Sunday Paps

In the woods a mean covering of snow hides many bluebell bulbs turned up in recent molehills; pale jewels in the fine dark earth.

To make the most of this snow and sunshine we drove round the corner, just far enough to get views of the whitened mountains on Islay and Jura, which we did when the dramatically dark clouds moved on, creating new drama from moment to moment.

One minute Islay was clear and sharp, the ferry heading towards it out past Gigha, and the next minute island and ferry were gone, swallowed where clouds met sea.

On the way down to Miller’s Bay we saw none of the local (common) seals, usually basking on the skerries, but as we sat to drink soup one appeared in the channel, watching us. In less than twenty seconds eight heads were bobbing, all curiously intent on us. Their mass appearance made me wonder whether our presence had been communicated between members of the group and if so, how.

We walked the small beaches but this time found no arresting tracks in the sand.

Back in our local woods we were hoping for red squirrels but saw none. The sharp slots of roe deer contrasted with the broader imprints of sheep. On hazel twigs, amongst tenacious brown leaves there were tiny buds, green and bright. Unseen great tits were calling, fresh and insistent and out on the loch thin drifts of ice were flowing seaward. When they encountered the shore they slid up, shoved by more ice behind, slow and crackling, rising and breaking over the rocks white crispy flake on flake.

We decided to try to find the nearest dun, an exploration put off for months because of deer fences, bracken and the illusive and somewhat modest nature of the hill the dun is on.

We came in from the road, following a deer fence for two hundred metres until confronted by another. As is often the case here the defences were breached by a couple of fallen trees and through them we clambered on, up the hill between oak and birch. At the top and despite its several precipitous sides it became apparent that this was not the hill of the dun. We concluded it must be on the next little peak over. Down and up, crossing another deer fence by a fallen tree. This was the hill. As no one had mentioned this particular dun or it being worth visiting I expected to find nothing but two sections of wall remain, one above the other.

From the small summit plateau we could see our house, West Loch Tarbert, Kintyre and the distant craggy peaks of Arran, also white with snow. At sea level there was very little snow but increasingly more as the land rose.

And now back to a week of cladding, plumbing and the casting of a slab for the air source heat pump, depending on the weather and daylight.

So it’s 25 January; Sláinte Mhath! Have a dram or three and next year may we all drink together.

Alba gu brath.