My Vision For Nature - Scotland

Around this time last year, I stood in a stiflingly hot classroom in front of expectant, watchful eyes as I attempted to teach a group of P5 children about the difficulties of conservation.

The revelation that there was a possibility of a wolf reintroduction had been met with great enthusiasm; the question “would you like to see wolves back in the highlands?” was answered with vigorous nods and cries of “it would be SO COOL!”

“But what if one of these wolves gets into your back garden and eats your rabbit?”

A few moments silence, while the cogs turned. Then: “It would still be cool.” “They could eat my wee sister if they liked!”

I then explained that, whilst it would be super awesome to see these majestic predators back in the wilderness where they once roamed free, not everyone would be so happy about one munching on a little sister sandwich. Farmers, for one, risked losing livestock, their livelihoods, and, quite possibly, their safety. The eyes glazed over as little minds digested this information. Then one boy piped up: “Then why don’t we knock down the massive shopping centre and build a reserve there? We don’t need that. But the wolves need a home.”

If only grown-ups had that kind of brutally simple attitude to problem solving. For a 7-year old, the natural world still holds a special lustre that cannot be replaced; the joy of exploring the wilderness, the excitement of the idea of a wolf can bring, can’t be outdone by clothes stores and housing developments. Okay, so farmers have good reason for not wanting a fearsome predator on their land, but the wolves – and other wildlife – are also entitled to a home. At 7, the adult emotions of fear and cynicism haven’t yet set in. It would be so simple to reintroduce wolves. And SO cool.

Realistically, if wolves are to be reintroduced into Scotland, it won’t be for a good while – we aren’t ready. But as the concept of re-wilding continues to gain momentum, something exciting is happening here. The idea of more wilderness and seeing Scotland’s native fauna return to its rightful place is most often met with positivity and excitement. From Caledonian pine forest to beavers, raptors to the Eurasian lynx, the future seems hopeful.

It may have been a sad day for conservation when David Cameron became re-elected; reading the policies of the conservatives is depressing to say the least. But just like many of my fellow AFON members, I am an eternal optimist. I would like to point out that the story in Scotland is very different – opinions and attitudes are changing for the better, with an overwhelming shift to the SNP during the election. The Scottish Governments Climate Change Act is nothing if not ambitious, with targets to reduce carbon emissions by 42% by the 2020, and 80% by 2050. The latter figure is stated in the SNP’s manifesto as being a ‘minimum’, and they are leading the movement to improve this by investing heavily in low carbon transport and renewables. And – although I would love for this not to be the main driving force – the benefits to the economy and tourism from re-wilding means that a lot of support is being offered for related ventures.

Mainly, however, Scotland is fighting for its voice to be heard – just like we, as conservationists, are fighting for nature to be heard. One of SNP’s taglines is ‘Let’s lock out the Tories’ which is a feeling shared by many across the UK, including (judging by my twitter feed following the election) a great deal of my fellow wildlife enthusiasts.

I’m not saying we’ve got it covered: there’s a lot of work to do. Conservation conflict is just as – if not more – rife in Scotland. Groups of people – politicians, ecologists, estate owners – can become polarised as a result of different points of view that become embedded within society over time, and as a result we constantly bump heads. Instead, we need to work alongside gamekeepers and stakeholders, not to tell them that their opinions are wrong, but to understand why they think the way they do. I’ve actually found a lot of gamekeepers to be very amicable and often open to change; it’s that initial prejudice and mistrust that we must overcome in order for nature to have a future.

For me, that’s my vision: to work together and find shared solutions towards mutual goals. To not see a parties’ manifesto as wrong or a gamekeepers attitude as incorrect, but to use them as a means to finding a long-term strategy that benefits all. Somewhere within us all is a 7-year-old who thinks simply, without prejudice or old grudges, and still treats nature with the respect and awe it deserves. My vision for nature is that one day, we all learn to listen to them.

The Ythan Estuary gets the seal of approval

Seals seem to have played a large part in my zoological career. I spent a very enjoyable two year stint as a marine zoologist for an aquarium, which involved caring for and training four fully grown grey seals, and these irresistibly lovable animals were at the centre of my dissertation. Perhaps it has something to do with my attachment to dogs – to whom our pinniped friends are so undeniably similar in character – but I formed an instant fondness for the soulful eyes, rolls of blubber and happy-go-lucky nature of these creatures.

