Sunset palette – midsummer 2019

A band of cirrus and (alto)stratus (I think…) clouds stretched across the sky at sunset last night on a calm, still evening, giving an astonishing colour palette at sunset. Out of the (ahem) 43 pictures I took, a number somewhat driven by Saturday night mojitos but which can, mostly, be justified in the calm of Sunday morning, here’s a selection of eight. Hope you enjoy them!

First, taken just before 9pm, the clouds in question with the photo just catching the sun’s flare at the left hand edge. It had been a warm and mostly sunny day, giving the chance for an al fresco dinner (which usually implies Greek salad and an accompanying drop or two of ouzo):

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At about ten past ten, well into in the golden hour, but with the clouds at the top of the picture providing a slate grey contrast to the sun. The camera lens has bent these clouds slighly upwards left to right – the actual position was closer to the horizontal than these suggest:

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Next, zooming slightly in on golden seas and highlighting a few sunset worshippers among the local population of sheep:

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At sunset, with the the position of the sun at 325º on the compass, and the time on the clock: 2232:

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About ten minutes later and zooming in, a little slightly further westwards than the position of the sun at sunset, to enhance the intensity of the orange colours:

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At ten past eleven, with the sky darkening and the colours beginning to shift to blues and greys:

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Looking north-east, with the red light from the Dark Island turbine prominent, now just after midnight and with plenty of light still left in the sky, and with the soft greys of the clouds leaving plenty of gaps for midnight blues (not that one – Ed):

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And finally, a panorama of the bay from a little earlier in the evening (precisely at sunset), looking north to east (horizon line slightly bent at the north, left hand, edge) with pink reflections both in the clouds and in the water:Kilaulay sunset reflection 3

Truly lucky to live in such a beautiful place – and with evenings such as these providing ample compensation for the days (and nights) when it can get a bit rough out there.

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Searching for adventure…

The corncrakes have been a little late returning this year – late April in some parts of the island but only on 11 May did they make it as far as Aird A’Mhachair right up in the north-west corner. Lack of cover from the yellow flag iris and the nettles, which have only in the last week or so grown tall enough to offer one of the UK’s most elusive ‘native’ birds sufficient cover in which to skulk, is possibly one reason for why. ‘Ours’ – nesting on the croft for the last several years – made it back the following day and, spending a few hours in the garden on a few days of spring weather this week, I’ve heard three, possibly four, calling males in the area.

The one which inhabits our croft is, just possibly, Aird A’Mhachair’s least shy corncrake, and I’ve seen him twice this week. Not, like last year, staying on the outside of the fence. Oh, no. That’s no longer for him. I saw him firstly on the day after his arrival (you tend to hear rather than see corncrakes), loping purposefully, neck stretched, across the middle of the lawn (well: grass, really), cut this year shorter than a new squaddie’s haircut, making his way for the fence and the rather denser cover outside, and just the wrong side of the remains of a line of daffodils which sheltered him perfectly from view from the house.

And, then again this afternoon – I heard him from the drive at the front of the house, closer by than hitherto, and, wondering if he had taken up his old calling post on a stone on the outside corner of the fence, dashed through to take a look. No – sadly not there. But then, looking a little to the right, again, standing more or less in the open in the middle of the lawn (…) and still calling proudly. Grabbing the camera – kept close at hand for just such an eventuality – he made his way towards the fence, this time the right side of the daffodils, before taking up a perch apparently on a new calling stone, this time on the inside of the garden and just about 30′ from the window. He was perfectly happy for me to open the window and, not only that, but to pose and issue a few more calls – that strangely, unbird-like sound, a bit like scraping your fingernails quickly across the teeth of a plastic comb; a bit like a couple of sharp twists of a supermarket acrylic pepper grinder.

Here he is, in full calling flow:

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And then here, not looking in the least embarrassed at such a display of open, untypical extrovertness (and at quarter past three in the afternoon, too):

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He’s calling again now, as I write – partly it’s looking for a mate; partly, being possessively territorial birds, it’s advertising precisely which bit of the village is his.

