It was a dreich day when Roscoe and I left the house to take a different route for our usual morning walk. That fine rain that soaks you thoroughly, sticking to your waterproof gear. My camera bag was bulging at the seams with a picnic I had stuffed into it, and Roscoe’s harness was equally as full with little treats he could have when we reached the top so that he wasn’t feeling left out.
The route itself wasn’t a path at all. Not for people anyway. It was a worn out, well-used deer path. Where the bushes had parted, the path well trodden and the lichen and moss had struggled to grow, trampled down by hooves and later my hiking boots. It’s my go-to route whenever I feel we both need a change of scenery, and the tip of the cliff that the route winds up to was well worth the struggle uphill.
Roscoe, as always, was completely unbothered by the initial steep incline, whereas I was already huffing and puffing and rummaging around in my camera bag for a pack of Starbursts to get me up the hill. He was racing ahead, looking over his shoulder and then nosing at my thigh as if to rush me and get me up faster.
When we eventually got past the hill, the platform leveled out, and I paused for a breather. The thin, winding trees around us both were laden with lichen of all colours and shapes. Like the coral of a seabed, there were striking colours of rich mustard yellow and softer, sage green. My particular favourite, known as Old Man’s Beard lichen, was hanging prolifically from all the trees much to my excitement. The rain had soaked them through, and little droplets of water hung from the end of the tendrils, catching what light there was that morning, making the entire forest glisten.
Roscoe charged through the undergrowth, picking up the occasional clump of moss in his mouth that squelched underfoot as we continued on. It’s not an easy walk, and it’s got harder. Especially a year on from when I first naively followed the track. Vicious Scottish storms have since battered the mix of trees up on the vulnerable hilltop, one of which had fallen directly across our path and I had to crawl on my hands and knees under it to continue on.
As if the fallen trees weren’t enough to block our path, the continuous growth of Rhododendron remains a constant issue. Originally introduced to Scotland in the 18th century as an ornamental shrub, it has since completely devastated Scotland’s fragile West Coast, where its native rainforest is under serious threat. The invasive species completely chokes out the beautiful lichen and mosses that grow under the fragile and unique temperate, and it’s become even more prevalent a year on as me and Roscoe continue on the trail.
The bushes have since become almost impossible to get through. When Roscoe and I first traced the path they were just past my waist. Now, the bushes tower over me, claustrophobic and taunting. Roscoe guides me, pushing his way through and the occasional branch slaps me in the face and splatters cold raindrops onto my skin from the disturbed leaves. I fear if they continue growing, which they will undoubtedly, this track will be closed off. I can see on my left where the bushes have parted, patted down and cocooned around trodden-down lichen – evidence of a few deer lying amongst the bushes.
There’s evidence of deer all along here, though I’ve never seen a deer up on this trail we continue to follow. Surprisingly I tend to come across deer in places I’d never expect – happily plodding across main roads or in my garden in the early morning. In the summer along this track, blaeberries grow amongst the Reindeer lichen on the forest floor, which is promptly hoovered up along with Hollyleaf shoots. I often come home with fingers stained purple from eating them myself. I usually feed a couple to Roscoe, who grimaces and wrinkles his nose when he is unlucky enough to get an incredibly sour one.
Pushing past the Rhododendron tunnel, the forest opens once more. The path trails slowly around bushes of shrubs, moss-laden trees following us all the way. Roscoe found a comically large stick that he proudly shows off to the forest, trotting with his chest puffed out and a pep in his step as we near the top of the cliff, the path winding upwards gradually. Yet again, the deer have left their mark. The bigger Scots pine trees have vicious scrapes across the bark, where young bucks try to remove the scratchy velvet from their antlers in the late summer, and to mark their territory.
Finally, we reach the top. The wind is sudden and vicious after we had both been sheltered by the trees. It whips across the sea below, right up into our faces. It’s a sheer drop below, but there was evidence of some life. A single wooden slab, placed between two trees to sit on. Someone had the right idea. There are often reports of young deer that have slipped off the edge and fallen onto the rocks below, and the thought is enough to make my knees weak and to tether my rambunctious young Roscoe to a tree with the treats to distract him. I take out my own stuff from my camera bag, placing my now soaked camera into my lap as I munch on some snacks I have brought. Strands of sunlight illuminate the island opposite, cutting through the darkening sky. As far as the eye can see, there is just water and tiny random islands, not even big enough to fit a house. I scan for any dorsal fins or life within the water, but the wind whips the water enough that every crest of a wave looks like something, and I end up driving myself mad trying to squint to see if it is indeed a fin. No, just water.
Once my snacks were entirely wolfed, Roscoe cried loudly now that his treats had finished and he had realised he was tethered to the tree just to my right, and away from the sharp cliff edge I knew very well he’d happily try and climb down. I stood, my waterproof gear soaked from the wind and the rain that was starting to get heavier. I took another glance at the sea and islands around me, feeling I was somewhere in Norway or Finland. Ravens called around me, through the trees and overhead as I untethered Roscoe and he charged back through the undergrowth, away from the sheer cliff edge and back onto the deer trail.
His nose snuffled for Red Squirrels, nosing at pinecones that were dropped onto the forest floor as we retraced our steps back towards the Rhododendron tunnel and the fallen tree. Though no Red Squirrels were chased by Roscoe today, I myself could see a couple jumping gracefully between lichen-laden branches. A flash of auburn red, a flicker of a tail. And then, like a very cute, chewed grenade, a pinecone was dropped into the bushes below. Every time one dropped, Roscoe’s already massive ears shot forwards like satellite dishes, and he charged through the bushes to check it out.
Rolling my eyes and shaking my head at his usual antics, I trudged back home, the rain getting harder and Roscoe getting more exasperated as the Red Squirrels teased him from above.
Tide Notes 