My dissertation was based at the Ythan estuary, about a thirty minute drive north of Aberdeen. It is part of Forvie Sands Nature reserve and is an incredibly important ecosystem, supporting a diverse network of estuarine life. The mudflats in particular are species rich, boasting populations of Hydrobia and Euphausiids, amongst a variety of others. These in turn attract a stunning array of shorebirds, from redshanks to terns. Four species of tern utilise the Ythan’s bounty, most commonly the sandwich tern, the population of which amounts to just over 1000 pairs. During the breeding season Forvie Sands is closed to the public to allow the colonies of rare terns a chance to settle down in private. During my dissertation I was lucky enough to be allowed access to these colonies by the ranger, Annabel Drysdale. After an incredibly bumpy ride across the sand dunes in her rusty old Land Rover, we were richly rewarded by the spectacular sight of a busy tern colony containing not only sandwich and common terns, but also the much rarer little tern.

 And of course, my absolute favourite the eider duck – who, as I have mentioned before, have my favourite call of any bird, sounding somewhat akin to a pervy builder eyeing up the local talent – reside at the estuary in vast numbers. In fact, the reserve boasts the largest breeding colony of these birds in the UK.

On top of this, Forvie Sands also contains one of the largest populations of seals in the British Isles. Although accurate counts are difficult to come by, the last estimate stated a number exceeding 1000. When you first encounter this vast, sprawling mass of pinniped bulk, your brain almost can’t compute it. Rounding a corner through the dunes, a wall of mottled grey greets you accompanied by a chorus of grunts, groans and howls (you could almost be forgiven for imagining a pig farm would be waiting for you). And for every ten seals you can see on land, one will be bobbing about in the water – quite difficult to spot at first as they blend in perfectly with the steely grey of the seawater. But once you've spotted one, it’s a bit like Where’s Wally; suddenly lots of little dome shaped heads pop up out of the water, eyeing you with a calm indifference.

The majority of the population is made up of grey seals. There are two species of seal commonly found in Britain – grey and harbour. Grey seals are generally larger in size, with a flat, ‘roman-shaped’ nose and v-shaped nostrils. Harbour seals have the classic, perhaps ‘cuter’ Labrador face we associate with seals and tend to be smaller and lighter in colour. I did notice a small population of around 10-15 harbour seals who always seemed to remain separate from the bustling mass nearer the estuary mouth. There isn’t much evidence to say that grey seals bully their canine-like counterparts, but perhaps the fact they don’t intermix is the reason why.

My dissertation largely involved myself and two of my zoology course mates sitting on the beach with some binoculars observing the seals’ movements everyday for a month straight. You may think that chilling on the beach in summer sounds like a fantastic way to spend a month, but clearly you do not live in North East Scotland. In the rare moments it was not a torrential downpour, it was gale-force winds or bitingly cold. And on top of this, we’d only had enough money to buy a two-man tent, which meant taking it in turns sitting outside wrapped in a bin bag to protect our notebooks (and who said being an ecologist wasn’t glamourous?). But we grew to love watching the behavioural antics of our subjects, who lounged and lazed to their hearts content despite the weather. Seals have a wonderful relaxed attitude to life, and will move only to have a leisurely stretch, curling up their back flippers and leaning back the head in a characteristic display of incredibly slow gymnastics. Occasionally, one or two would make the cumbersome journey of hobbling across to a new spot or perhaps (a very exciting event to us as we froze in our tent or bin bag) a few of the enormous males would become locked in battle. However, these fights would only last for a few minutes before the lesser male would give in, yawn, and return back for a well-deserved nap. Seals on land even blink slowly.

Seals in the water are a different story. Anyone who has witnessed the clumsy, awkward struggle of a seal moving on land can relate to the surprise of the smoothness and grace of their aquatic acrobatics. Seals are also notoriously inquisitive and individuals at the Ythan can be observed following dog walkers up the beach, sometimes coming within a few feet of people standing in the shallows. This curiosity has unfortunately got the seals into trouble a few times, especially with the angling community. Recreational salmon fishing is a big past-time at the Ythan and therefore conflict as emerged between the angling society and the vast seal population, a topic which was the concern of my dissertation. I spent a lot of time talking with fishermen, who strongly believed the seals were feasting on salmon and posted a threat to anglers in boats. Data on salmon stocks for the Ythan showed salmon numbers were actually on the rise, however many individuals would come very close to the boat, sometimes even swimming underneath. A male gray seal can grow up to 7m in length; it is easy to see why some anglers might be intimidated by a wild animal of substantial size showing a keen (if albeit harmless) interest in their distinctly small fishing boat. A cull is forever being proposed but, thankfully, has never been allowed.