Maybe he knows it’s late in the year and there’s not a lot of time left to raise one, and hopefully two, broods before setting off again for that long migration across the Sahara and back to the African savannahs. But, then again, maybe this particular one realises that searching for adventure is, indeed, the type of life to find….

UPDATE 20 May: Not the best picture (he was a few feet further away than on Thursday), but here he is again calling out for all he’s worth. Mostly, the calling has been infrequent – this afternoon, a pattern of four ’rounds’ and then a small break. I’m guessing that the infrequency reflects that he has a mate already and is just reminding all and sundry that this is his part of the village; as opposed to the greater urgency surely demanded by the need to find a mate.

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From the croft: Easter Sunday 2019

From aquamarine to turquoise to deep sea blue, here’s Good Friday’s sparkling colours of the sea looking north at low tide:

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Today, however, the mist has descended and we’re back to a uniform overcast dullness of greys.

In other wildlife news this Easter Sunday:

* our gang of starlings continue nest building and repairing in earnest, though the pair in the prime starling estate in the chimney pots of the adjacent (and empty) cottage has certainly been harrassed, if not predated, by the ravens

* a pair of pied wagtails continue scouting for a nest site in the stonework of the old byre and other ruins

* we have had a male blackcap visitor (which I’ve tried to encourage, with some success, by rolling an apple under the central ring of daffodils)

* five black-tailed godwits (2M, 3F) were on the shore yesterday, presumably on a pitstop before continuing off to their breeding territories on Iceland and the Faeroes

* formerly part of a pair, but now alone, a single brent goose has been making a daily appearance around teatime at high tide, having presumably got detached from the migrating family group

* last year’s Easter bunny made a brief re-appearance on the immediately neighbouring croft on Thursday (OK, it may not be the same one)

* both the female but also the male hen harriers continue to drive the waders into a panic, despite rarely being that interested in them, with, on one occasion this week, a small wader in hot pursuit, successfully driving the female up and over the nest sites

* the shelducks have paired up, with the male getting a bit feisty with the mallards, while groups of eider are also starting to form

* the neighbours’ sheep have started to give birth, the first few in the good weather of the last week with most, it seems, typically hanging on for the poorer weather to come in the next

* a large, presumably dog, otter crossed the road in front of us at Baile Garbhaidh on our road back from Barra yesterday, from the seaside of Loch Bi to the loch itself, briefly visible on the surface of the water before disappearing in search of a late supper, leaving only a trace of bubbles.

Meanwhile, both daylight and the grass grow longer, the yellow flag iris is getting taller and the nettles are starting to grow – perfect cover for the corncrakes on their ungainly, ever-unlikely return from Africa. They’ll be back, soon enough.

In the meantime, Happy Easter one and all.

Winter has come

After several days of persistently strong, and latterly northerly, winds which have seen birds flying backwards shortly after take-off, and havoc wrought amongst the early daffs, Ardivachar has a covering of snow this morning. Wet snow, and unlikely to hang around for too long even if the forecast is for more snow later, but enough to bank up on the windward side of rockery stones.

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Further afield, where they can be seen under the low cloud cover and poor (and again deteriorating) visibility, the hills are covered in the white stuff and, as a result, stand out a little more sharply against the greys and greens of the skies and the seas, the latter topped by white horses on top of waves still being driven into the bay despite a tide which is in retreat.

A day to hunker down around an early-lit stove, I think. Toasted crumpets. Hot chocolate. Gentle Cuban and west African sounds coming from Cerys’s Sunday morning radio show.

It’s took its time.

UPDATE 3pm: Better put, this is of course not the arrival of winter, but of that of summer ( (c) Daily Gael). Visibility continues to improve revealing Harris’s snow-covered hills, also aided by a cap of snow against grey skies. Here is a shot north-east from Ardivachar towards a snow-flecked Eabhal (347m) on North Uist, above and beyond Benbecula’s Dark Island turbine and Ruebhal (124m):

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And here, with a bit more landscape context, is Eabhal and the two Li hills which rise above Lochmaddy (Li A Deas – South Lee – at 281m slightly higher than Li A Tuath):

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Bliadhna Ùr Mhath (from up south…)

Weeks of bad weather, of ragin’ gales and rain falling either in torrents or else as mist, followed by 10 days of calm, unseasonable warmth (8C/46F, and currently 11C/52F), and even sunshine, has led to more than a few garden daffodils deciding that spring is on the way. Despite – or perhaps because of – a lack of snow anywhere in South Uist, including on the hills and certainly down here at sea level, winter is, however, a long way from over yet.

