Skye Diary. July 2010

9th August 2010.

The pictures to illustrate this can be seen in the Skye Gallery.

Meanwhile, back in time...

Sunday 4th July 2010.

Discover three vigorous scuff marks and bruising on Ruby the dog (hair gone and deep welts into the skin). Left hip and shoulder. Although she's not limping it looks like she's been bundled by a car - probably at the bottom of the track where she likes to welcome passers-by. Even though it's a very narrow road, on a blind bend, some drivers whisk by here in a way that is well beyond cavalier. Feckless would be too kind a word.

And there's a rogue mole fatally unearthing the young spring onions and beetroot. This year's already been hard on the veg, especially with all the (seemingly) endless weeks of drought. It's hard to even remember the last time it rained. No wonder the mole's there though - the veg patch is the only bit of damp ground there is. Until today that is....

Set off for Skye from Dumfries - a journey of nearly 8 hours. Extremely heavy rain and SW gales - a fine tail-wind. It's safe to say the drought has broken. Large sycamore fallen on edge of house near George Carson's place. Road blocked for 3 hours. Passed many crashes and accidents on the journey. White rivulets of water running down from the tops of even the highest peaks at Cluanie, Kintail, Glenshiel etc. Curtains of rain. Breezy but bright evening on Skye. Sat on a rock at the top of the hill behind the cottage for an hour and watched the sun go down over Rhum. Little bit of trouble climbing the deer fence. Lapwing distracting me away from her brood with the pretend broken wing trick. Magpie moths in the heather. Fantastic west coast smell of peaty ground and sea air. So good to feel it all underfoot again. Hoodie crows a superb novelty. I'd forgotten how handsome they are.

Monday

Breezy & Sunny, showery. Scrambled down to Number Four Bay, Glasnakille, and photographed rocks by the sea. Millions of years of geology layered, folded and angled into those cliffs. It is quite appalling that I know so little about such an intriguing subject. Later: return trip to cliff top to photograph Gannets & Cormorants until heavy rain came in from the west. Red Deer stag on horizon, up towards the top of the hill. Enjoyed it with the binoculars. Full summer coat, antlers in velvet. The sun broke through the clouds later in the evening. Sneaked up to the top of Glasnakille and managed a picture of the stag in good light.

Tuesday

Gusty, cloudy, heavy showers. Dotty the dog's (11th) birthday. Cracked my head on the slanted ceiling by the bed (again) as I got up. Nearly knocked myself out. Macro shots in sun-room of various seaweeds collected yesterday (despite still being slightly stunned). Used light table. Drove to Elgol in pm, tide almost full. Took (tripod) pictures of Cuillins in the rain and spray. Spoke to a guy from Edinburgh who was climbing the limestone cliff with his mates. He had a Nikon D700 - but no tripod - and gave up trying to capture the mountains which were almost entirely concealed by mist, low cloud and rain. Poor light. 60th second was a fast shot at F11 and ISO 200. A very dark male Pied Wagtail outside Elgol shop on the way back. Later on, went outside for 10 seconds to get a picture of the cottage in the rain. Lens spattered with raindrops in less than 2 seconds.

Wednesday

Gales and continuous driving rain broken only by intermittent squalls and heavy cloud. Let me re-emphasise that: extremely heavy rain - enough to remove varnish or stun small mammals. Bouncing sufficiently high from ground to ensure all parts became equally wet. Another head knock in the early morning followed by a second on the way down the stairs. Dogged thereafter, and throughout the day, by a vigorous headache. Breakfast, then macro shots of Spotted Orchid and bells of heather (Cross Leaved Heath) in the sun-room (very grey light - used fill flash with Full CTO orange gel filter). Headed to Elgol for high tide.