I, for one, cross my fingers that it never will. I naively hope for the day that the fishermen accept they are in the seals’ territory, stealing the seals’ food from underneath their noses, and realise the seals themselves don’t bear a grudge. In fact, they’ll just shrug, sigh and relax onto a comfortable spot on the beach. Maybe we should all take a leaf out of their book…

Spring hunting has sprung - but does anger solve anything?

Just like the rest of the conservation community, Sunday for me was a sad day. An opportunity to bring about change that positively affects wildlife and signifies the end of decades of such a damaging sport was narrowly missed, and controversial spring hunting has been allowed to continue. Perhaps the worst thing for me was that this was the narrowest of victories; the yes campaign won by the slightest majority of 51%. It’s amazing how much even the smallest amount of votes – 2,200 to be exact – can have such a detrimental impact, isn’t it? The shockwaves from the aftermath of Malta’s referendum rippled through my twitter feed for a good few days.

It was interesting for me to see how people responded. Mostly anger; sadness, disappointment, exasperation at how we were so close and yet so far. And, quite often, resentment towards the Maltese who voted ‘no’. Words such as ‘disgusting’ and ‘vile’ were used in some of the more emotionally-charged tweets I saw.

Don’t get me wrong, I too was seriously peed off the referendum went the way it did. But instead of simply being angry, we need to use that anger to drive forward the change. Not to see it as a ‘defeat’ but as a reason to keep going, to analyse the ‘no’ campaign and make it stronger for next time. We are all very quick to condemn others for their decision, but we have no idea why they’ve made it – perhaps if we investigated a little further, we could use this knowledge to help work alongside the ‘no’ voters instead of against them.

I guess this way of thinking comes from the research I do. Investigating conservation conflicts often requires you to suppress your initial gut instinct of disbelief and annoyance towards other people’s views, and simply accept them as different instead – see them as something to work with. Especially in Scotland, where conflicts associated with birds of prey are rife, these disputes have become exacerbated to the point where parties have become polarised and unable to communicate. Conservationists are also guilty of ignorance; we can’t understand why you would want to hunt such a beautiful creature, and at the same time hunters and gamekeepers can’t understand why we would want to interfere in something they’ve done for centuries. Even as I write this I can see that coming across in my language: it can be very much ‘us’ and ‘them’.

But, as anyone with a successful marriage will tell you, communication is key to a healthy relationship – the same goes for conservation. How are we to understand each-others motives without actually speaking to one another? How can we, as conservationists, try to bring hunters round to our way of thinking when we can’t see theirs? Open dialogue is essential to finding a shared solution. And a shared solution is what we want – a straight-up ban will never work. The head of the Hunter’s Association Joe Calascione was quoted as describing spring hunting as an ‘integral part of Maltese tradition’. Grouse shooting, some would say, is an integral part of Scottish tradition, but that is detrimental to so many raptor species. We are having the same struggles, for exactly the same reasons. Try and enforce a law on something that has been part of people’s livelihoods, and you’ll get the same result – refusal, anger and, quite possibly, they’ll still do it anyway. Surely it’s better that there is, at least, some sort of control over the spring hunting at present. Hunters must be licensed and stick to the quota unless they want a hefty fine.

I am certainly not saying that I want this practice to continue. I just think that instead of calling names, we should put our anger to good use and find a long-term, sustainable solution, and one that does not polarise ‘us’ and ‘them’ still further.

“The activist is not the man who says the river is dirty. The activist is the man who cleans up the river.”

-      Ross Perot

The old graveyard that is still very much alive…

Nature has a funny way of creeping up on you. Places that were once orderly and landscaped seem to rapidly become wild and chaotic as soon as you turn your back – something any avid gardener will tell you. Even the most carefully manicured of gardens can turn drunk and disorderly if neglected just a little – all it takes is one unruly weed to start the process. But such places are the best places, because they are havens for wildlife. Although on the surface that overgrown tangle may appear a confusing mess, they are often an oasis of serendipity and well worth exploring, for all sorts of beasties can be found there.