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But on this New Year’s Eve, with excitement already building of plans for the evening and for the future, and as darkness begins to fall, signs of hope, such as these, are more than welcome as symbols of the continuing cycle of the seasons – or,  in human terms, of what goes around, comes around.

So, Happy New Year to everyone (or Bliadhna Mhath Ùr, if you’re from down north); and may 2019 bring again a sense of peace, of tolerance and of a willingness to adjust to the lives, and the hopes and dreams, of other people. All of us are migrants, as we travel through this life; not always in the physical sense (though that’s true of more of us that some are prepared to acknowledge) but certainly in the spiritual and the emotional. And may the challenges of recognising the journeys of others become once again what defines us as individuals and as a people.

UPDATE 1/1/19: With the six-hour 86-song party playlist in full swing, and  – unusually, since I put a lot of work into constructing a coherent, flowing playlist – on shuffle, the New Year was brought in by Cathy Ann McPhee’s beautiful arrangement of Chi mi’n Geamhradh (I See Winter), followed immediately after by Mary Ann Kennedy (Mise Fhuair). Make of that what you will.

Two perspectives on Hebridean calm

We’re in the middle of a mini-spell of dry, sunny and calm weather – which makes a change from an autumn which has so far been marked by a surfeit of rain and persistent gales and otherwise high winds. This morning saw barely enough wind to make the grasses lean and a clear sky which, in combination, made the bay free even of ripples of movement and which lent the water a milky sheen, a suggestion of and almost an absence of colour. It was a return to the best days of high summer.

Here, looking north-east from the kitchen door steps, and echoing this site’s new header pic (although this was taken to catch the reflections of late afternoon sun) we have Eabhal and Ruebhal in the centre of the frame (and the Dark Island turbine) but what is taking centre stage is the sea, streaked blue and translucent in the shallows of a retreated, but just off a neap, tide (with water levels low but a high tide line) and with a texture starting to be shaped by a growing breath of wind. The turbine, pointing south, and a sole oystercatcher at the bottom of the photo provide the only movement.

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Some three and a half hours later than the noon at which this photo was taken, and a short bike ride mostly finished, I stopped at Loch Bi just at the Aird A’Mhachair side of the Ard na Monadh road, with the sun due to set less than 40 minutes later and offering photographers full golden hour mode. A little cloud cover offered both a way of catching the sun’s rays as well as a means of allowing me to point the camera at the sun, with a stronger wind providing ripples across the water of the loch – mostly freshwater but with a component of salt water provided by very narrow channels funnelling through from Loch Sgioport – and lending it the creased look of silver cigarette packet paper.

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After so much rain and wind, days like these – and there a couple more yet to come – provide essential points of recharge, both for nature and for ourselves, anchoring us into a sustaining reassurance of calm amidst the headlong tilt at the senses presented by the hammeringly persistent rain and wind.

Primaries, Uist-style

Some bold primary colors from Friday last week here on Uist, with the red of the dinghy and the blues of the sky, the sea and the prawn boat complemented by the green kite of the kite surfer, brilliantly catching the late afternoon sun.

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Truth to tell, we’ve not had a lot of days like this recently – May and June were lovely on Uist but July and August – in contrast to the heatwave across most of the rest of the country – has been cool and damp. Today, we’re back to grey clouds and rain, and, with the schools also going back tomorrow, and us also lighting the first fire of autumn, there is an end-of-summer feel about the place and this sort of picture is likely to become increasingly a rarity. For this year, anyway.