Attempted to photograph the Cuillins through heavy rain, sea-spray and a pounding gale. A nonsense really. Camera and gear dangerously wet - almost impossible. Other photographers (some of whom had industrial sized lenses - possible astronomers) all gave up. At one point I noticed that mine was the only car in the car park. I'm clearly far too enthusiastic. Climbed up the hill above the south side of Elgol during a very brief break in the squalls and got a group of panorama shots of the Cuillins etc shortly before a particularly violent burst soaked me completely. 10 pm: coat, camera-rucksack etc still pretty wet - even in front of wood burning stove. Apparently it's been good weather for weeks on Skye - until now. A very dry winter they say - only one foot of rain and not the usual yard. More driving rain and intermittent squalls. Spent the evening (again) cloning out raindrops (from camera lens) from afternoon pictures. 'Why' - you might ask. And you'd be right.

Thursday

Breezy with sunny intervals and showers, punctuated by lengthy periods of grey. Very fast changing light. Mammoth shopping trip to Portree for sundries and supplies. Eighty mile round trip. At least I didn't bang my head though. Fish supper for lunch at Portree harbour surrounded by (very) fearless Herring Gulls. A lone raven flew over. Jackdaw messing about among the rocks nearby where I sat. Tried for a portrait when it was close but discovered that there is not a single noise I can make that will make a Jackdaw stand up, look round and stay still. A lot of Rooks in Portree. Stopped at the head of Loch Slapin on the way back for a few pictures of the sun just on the crest of Blaven. Rooks messing about on the tide mark there too. Had a lot of difficulty trying to frame an old hawthorn near the road. Fantastic evening clouds over the Cuillins from Elgol - I noticed as in passing - but too tired and hungry to venture over to the rocks along the shore for the shots that might have been. A male Whitethroat flew alongside the car for fifty yards or so on the way back, enjoying the perfect evening. Soup and salad for tea. Many, many pictures of herring gulls and an old hawthorn tree to edit/delete. Far, far too many and nothing of notable pith, merit or astonishment. Just nothing. You've got to try though.

Friday

It was days such as today that the word 'dreich' was invented for. Wall to wall unbroken grey with steady moderate rain and almost no breeze. The neighbouring peninsula of Sleat is invisible across this arm of the sea (Loch Slapin) although it is possible to (just) discern the bottom of the garden. Just finished taking a few macro shots of some discoloured bracken on the light box to the sound of rain drumming (like a stampede of horses) on the roof of the (ironically named) sun-room. All performed rather listlessly, it has to be said.

Around 4pm the rain stopped and the sun came out. Headed up to the far end of Loch Slapin to have another go at photographing the lone birch up towards the dark shoulders of Blaven.

Midges just on the edge of being a problem. Ended up going a mile or so into the foothills, took some pictures up towards the mountain and got harassed by a very large cleg-like insect - more than an inch long: flat bodied with yellow and black bands. It was an absolute behemoth of a thing: fast moving and very intent upon landing on me. So determined was it that, even when shooed off, it would circle my position from about twenty yards away, evidently planning things. I could clearly track its progress by the sun-glint on its wings. Seen casually at such a distance one might reasonably have assumed it was a dragonfly - an equally fast flier. Perhaps the most notable thing about it - asides its disturbing size - was the distinctly intense, droning buzz especially audible when it was within a few yards. The very air seemed to vibrate. It proved exceptionally determined to land on the front of my legs, just above the knee. Missed it a few times but finally nailed it (warily) with a slap. Reference pictures acquiredBrought it home for further study. (Giant Cleg/Horsefly/Warble Fly?).* (See here)

Once this incident was over, the lesser clegs - Haematopota pluvialis - (and all their innumerate brethren) provided a steady stream of reinforcements. The ability of the normal grey-brown clegs to arrive and land so silently is not one of their more endearing features. Even less endearing is the jab of pain that announces the sinking of their hypodermic mouthparts into the skin.

* Later discovered my assailant was Tabanus sudeticus - 'The Dark Giant Horsefly'. Sometimes known as the Gadfly or Bulldog Fly (how apt) it weighs in as the heaviest dipteran in Europe. The text describes it thus:

"Stoutly built, fast flying flies with robust attitude. Almost always diurnal. Males are nectar feeders. Females are voracious blood suckers, attacking large mammals, including man, with their blade-like mouthparts."

