Sunset on Perth

IMG_20170818_204322Sunset on Friday night, taken with my low-pixel smartphone (hence the grainy, somewhat impressionistic approach) just before quarter to nine, looking west along South Street, Perth (South Street runs east-west; neither is it the most southerly road in Perth’s grid system; and it leads to the middle of Perth’s three bridges over the Tay. There must be a reason for this name, although I’ve never yet been able to establish it…).

I am currently in Perth and will be here for the immediate future as I have just managed to sell my flat, courtesy of the hard-working folks at Next Home, and there’s a lot of stuff (an awful lot, given that administration of my paperwork has never been my strong point) to pack up and shift out (I’m expecting record tonnes of paper recycling being achieved by Perth in this quarter!). On top of quite a bit of incoming editing workload, in addition to two major ongoing projects, I’m going to have my work cut out over the next couple of weeks. I bought the flat at the tail end of 2008 and, in terms of central Perth prices for flats, as well as in terms of economics, it’s been pretty much a lost decade (even if not one of lost equity) – although my story might well have been a little different had PKC got on with redeveloping City Hall (which my flat overlooks, and which was key to the original decision to purchase it) rather than wasting much of the intervening period fighting Historic Scotland over its demolition. Now those plans are – at long last – starting to crystallise, with the decision as to which architect to go with being announced last Wednesday, I wish the new owners better luck with their investment!

Since the sale, I’ve had many people question whether I’ll miss the place – and I will, I guess, although I’m not sure it’s possible to miss a building, only the people and memories that have populated it and given it life. By my reckoning, my flat in Perth is the tenth place I’ve lived in and built memories in during my life (of 53 years, and counting) and, being well underway with the eleventh, I do wonder how many more there’ll be. Certainly I’ll be missing Perth (and city centre living), and Southern Fried, but I’ve been living away from here now for a year, and people change, and move on; and it’s the right time to finish off this particular chapter and continue actively writing the new one – in which direction, of course, the sale proceeds will (hopefully quite soon) come in very handy.

In the meantime, if anyone does have a use for Red Dwarf VHS tapes, do give me a shout…

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Midsummer sun

I was hoping to see at least one end of the summer solstice in style. Not being by any means an early riser, this was always going to be this end of the day rather than the other. But, unfortunately, the damp mists of early evening around the bay have given way to a blanket of grey cloud without so much of a hint of a dying ray of light – though, conversely, this morning’s sunrise was, apparently, rather good.

So, here’s one from last night’s sunset, instead: the sun not quite sinking into the sea – a smudge of cloud on the horizon preventing that – and actually taken a good hour after sunset (timed at 22:31) – but with the Monach Islands showing rather well as a series of low-lying lumps on the horizon:

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So, at more or less midsummer, the sun was setting at round about 320 degrees – that’s past north-west and well on the road to north-west by north (no – not that one: Ed) on the 32-point compass. And quite a change from midwinter, when the compass point at sunset was more or less 230 degrees and getting on for south-west: almost exactly a quarter swing in the point of sunset by virtue of the angle of the earth’s tilt.

Not enough light to read a book outside at midsummer (and somewhat too cool, regardless of the heatwave which is gently cooking the southern half of England), but with plenty of light in the northern sky. Here’s the long view about an hour later – half past midnight (and towards the end of an hour-long power cut here on South Uist: somewhat frustrating for those of us on Economy 10 tariffs when the power comes back on just as the cheap hours disappear…). Here, we’re looking broadly north-east (NE is actually a bit to the right of centre) and from where, if my guesswork is right, the sun would have been rising a few minutes less than three hours later (at 04:31):

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Good luck and have a great gig to all those heading to Pilton this weekend – or, alternatively, to Eriskay On The Rocks!

NNW twilight

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The sky to the north, last night, just after 23:20 (so just beyond the golden hour, the sun having set at 20:16 and almost exactly at the formal ‘end of twilight‘ on our part of South Uist last night).

I tweeted recently a picture of the sun sinking into the sea as it set, as viewed for the first time this summer from our lounge window – and, of course, this picture is taken from the same place (though it’s a composite) and parts of it are also aimed a little further north, the slightly blurry rock in the centre foreground being located pretty much NNW from where I took the picture. Indeed, we can now track the earth as it spins around the sun, and as the continuing levels of light in the sky shift gradually from twilight in the (north-)western sky to pre-dawn in the (north-)east. As I went to bed at 1am, the sun still not due to rise formally for another couple of hours, similar smudged greys and midnight blues and soft apricots, as well as bold, striking cloud formations, had shifted into the north-east sky.

It does get dark here; even at the peak of midsummer there is about 3:40 of ‘night time’ in the hours between twilight formally ending and beginning again – but, for this month or so, you can still see some light in some part of the sky right throughout the night hours.

As a celebration of one year of living in our new place – we moved in, into a few rooms while the remainder of the renovations were still being finalised, precisely a year ago last Friday – the reminder of things coming full circle, with a new journey now getting underway, seems very well-timed.

And some Easter lambs

Did someone mention lambs yesterday?

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If anyone can come up with a better caption than Fetch! the prize* is yours…

These twins were born overnight on Easter Saturday/Sunday, so as of now they’re less than 48 hours old. The crofter who owns the sheep was telling me that he’s been involved with sheep all his life and has never had one like this mother: apparently she’s a ‘jumper’ (wot already :-)) and had to be rescued from a neighbour’s garden, having jumped the fence one way, only on Saturday morning so they had doubted anything was inside her. Let alone twins. Jessica Ennis-Hill – eat your heart out.