We also don’t get a lot of kite surfers off Mol Mor (the beach at Kilaulay, on the opposite shore of this photo). The spring tides we’ve had in the past week not only strand the prawn boats when moored and not in use at low tide,  but also expose the rocky reefs that radiate out from the beach like the bony spines of long-buried dinosaurs. These are hazardous to boats and to kite surfers alike, unless they really know what they’re doing and, with our winds, there’s always the danger of a mis-calculation or a mis-step which might well bring disaster or, at least, a nasty gash on the leg. However, the tide is pretty full here, submerging the reefs under a cover of water that might, to some degree, act to cushion a fall, so this one seems to be aware of the potential threat.

More days and scenes, including kite surfers with colourful kites, like these would certainly be very welcome; although I know how envious just about everyone else is of temperatures as cool as 16C (61F) and an afternoon of steady, and refreshing, drizzle!

On a June midnight

The heatwave currently gripping all of the country has also held sway in the Hebrides, with the last few days being sunny, and hot (21C yesterday), and the Met Office forecast for the next week for the Range here on South Uist being sunshine all the way with daytime temperatures varying from 18C to 21C (again above 20C!). Consequently – other than tonight, when a dreadfully thick haar has rolled in off the sea – the days are also very long: an official sunset time of 2231 and a sunshine-related golden hour to follow means that there is plenty of light in the sky and no need for electric lights until after 11pm.

I blogged last midsummer about how much difference there is between the apparent compass point at which the sun sets at high summer compared to the depths of winter – at just beyond midsummer, the sun sets well past north-west. The counterpoint to observing this high angle of sunset is that you can also track the movement of the earth around the sun as the days move from one sunset above north-west towards the sunrise of a new day before north-east. Being at a lower level of latitude than the Shetlands, where I have also spent midsummer and where the ‘simmer dim‘ means that the hours of darkness with the sun below the horizon are really only twilight hours, it does get dark here although it’s a soft, shadowy darkness rather than hard nightfall. You couldn’t, famously, read a book outside. And yet, looking to the north, the sky (on a good day!) has plenty of colour, with the fading, but still present, orange tones of sunset shifting across the sky from where the sun sets towards where it will rise and, above that, blue fading to black overhead. Once your eyes have adjusted, it’s apparent that there is still plenty of light and, for the birds outside, there’s therefore also plenty of reason for activity, usually based on something or other winding up the redshank, whose piercing, piping calls as nests, and territories, are defended against any and allcomers are the soundtrack to this picture:

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(Taken last night looking due north at about ten minutes past midnight.)

With the weather being so good, most of Uist seems to be engaged on the jobs for which you need a guarantee of sunshine (and no rain) – like painting the shed (its third coat in two years, despite us using, er, Ronseal ‘One Coat’ – maybe it’s the way I’m using it but my shed appears to be something of an example of a product not exactly doing what it says on the tin), and the perimeter fence (a job which is long overdue and which is a substantial enough task not to be wanting to add further coats every single year).

So, rare days indeed – and, after a day soaking up the ozone and breathing in the aroma of paint, what better than to settle back with a sizable bottle of your own, and really rather good, homebrew as day turns into this sort of midnight blue?

Introducing Jimmy…

Jimmy the Crake is a man about town; a man on a real mission, as you can see from his calm, confident, determined air. He’s also, quite possibly, the world’s (or, perhaps, the Hebrides’s) most non-secretive, sanguine, confiding corncrake. Dapper, suave, with a degree of rural sophistication quite befitting his environment, and well able to carry off a zoot suit and bandana combination, here he is striding about his business.

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And in full view of me stood not only watching him but also zooming in on him.

Set off here against a backdrop of the nettle bed stirring into post-winter life just above the shoreline, but yet to regain its full stride, Jimmy soon made his way along the fence to the corner of the garden, where a stone stands proud and which he seems to have made his calling post. From here – twice yesterday in the daytime – as well as several times from elsehere, he rasped, bass steel comb struck along a hard edge, regularly but in short bursts, for the next few minutes before moving on. It’s not for nothing that corncrakes are more usually seen than heard. You see, I’m stood – uprooting a stack of dandelions which have leapt into life while I was away in Sofia – on a bank on higher ground no more than 20 metres away. An afternoon-long activity which is far from complete. Movement into and then from the house, to pick up the camera, and then my somewhat clumsy attempts to creep along and and down the garden, treading less like Grasshopper than Keystone Cop, to where I could get a shot unencumbered by wood or galvanised wire mesh seemed to have little impact on his desire to engage in his primal duty of calling out.