Further reading informs us:

"The bite from a large specimen is painful, especially considering the agile nature of the fly. Unlike insects which surreptitiously puncture the skin with needle-like organs, horse flies have serrated mandibles which they use to rip and/or slice flesh apart. The horsefly is less secretive than its mosquito counterparts, although the pain of a horsefly bite may mean that the victim is more concerned with assessing the wound, and not swatting the interloper. The bites may become itchy, sometimes causing a large swelling/infection if not treated quickly."

And if this hasn't yet made you feel sufficiently tense and edgy then you will be pleased to learn that there's still plenty more potential trauma to contemplate:

"Blood-borne diseases can be a problem. Many horsefly species are known to transmit disease and/or parasites. Tabanids are very good vectors of the Equine Infectious Anaemia Virus. They have also been known to transmit Anthrax among cattle and sheep."

And finally, just in case you were thinking of dropping your guard or relaxing in any way, consider this:

"Blood loss can be a common problem for some animals, especially where horseflies are abundant. Some animals have been known to lose up to 300 ml of blood in a single day, which can severely weaken or even kill them."


I think I'll carry some artillery if I go up there again. At the very least a tennis racket. There can be no doubt a squadron of these things could soon disable a baby.

Driving home around 7ish - the light still good - detoured by Elgol pier and was unable to resist walking along the rocky shore to the Jurassic Cliff for some more pictures of the Cuillins. Many other photographers there tonight, and walkers. Difficult to get a frame without someone else in it, inevitably with their tripod too. (*) Spoke to a particularly intent landscape photographer who spent a lot of time getting everything framed right - waiting for the perfect cloud; the perfect moment of light - only to be continuously exasperated by people walking into his frame and not moving on, just, well - just standing there. He was quite keen on the idea of having radio contact with a sniper appropriately positioned atop the cliff. (For walkers right on the skyline, on the rock spit in his picture, there was talk of anti-personnel mines. Frankly, I've got so say, it all seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time.)

At one point a German holidaymaker went out with a fishing rod and sat on the big boulder right in the centre of the view (I only found out he was German later when I asked if he'd caught anything and he replied, 'Nein!' Having seen him loose quite a bit of tackle - and not once catching fish - I interpreted that he hadn't said 'nine' and was, therefore, probably, German). Apart from the quite ridiculous volume of brightly clad human traffic, it was a perfectly beautiful and serene evening. Strange and stunning clouds, amidst the ever changing light.

A group of Hoodies and 2 Buzzards (one very light coloured) feeding near the side of the road on the way back. Later discovered it was the grallochs of a deer someone had shot v. recently. Possibly the one we saw the other day on Glasnakille? Fantastic casserole for tea, around ten-ish. Mighty random headache though.

Saturday

Dawned bright and beautiful. Drove towards Torrin, thinking to head down the Kilbride road to the rocky shore of Camas Malag. A few shots of the Celtic cross in the churchyard and of a raft of floating reeds in the Hairy Loch on the way. Messed about on the Camas Malag rocks enjoying a Gannet quartering the bay, occasionally plunge diving for fish. Strange to see it against the back drop of Blaven, like a white raptor. A perfect Hebridean summer's day.

Doing some macro stuff of rock pools and pebbles just under the incoming tide when a sudden splash makes me turn and there's an otter gliding and silk-stitching through the water just a few yards out. I couldn't hide and so froze instead. Otters don't have particularly acute vision but I wasn't to be lucky. He got the gist of me very quickly, disappearing rapidly and completely.

On the way back up the pebble beach I spoke with a camper-van couple from Paisley who informed me that they come to Skye every year and, although they don't travel around much, they just love the fact that Skye is 'absolutely jam-packed with visual delights'.

