Tag: spring

A Capricious Summer

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.

A Love Letter to Spring

It had been a very long, bleak winter. Storms had battered the west coast of Scotland; day after day of rain, bitter cold and wind strong enough to knock down power lines, I’d had my fill of winter. We had been lucky enough to have a good load of snow for a few days, but being on the coast it usually melted soon enough. Everywhere was always dark and miserable – the daylight too short and the nights too long. And yet, without fail, Spring always catches me by surprise each time. The clocks are put forward and I wait with bated breath, as if expecting the sun and every creature to burst out in full bloom. But the rain persisted, and just as I had lost any hope for any signs of spring… the leaves began to unfurl. Tentatively. Like dipping your toes into the sea just to check how cold it was.

Before I knew it, Spring had leapt in.

I found myself getting completely overwhelmed with how fast life had managed to emerge after such a grueling winter. Even the most battered of trees from the Winter winds had soft, velvety leaves softly uncurling in the growing warmth. Celandines and Daisies soon peppered any patch of green grass, tilting towards the Sun sat within a piercing blue sky. Every walk with Roscoe was slower as I took my time to admire each sign of life. I pause at each tree adorned with fresh leaves to run them between my fingers. The leaves haven’t hardened yet – still that soft, satiny feel that feels like you’re gently rubbing the ear of a lamb.

Everywhere I looked there was suddenly signs of life filling every gap. I was so used to months of dead bracken, grey skies and mud puddles, that to see so much colour was mind-boggling. Something I appreciate so much about Spring is the sweetness of seeing everything return to its fresh, green warmth, regardless of how cruel of a winter it was. Lambs soon filled the fields, bounding and tripping over lush green grass. To my sheer excitement one evening walking Roscoe, a fleet of Swallows sat along a phone wire overhead. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, blinking up at them and rubbing my eyes to see if I was correct, and soon enough they took off, their forked tails silhouetted against a Cerulean sky.

Of course, I always tend to see the best views and wildlife when I haven’t got my camera with me. And with the incredible weather we have been blessed with and the return of all the best that Spring has to offer, my camera has been attached to my hip 24/7. It’s stuffed into my work bag even on a closing shift incase there is a sunset worth photographing, or if I’m lucky the resident dog otter may make an appearance down the pier opposite.

I don’t know what isn’t to love about Spring. People seem infinitely happier too – trips into town are filled with the smell of perfume and sweat, a flurry of summer dresses, shorts and ice cream. Seagulls in their hundreds, perched like feathery assassins preying on anyone taking their eye off their chips long enough for an attack. Buskers perched at each street corner, music and laughter filling each crevice in the cobbled streets. God, I love it.

The nights are long enough now that I don’t even want an early bed – which is unheard of from me. On nights off Roscoe and I disappear down to the beach with our Crabbing kit about 8pm to see if we can catch anything. As it stands I haven’t yet, and Roscoe keeps eating all my bait. Sitting on the rocks, waiting to see if anything takes, the water laps at our feet and a Cuckoo calls from the forest opposite. Despite my bad luck, the nights themselves are glorious. The setting sun creates a shining golden warmth, and at the right angle the rays just catch the ends of the Silver birch branches, making them Auburn in the dying light. Bluebells have even started to slowly emerge, but they seem a little more hesitant to fully unfurl and relax, similar to the ferns that coil tight still like Ammonites.

I always put myself under a subconscious pressure to enjoy this part of the year. Winter always feels so long, especially on the West Coast which is infamous for constant rain and grey clouds. It seems to drag forever, and I get lost in the slow days and weeks before suddenly it’s almost May. And the Swallows have arrived, and the Lambs and the Cuckoos. Then we’re almost half way through the year, and everything is at its peak for what seems like a second before the fresh green leaves start turning brown in the dying warmth.

I’ve made it my mission to investigate every single scrap of sun and life Spring is offering this year, Roscoe and camera in tow. It’s so easy to let it slip by you in the usual day to day, especially on days after late work nights where sometimes I really can’t be bothered to be out with Roscoe. But I force myself to crane my neck up and notice all the fresh leaves and birds. The Swallows eating up all the damn midges (our unsung heroes here in Scotland), the calls of the Cuckoos and the Corncrakes flying overhead as they make their way over to more rural islands. I can’t bear the thought of all this life eventually dying away, as is the cycle of the seasons. If it was up to me, we would stay in Spring permanently. Where the sun isn’t too hot and all the migrating birds stay, and the flowers and lambs remain within the lush green fields.

I know that’s impossible, but the thought is nice. For now I’m perfectly happy with just keeping my camera with me as often as I can to admire all that this Spring has to offer.