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This is my third summer here and I – very briefly – saw one corncrake the first year, with two other calling males nearby, but saw none (at least, not here in Ardivachar) and heard few others last year. And Jimmy has only arrived in the last week or so – he wasn’t here before I left for Sofia.

A level of bravery perhaps aided by the presence of another calling male a couple of crofts up into Ardivachar; or otherwise, male corncrakes being the love-’em-and-leave-’em types that they are, by the desire to keep an eye out for other women, Jimmy already having found one mate this season (oh yes – I saw her too: a little more traditionally shy, she was spotted in the dense vegetation contributed by irises and nettles a little distance away, Jimmy in fairly close company). Indeed, yesterday I was as likely to see corncrakes as I was starlings. Well, almost.).

Regardless, it seems a good plan to leave the bottom section of the garden unmown again this forthcoming summer, just in case we’re hosting, or otherwise providing cover for, any of Jimmy’s off-spring. The apparently rising population of corncrakes across the UK, where the further reaches of the Hebrides chain, and Orkney, play a key role, is good news and thus a bit of inaction in the garden this summer seems to be entirely justified in support of Jimmy’s attempts to do his best on behalf of the future of his species. Amongst which a lineage based on greater confidence of approach, and less skulking around in the nettlebed, would also surely be a good thing.

The prospect of summer

We were talking on the blog yesterday about the strength of the winds throughout the Hebrides; and then I saw a tweet from the inestimable account run by Orkney Library, raising an old blog post from the Archive describing some Orkney customs for 1 May. One of them was this rhyme relating wind direction on 1 May to the prospects for that season’s crops:

If the wind is in the Sooth
Thir’ll be braed for every mooth;
If the wind is in the Aest
There’ll be dule for man an’ baest;
Sud the wind blas fae the West
The muckle shaeves are ill tae fest;
If the wind comes fae the Nort
Aa‘ the rigs are tight and short.

(‘dule’ = ‘suffering or misery‘)

It’s interesting – though not at all surprising – that the state of the weather on key dates (as 1 May is, in respects both of pre-Christian customs and traditions as well as having more modern significance in terms of workers’ rights both historically and currently, for example with the McStrikers), popularly linked to agricultural prospects; nor that people in other parts of the UK where trees are somewhat less abundant have different rhymes to the arguable better-known (at least, by me) arbour-based ones (‘When the rooks build high/The weather will be dry’; ‘Oak before the ash; and we will have a splash/Ash before the oak; and we will have a soak’) or the one about St. Swithin’s Day [no, not that one – Ed]. Or, indeed, that rhymes in the northern isles seem to be based on wind, which can be changeable to some degree, rather than rain, which is more or less a given.

The general level of pessimism contained within the Orkney rhyme over prospects for the crop can be noted – only when the wind is southerly is the harvest likely to be decent. And there’s humour in that as well as, probably, grim historical reality. Fortunately, yesterday here on the Range the wind was due south all day, at least until 6pm when it switched right around to NNW. So, there’s some room for debate but, given that 6pm is after most of the growth is done for the day, I’m calling the 1 May wind as a southerly – so, that means there’ll be ‘bread for every mouth’. (And therefore beer too, of course.)

Encyclopedia Brittanica reports the conditions for good wheat production as follows:

‘Weather that is comfortable for humans is also good for wheat. Wheat needs 12 to 15 inches (31 to 38 centimeters) of water to produce a good crop. It grows best when temperatures are warm, from 70° to 75° F (21° to 24° C), but not too hot. Wheat also needs a lot of sunshine, especially when the grains are filling. Areas with low humidity are better since many wheat diseases thrive in damp weather.…’

So, if the Orkney rhyme is to be believed, and can also hold true for over here in the west, we’re likely to have a warm, sunny, non-humid and not too wet summer. Probably, there ought not to be too much wind, either. That would do me.