There they sat, in their picnic chairs, overlooking the bay - perfectly happy with the world. I learned how hard it can be to get a prime spot for 'The Camper' -which is probably why they don't move around much.
'But we do see a such a lot of wildlife, don't we dear,' the husband added. 'We even saw a Big Male Red Deer Stag last year - and we'll probably see that otter tonight! That's when they like to come out, you know.' The wife nodded, clearly pleased with the observation. I eased my overly heavy camera back-pack into the car and slipped away.

Then in came the grey light - a haze over the sun; slowly gathering cloud from the west. And grey it stayed - more and more grey - flat, grey light with virtually no contrast. Headed back through Torrin and had a sandwich on the shores of Loch Slapin. Oystercatchers, Ringed Plover and Rock Pipits on the shoreline.

Headed up the Beag river (by the old Skye Marble quarry) with the ridiculously mighty weight of my camera bag on my back (it's well over thirty pounds with the tripod attached - very ridiculous indeed). Probably went a mile or so up the hill. Discovered some spots on the river that would look fantastic in good light (cascades of white water over bedrock and gravel - some fossil shells in the rock at the first big waterfall). Headed back down the hill after a couple of meandering hours, checking out the impossibly twisted hawthorns further down. Better light soon. Young Wheatears abound, not particularly frightened of me. Meadow Pipits and Willow Warblers everywhere too, and a surprising number of Swallows - many coursing over the seaweed on the shores of Loch Slapin. I wonder where all the swallows build their nests? I haven't seen a single nest site on any of the local buildings.

From my vantage point on the hillside I noticed too that many of the new human arrivals to Skye pulled up on the sheep cropped sward of the loch shores (there's got to be a tongue twister in there). There they all but leap out of their cars to photograph each other against the magnificent dark shoulders and jagged peaks - the mighty backdrop that is Blaven. The light by now was unspeakably grey but their enthusiasm was undiminished. No wonder. The tide was high.

Light is always transient - but extremely so on Skye. The greyness seemed to increase by the minute - a strange, almost luminous greyness. The first few specks of rain were just beginning to fall. Four Ravens by the side of Loch Slapin and a further five at the remains of the deer gralloch on the way back. Time for tea. An hour or so later the view across the loch to Sleat was utterly obscured and night came early. The wind had veered North-West and heavy, relentless rain set in with a purpose.

Sunday

Heavy, relentless rain continues throughout the night and morning, and on into this afternoon. Feels cooler in the NW air. A lone gannet occasionally visible through the squalls across the loch. Difficult fishing for him - at least it looks like it would be difficult - but then, if one remembers that Gannets can spend much of the winter far off shore in the wider Atlantic, perhaps it's not so bad. I've already seen him dive twice.

Walked up the hill to the tumbling down cottage once owned by someone answering to the name of 'Sandy Beach'. Outside a car has rusted almost all the way back into the ground. I am told it was a Citroen. The corrugated tin roof of the house is doing likewise. Inside all is very gloomy, gutted but still full of rubbish, evidence of a one-time existence; ancient decaying bric-a-brac, long since unusable. Old books and shoes, rusting pans and nails, even a sack with an old twine salmon net inside. The walls covered in newspaper from the year - 1932. History mouldering away - a little like a latter day version of the infamous Clearances. The stairs leading upstairs were narrow - and extremely steep. Managed to very delicately peel most of a sheet of newspaper from the wall for reading later on. Discover later the site has just been sold. I imagine the whole place will be demolished and rebuilt. Back home for a cup of tea - and back in time to the present.

Mid afternoon and all change - blue shows through cloud-blown skies and intermittent sun makes bright patchworks on the landscape. I explored. Drifted to Kilmarie, detouring via the far end of Glasnakille and Drinan. A few cloud shots of a striking bank of cumulus over Rum and Eigg. (Yes, photographing clouds, it's true.) The dogs fell asleep on the warm road - so bored were they. Rounded a corner near Drinan to meet two heavily bearded, fully grown men, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the road, playing guitar. They fairly leapt out of the way, looking slightly sheepish I thought. Almost stopped for a chat but didn't. I mean - what would one say, exactly?