From my untrained observations, she’s a good mother, too: putting the lambs between her and the occasional passer-by (very occasional, obviously) and, perhaps more fundamentally, from two ravens that I watched taking a close interest from the perspective of a nearby fence.

May they all live and thrive.

* There isn’t one, really – sorry…

Easter Sunday colour

Delighted to come back from a couple of weeks in Poland to find these beauties – coming into bud as we went away – still in bloom (at least, on the eastern side of the ‘clump’ – that is, if a circular of daffs clearly planted for show and measuring some 90″ in diameter can be considered a ‘clump’ – the western side having been beaten about a bit by some fairly strong nor’westerlies over the last few days).

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Now, to complete the Easter picture, I need to find some spring lambs. Still working on that one, but it’s only a matter of days…

Amazing what can crop up in your photos…

Thursday last week was a beautiful day on the islands: calm, with winds dropping to the single digits mph from the 40/50+ they’d been for much of the previous seven days and with cloudless, spring-like blue skies.

In short, a good day for travelling – and good timing, too; as we’d long planned a trip off-island via the Lochmaddy-Uig ferry.

Seeing the colour of the skies – and the Cuillin ridge on Sky, visible from our house for the first time in weeks of mist and low cloud cover – I made sure my camera (a simple Canon compact) was with me in the front of the car and, coming off the ferry (a first time for me on the MV Hebridean Isles, I started snapping away through the windscreen as we came down through Skye and especially as the Cuillin Ridge came into view. On my second effort, I was aware of two lapwings that rose from the left, startled, across the road and my field of view just as I pressed the shutter release (I know: they probably don’t still call them that). I thought little of it – lapwings are easily disturbed – and, on checking that my view of the total width of the Black Cuillins had indeed been photobombed by a lapwing, nearly deleted it immediately. It’s not, in any case, a great photo (enhancing (as I have done below) via software easily available over the internet improves somewhat the original over-exposure of the ridge and restores a little of the blue sky, although I’ve lost quite a bit in straightening the horizon line). Further down the road, once I’d got my focusing sorted out, I have much better snaps – although that is all they are, given the circumstances – albeit of the Red Cuillins, not the Black ones.

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And yet, and yet. Look a bit closer. What’s the bird in the middle of the photo? One of the disturbed lapwings is clear enough, in the foreground, but that bird top centre, a little further distant. Is that ‘fingers’ visible on the end of its brown, and very broad, right wing, or a simple blur of movement as the bird changes direction? Is that an interesting-looking tail arrangement, or a mistake in the colours given the limits of the photograph being taken? Something in any way potentially predatory, looking to cut off the lapwing’s exit right? Zooming close in on the bird in question, gives me this, inevitably poor quality, blurred shot:

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Clearly it is a raptor which has raised the lapwings – and a major one, judging by what seems to be a fearsome hooter. Look at the power in those shoulders. My first thought was a white-tailed eagle (which I have seen, memorably, on Skye before, in a boat trip out of Portree harbour a little way south into the Sound of Raasay). The wings are not big or broad enough for a white-tailed, however – but it is most certainly a golden eagle: most specifically, a juvenile one: the white tail tipped with black feathers gives it away. My first, confirmed, sighting of a goldie, too: and in what dramatic circumstances – the bird seems to be clearly arching in towards the second, slower of the two lapwing(s) although whether they or something else is the target of the hunt is uncertain. I (and the passengers in the other drivers in the convoy of cars coming down Skye from Uig) seem to have been an unwitting, uninvited witness to a strike by one of the UK nature’s finest, and perhaps most feared, killing machines.

Or is it my sighting? Yes, it is absolutely a golden eagle (unless anyone with better knowledge can correct me!). But does a picture of one – a moment in and out of time – really count as a sighting? Especially one in which the bird in question features as a mistake, and from the safe, sealed environment of the inside of a car? What makes my picture of the young goldie any different from one I’ve seen in a book or on the RSPB website? Yes, I took the picture – but I didn’t mean actually to take a picture of a golden eagle. And – to confess the key point in my philosophical ramble – I can’t recall whether I actually saw it live: I’ve only seen it on my photo. Yes, dear reader, I took a picture of a golden eagle without actually seeing one. What happened after its swoop – the key part in its hunger chase – I didn’t catch: my attention was all on the lapwing(s) with the cheek to photobomb my shot of the Cuillin Ridge, which quickly went out of sight on the moorland to the right and behind as the car continued to roll forwards. Does an image of a bird, unseen in the original, really count as a sighting in these circumstances? The lapwing is a striking and exotic enough bird but not only is it a bit commonplace (red listed it may be but, in the Hebrides, they’re really two-a-penny), in these particular circumstances, sighting a lapwing is the very definition of anti-climax.

I think my quest for a confirmed golden eagle sighting might well have to continue – even if I could scarcely have got closer this time. But it does demonstrate the importance of paying attention; seeing the full picture and not losing focus in the frustrations of a moment apparently lost but which, when afforded the opportunity of such hindsight, had the makings of something much, much better.

Before… and after

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1 tonne of Verdo briquettes

Weather: clear, dry (bit windy). Gloves required.

No. of packs on pallet: 96

No. of trips to shed: 48

No. of steps, pallet to shed: 23 (in each direction)

No. of times slipped on wet ground: 1

No. of times banged head on low shed entrance: 0 (Result!)

No. of minutes start to finish: 41

#SportingClubOfUist