Maybe spring had made me a little too optimistic. Every day had brought perfect sun, cloudless skies, and the relief to see all the green leaves unfurl and the young life begin again had made me believe that it would only get better as the months progressed.
Don’t get me wrong, seeing the sheer overgrown-ness of every corner of the highlands has been revitalising. The large mountains have changed from a tired, auburn colour to iridescent green. The dead ferns and bracken have burst to life again, lining every Munro with emerald bloom once again. If there is any sun, the mountains and small islands around us shine. It’s been lovely to see the small buds from spring unfurl into beautiful large leaves of different shades of green and red. The heady smell of wild garlic with their tall, fragile white flowers, still permeates the air.
However, this summer has started off differently. The hot spring weather broke to a cooler, breezier climate. Hail and rain battered the coast. Not just any rain. Biblical rain that bounced off tarmac. Walking down to the rocky outcrop by the sea with Roscoe each morning was accompanied by angry, churning dark waves which crashed up against the rocks. Despite shivering, Roscoe still insisted on going for a paddle. I even kindly received a new thick outdoor jacket recently to face this weather. And it’s June…
Regardless of this, I have found it infinitely easier to deal with rubbish weather when everything is still full of life. It’s almost nice to know that whatever rain we do have is helping all the flora and fauna around grow and remain nourished. It’s a completely different kind of rain than the cold, sleety rain of the middle of Winter when everything was grey, black or brown. I can’t find myself complaining about the weather, because I would rather take a windy and rainy June than a bitter, dark winter. I am a solar-powered individual, and I know the sun will come again. It must!
The weather can do what it wants, to be honest. The past month or so has included lots of encounters with wildlife and new places to explore. On a trip to the co-op for another milk run, we stumbled into a first season stag. He was beautiful. Antlers soft and velvety and yet to grow out, neck covered in ticks as he reached upwards to eat the fresh leaves from an Oak tree. Right next to the road, he didn’t even spook when an unsuspecting couple with a dog passed by. This was the closest I had ever got to a stag, and he was massive. I felt very smug when I captured these photos.
Another run in with an ungulate I had was an unfortunately deceased fawn we had found on the front lawn, curled up like something out of a Disney movie. Words cannot describe how precious and beautiful she was, with long eyelashes and round hooves, her head resting on bent knees with little white dots that traced down her spine. She was tiny, like picking up a cat. Poor wee thing. One of the less enjoyable wildlife experiences, but I was very honoured to have seen something as beautiful as her so close up.
On a happier note, there is still a lot of life around. Migratory birds are well settled into their temporary home here. The swallows here are so cocky and hellbent on eating as much as they can that I’ve had to duck my head a few times. And it’s not like they are on rations here, because the midges are on another level. If the wind and rain stops here for a moment, we get this suffocating humidity that just seems to bring these bitey bastards out by the thousands. My arms and legs are bitten red by them. They crawl into your ears, nose, and any exposed skin. If you are foolish enough to leave your window open past 6pm, then I pray for you. I have made that exact mistake coming home after a late closing shift. I came into my bedroom to a brown haze. Cloud upon cloud of them. I had no bug spray, so I ended up just using a bottle of hairspray that crystallised them onto my wall. A problem for tomorrow, I suppose.
Exploring out with Roscoe has been great, clad in my waterproofs and new Winter jacket.. We recently stumbled across a large dog Otter. On an evening off, we both travelled down to the sea to watch the last of the daylight. We must have been sitting on his perch because out of nowhere this brown head appeared heading straight for me and Roscoe from the depths. He instantly spotted us and startled, dipping under water for a few seconds before circling us. Roscoe had also seen him and clambered to the rock edge to stare back at him. They both looked as confused as each other. The otter craned his neck up over the crests of the waves to watch us, just a couple feet away. Any attempts at photos I got were just the blue of the waves or my thumb. I was too awestruck, and he quickly left when he decided we weren’t worth the effort.
Time is flying by. I don’t want to wish the year away hoping for better weather, as much as I love the sun here. The entire place transforms when the sun comes out. And if the summer we have is just grey skies and the occasional sunny day, then that is fine. For summer so far, it has been really nice exploring new bays and beaches, watching the lambs grow and admire the sheer growth of every shrub and leaf. I’m always happy to see the swallows, young stags and all the colourful flowers. It’s almost mid-June, and before I know it the leaves that I had long awaited to bud back in the clutches of a cold, dark winter, will begin to shrivel and grow tired.
As much as that pains me to think about… if it means the midges bugger off, then that might be okay.
Tide Notes 