Spent a tranquil half hour with my telescope, on the high ground at Drinan, watching half a dozen lone gannets quartering the loch, the sun bright on the sea. It seems they are waiting for the mackerel to arrive. One or two speckle-backed immatures were out too (perhaps 1-2 year olds?) Each followed an adult very closely, mirroring their movements exactly; copying every banking turn, each angle and curve of wing. Very like raptors, heads pointed down, missing nothing.

After leaving the gannets I unexpectedly managed a picture of a Hoodie on a post. This would be the one day I left the 300mm and tele-converter at home. Fortunately it was a youngster and sat still while I fumbled on the 200mm and took five rapid shots out the car window. The car behind me was patient, as, surprisingly, was the young crow.

Messed about at Kilmarie, the tide almost high. Fully expected to spy a tide-bright salmon or two sloshing in the river there - given the spate from all the recent rain - but it wasn't to be. No sea-trout either. (Over the week I've seen two salmon jumping in the sea - one at Glasnakille, one at Elgol.) A lone female RB Merganser fishing in the river mouth. She left as soon as she'd spied me.

Found some Yellow Rattle near the shore - ten steps seaward and two steps left from the end of the tree stem that marks the car turning area. Marked it with a flat stone. Eyebright there too, and many, many purple Foxgloves in full bloom. Drifted home around six-ish, nearly running over a stoat which bolted across the road carrying a vole. Find a delivery of fresh crabs. There's going to be a boiling going on.

Quick rushed tea watching a beautiful evening unfolding. Simply had to go back down to Elgol in the hope of that elusive perfect picture. Met an interesting fellow there - a very keen photographer. Grew up on Stornoway. Swapped website addresses, as you do. Great sky, brilliant gold rimmed cloud but no good light on foreground. Must start using grad filters - huge dynamic range tonight. Everyone I meet there talks about 'Joe Cornish and his perfect picture' from this very spot. There is even talk of an elusive Joe Cornish Rock - but nobody seems to know quite where it is.

It seems that committed landscape photographers take this business rather seriously and consider anything other than merest tweak in Photoshop to be a heresy of some kind. I feel very much the haphazard amateur and positively look forward to giving my shots some Photoshop tweakery - or indeed full-on heavy Photo-shop editing, as whim and necessity dictate. I mean you want them to look their best, don't you. (I am slowly realising that some people who are anti-Photoshopping, when pressed, will reveal that they haven't fully grasped working with layers, filters etc - an insight which can be read two ways.)

Monday

Heavy, grey rain until early afternoon. Busied myself taking macro shots of the (dead) jumbo insect from the other day up near Blaven. It really is a monster. Sadly my rig for delicately supporting everything didn't have a good enough grip on the thin, plastic table-edge in the sun-room and it all took a tumble, utterly destroying the insect as everything dashed onto the stone floor.

This sort of close-up work, with all the mini clamps and lighting, is somewhat exacting so I wasn't really too sad when it all ended. Luckily I'd managed to get the key shots, including a general one with the insect by a ruler (showing it to be over 3cm long) and some close-ups of the head. All this excitement was followed by a plate of crab toes out on the bench at the end of the house. A piece of wire, a hammer and a stone - the perfect meal out, I'd say. Hardly even felt the midges.

The rain stopped allowing for intermittent sun and milky light, thereafter improving and clearing. Revisited Camus Malag and Strath Beag. Used the rocks for cover and got a few shots of a group of Ringed Plover rock-hopping before the incoming tide. They really do wait until the last possible second before flitting off to stones not yet tide-covered. Some were apparently asleep until the very last moment.


Had some difficulty, on the way back round Loch Slapin, trying to get a picture of the twisted hawthorns up Strath Beag. Low hanging branches which I was unable to put against the sky. Bog Myrtle smelling strong, Tormentil in full flower, Bell Heather well out - Small Coppers on the wing, and here and there, the almost finger-long, brown, furry caterpillars of the Oak Eggar. Woolly Bears or Hairy Oobits, as an aunt used to call them. A place packed with visual delights indeed.

