled on land outside Invercargill, on the southernmost edge of the island nation across the planet. They married at Anderson’s bay, Dunedin, days after Barbara diesmbarked at Auckland.
Local author and historian, Iain Park, has put together a collection of letters from Barbara to Andrew covering the years from 1912 to 1919. The return correspondence, from Invercargill to West Brackenridge has not survived, though given the regular cajoling that arrived in Invercargill, often remarking on the sparcity of replies, that may be no bad thing. I like to think that Barbara’s remonstrations may have been penned with a sparkle in her eye.
That said Iain recalls the days of Barbara’s only return visit home, in 1954, when Barbara met her cousin, also Barbara, who was Iain’s mother. The 16 year old future author had, even then been fascinated by the collection of letters, but recalls a ‘matriarchal and rather formidable’ woman. Perhaps that was no sparkle in her eye, as she wrote to Andrew, but something more sincere.
There was though another sparkle, for in 1916 a ring arrived in the mail at West Brackenridge. The next delivery, several months later, confirmed that it was the third finger of the left hand on which the ring should be worn, and so a wartime engagement, separated by 12,000 miles, startled the farming community.
In producing this collection of letters Iain Park has unearthed a treasure trove. We have a huge insight into the life and times of Avondale through the war years. It seems the community continued to thrive, with visits around the farms, bridge and whist nights, and events to raise funds for the war efforts. We hear of Spanish flu rampaging, of work on the farms, chores in the house, and teaching – Barbara was a primary teacher at Strathaven Academy until her departure.
Transport was a significant factor in life around the town, from walking to school to trains into Glasgow; the pony and trap, and the bicycle. We hear of Barbara cycling to Prestwick, in a couple of hours, with a tail wind down the valley to Hurlford which today would be pretty unusual. From Prestwick she cycled on to Barr, near Girvan, via Maybole. She was clearly made of strong stuff.
Vintage bicycles from those days suggest a top of the range model may have had as many as three gears, springs under the leather saddle. With no wicking base layers and comfort clothing, and little in the way of paved roads, the reader’s admiration for young Barbara will grow as you ride with her, and join her as she fills her days and recounts her news to her distant fiance.
The local interest extends well beyond the years of war, the blossoming love between a young couple. The farms on the roads we cycle today are the same as those that Barbara takes us round, and we learn who was then farming at Netherholm, or Torfoot, as she plays bridge, cycles or takes tea across Avondale. Familiar names, such as Hoggan or Frew, and many, many, more were as much part of the community then as now.
We wince as Barbara relays tales to Andrew of the less mundane events – her train journey to the dentist in Glasgow, returning with near a dozen fewer teeth; the day she hurled over the handlebars as she hurtled down a hill, coming to rest on the backs of a few sheep. And we glimpse a sharp wit to match that perception of a sparkle as she wrote to her beloved. ‘A face as long as Darvel’ being just one of her bon mots.
Love Letters Down Under is one of those volumes that brings a smile to even the longest face. Iain Park has added photographs, old and new, to highlight some of the local landmarks, from Loudoun Hill to swimming ponds and monuments. He gives you family photographs and family trees. The book though has an interest well beyond the Hamiltons and the Dykes. It is a treasure trove from Avondale to South Island.
Sadness
In what seems a different generation a dear friend provided a guest post, the only one ever permitted. You can read it here.
The Queen of Hearts she was then, passed regularly on the cycle routes, always a cheery wave. Avid reader; tax practitioner too. But much more than that.
And then this week, an uplifting tale of friendship and respect, of family. Go on read it, click on that link.
For Michele has taken her leave. Missed by all.