Elgol shore again in the evening, just for a change - and no other photographers tonight! Luxury. Made the mistake of rushing out to the flat rock when there was still sun on the beach before the cliff -where all the good foreground interest is. Used grad filters though... Beautiful sunset - but the usual problem of no light on foreground. Should have stayed on the first half of the beach for much longer.

Return home to find another huge bag containing two whole crabs and six hefty langoustines! - all this from the kind folks next door, again! Truly a dream come true - Disney Land for crustacean crunchers. Perform various boilings around midnight, in an elated way.

Tuesday

Bright, warm and a mill pond sea. A lazy, drifting day - didn't go far. A considerable amount of audible crustacean crunching. Me oh my but that was good. Mum phoned. She's found a dead hen chaffinch on the drive under the window at home - flown into the glass, as sadly often happens. (The Sparrowhawk probably dropped by.) Says she left it in the drive 'as a warning to others'.

Walked out onto the cliff headland above Number Four Bay for some bird pictures. There were several pods of cormorants messing about below me (the Glasnakille Fleet), a bit like giant aquatic starlings, social and vocal birds - lots of croaking when fishing together. And always a bird or two flying back to the cliff, this inevitably triggering another to leave the cliff and splash down with the others fishing below. Not tidy landers. (See Here.)

The sea was mirror calm - no sound but for the guttural voices of cormorants and the odd gull, or the occasional hum of a distant boat. Although the engine sounds were clearly audible, any boats were a long way out, the sound travelling extremely clearly. The silence was otherwise broken only by insect drone (mostly small bumble bees and buff coloured Carder Bees - not to mention the multitude of flies and lesser fare), running water somewhere behind me through the trees and the occasional slow breathing sound of the incoming tide - tide breath. Got a good beading from a slow-passing GBB Gull. They know how to look mean.

Well, I lost my camera body cap at Elgol last night (down one of those strange fissures on the flat rock) so was forced to return this evening to search for it. Accidentally took the camera and caught a few last shots before the impending storms and rain I keep hearing about. A local fisherman stopped and spoke for a while (during perfect light, of course!). Poor rod fishing so far this year he says - following the cold winter he thinks. The Mackerel are late but one or two Pollack about. The fellow who grew up in Stornoway was there again tonight - his last night - fantastically enthusiastic, setting up the perfect shot from his tripod. I contented myself by firing at everything, just in case.

Gave Domino - the very elderly free-range Shetland Pony - an apple core and a couple of mints from the car window on the way back (again). I'm beginning to think he waits for me. A calm, clear evening but it's starting to feel like the end. Only just getting used to being here.

Wednesday

A wind has gathered itself from the Northwest. Persistent, driving rain for most of the day until mid afternoon. Patchy shafts of sun speared through the dramatic clouds of late afternoon - that ever changing light again.

Took a final drive down to Elgol. It's almost become an addiction. Walked along the cliff and headland south of the jetty - the sky full of luminous colour behind the fantastic moving cloudscape - and sat a while, enjoying the air. A cool wind comes from the sea over Soay. Close-by, Herring Gulls rock on their wings (why are they called Herring Gulls when most other gulls are named after their physical features?) studying me as they pass at eye level. As the light fell away, the skies over Canna and the Cuillins (the summit of Gars-bheinn and the dark, jagged peaks of Sgurr Na Stri) are suffused with luminous greys, pinks and mauves. Walked up the (steep) headland on the other side of the jetty over the Jurassic Cliff and spied the horseshoe bay on the other side. Patches of Silverweed and Ragged Robin on the high ground over the cliff.

Skye has many pockets of varying and surprising botany. Down by the pier there's an unexpected patch of brambles boiling out of some rough ground, and on the gravel by the jetty itself, only a few feet above the high water mark, there's a lone Deuronicum. And half way up the brae from the Elgol School, a patch of Jap-weed (Japanese Knotweed) has taken hold. (Close by there's a makeshift sign saying 'Beware: this patch of Knotweed has been treated to a knapsack sprayer'.) Just yesterday, sitting on the headland above Number Four Bay by the cottage, the grass around me was bright with the many stars of Tormentil, Milkwort and Eyebright - here and there, the yellow spires of Bog Asphodel, purple bells of Cross Leaved Heath and the stunning blue of Alpine Gentians. A few steps on I passed pockets of Selfheal, Clover and Scots Thistle - all in full flower - and everywhere is dotted by the blooms of Heath Spotted Orchid.

Some are almost white, while others range from pink, through mauves and purples - all with that tiny maze-like design on each petal. And all this is without mentioning the trees - the stunted, spindly Birch and Ash; Hazel, Rowan and Goat Willow - even Oak carving a precarious existence for itself, often just from cracks in the rock, or ledges on the steep flank of the cliff. Underfoot the fresh new leaves of Bog Myrtle and Wood Sage fill the air with aromatic scent as I pass.

Sadly though, the endless march of Bracken is hard to overlook - so full of sheep ticks - those speaders of the spirochete bacteria, Borrelia burgdorferi : bringer of Lyme Disease. Despite its ancient pedigree, biodiversity must be greatly reduced where it takes over.

As the sky darkened, the cloud colour became more intense, rapidly changing with each passing minute. The ground was flat and grey - without light - and my camera stayed in its bag, in the car. That is until I spied the perfect foreground from the top of the Jurassic Cliff. High tide coincided with the final hour of light tonight - a big tide - and there, far below me, washing onto the stones - a dead sheep. Well you just have to, don't you. In literally the last few minutes of light I scrambled down and managed to get my camera and tripod along the rocky shore to set up the shot. Camera at ground level (half second exposures at F11, G1 filter instead of G2) one foot in the swell of the sea and lying on a (far too sharp) stone. Not comfortable but maybe (depending how it turns out) the best shot of the whole trip? - certainly foreground interest of the week. Well I like to think so anyway.... A sad and moving story somewhere behind it though; but certainly a different image to the usual juxtaposition of rocks, sea, mountains and sky - the perfect picture that everyone seeks. A peaceful but sad eyed sheep. Tide eyed. Tide-Died?

Domino wasn't waiting tonight. I already know I will miss this place. Feeling slightly visually exhausted - if that makes any sense.

Thursday

Sad to leave but only a six and a half hour journey back to Dumfries - albeit through some tumultuous weather. Driving rain broken by sun and heavy showers - all aided by a boisterous North-westerly tail wind.

Spotted a rather bizarre bird on the way past The Monaliadth Hotel (Strathmashie, near Newtonmore). I can only say I'm sure it was a Rose Coloured Starling (Sturnus roseus). There was a car behind and it wasn't possible to stop but my impression of it - less than twenty yards away where it flew from a tree down onto a lawn - was clear, striking and as close to definite as one can be. A light pinkish front and back on an otherwise dark body and dark wings. Similar markings to a magpie I suppose but no white wing tips, and much smaller of course. It didn't fly like a magpie, or any other species that would fit the pattern. It flew like a starling; it looked like starling and it moved like starling. In my mind I am perfectly certain it was starling - with pink on front and back - and therefore, I am bound to say: a Rose Coloured Starling. The fact that they are native to easternmost Europe and southern Asia only troubles me slightly. Sadly though, my sighting (of 15th July, 2010) is unconfirmed and probably cannot be counted as a record.

Arrived back at around 10pm. The vegetables are looking good. There's been a generous four inches of rain here in the last ten days and the rivers are full. The names of the mountains still ring in the mind as chips of mica glint from my boots.

And the swifts are here too, raking the skies above a billowing red sunset. It'll be another fine night at Elgol, I'm sure.