Last week I returned home to Newcastle, and just down the road lurks one of these mysterious overgrown spots; an old graveyard. I distinctly remember early expeditions here as a little girl being extremely disappointing – rows upon rows of neat little planters, carefully maintained paths and trees so aggressively pruned it appeared the gardener was on an ongoing crusade for uniformity. And very little wildlife to investigate, so I took my hunt elsewhere. Several years later I returned to find it transformed: nature had certainly taken its course. The trees, as if in payback, are now wonderfully crooked with branches criss-crossing and reaching over to their nearest neighbours. Holly and ivy overrun the whole scene, like a rather over enthusiastic Christmas card, and daffodils have spouted little trumpets of defiance as they cluster randomly about the place. Wild garlic is in abounds too, releasing a gorgeous scent.

The tombstones themselves are almost unrecognisable; camouflaged by ivy and lichens. The crumbling facades are no longer smooth and grey; instead mustard yellow, dirty white and emerald green.

And, naturally, animals have followed. The place is filled with a whole variety of bird song: black birds, goldfinches, wrens, robins, chaffinches – the list goes on. I did spot a chaffinch who hastily disappeared into a thicket of trees, where the unmistakable relentless chirping of young in a nest awaited them. Not wanting to disturb them I didn’t venture into the thicket, but it made me smile all the same. The bats came out at dusk, flitting from tree to tree against a pink-gold sky in the sunset. On the way home, a dog-walker assured me there was also a resident barn owl who roosted in the far corner of the graveyard – hopefully next time I’ll catch a glimpse of him.

These type of places – where nature has reclaimed what was previously lost – are often, to me, the most magical. They have a peaceful air; in the graveyard, plant and animal life are quite happy to work with what we gave them, a bit like us restoring an old house back to its former glory. Just a nice wee reminder that life always comes full circle!

Glenmuick: the ideal place for a stag-do

One of the best things about living in Scotland (aside from the copious amounts of whisky) is the fact that some form of wilderness is never too far away. Of course, I use the term ‘wilderness’ lightly – whilst re-wilding is an exciting and rapidly growing concept in the highlands, much of what we perceive to be natural is actually a product of human management. But these areas are still of such astounding beauty they could easily rival other scenic parts of the world that adorn the front page of National Geographic.

Glenmuick is one of these places. Part of Balmoral Estate within the Cairngorms National Park, the valley was immortalised by Lord Byron (http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/lochnagar) and is most definitely worthy of the royal stamp of approval. As the university owns a bothy here, it has become a favourite haunt of my friends and I – our very own ‘wild escape’ just an hour and a half’s drive away from the city. The bothy itself is nestled in a deep valley amongst patches of dense pine forest, and looks out onto Lochnagar and its border of vast, rolling hills. The best (and for some, worst) thing about it is that it is a twenty minute walk from the car park – what can seem like an age if you have gone overboard with provisions for the weekend – and much farther to the nearest civilisation. Typically being students we aim to arrive early afternoon to complete this trek in the daylight, which means we actually land at about 8pm long after the sun has disappeared behind the mountains.

But this is my favourite part. For me, a true measure of how rural an area is can be found by looking at the night sky. In Aberdeen, the dim orange glow of light pollution means ‘dark’ has a whole other meaning, and only a few measly stars have struggled to make an appearance, like fireflies who have seemingly lost their way home. However the night sky over the Cairngorms is a perfect velvety black with a whole smattering of stars; the air has that crystal-cut quality to it that makes everything seem crisp, clear and magically still. Twice on that walk we heard the eerie whistle of a tawny owl gliding past on silent wings, and the odd cackling sound of a male pheasant somewhere in the distance. At night, Glenmuick is plunged into pitch black, the only clue to your location being the ominous outline of those imposing hills. The big reveal comes in the morning, when the sun arrives to shed light on the breathtaking view from the front door. 

However, as residents of Scotland will only too well understand, glorious sunshine is a rarity. On our first day we were threatened with a fine rain that seemed almost permanent, and Lochnagar was shrouded in a fog so dense half of the hills were barely visible. Naturally, we chose that day to scale the Munro (a name given to any Scottish mountain that rises above 3,000ft). A personal favourite quote of the trip came from my good friend and navigator Tom, who wisely told us to not “stray too far to the left, there’s a sheer drop of about 600ft. If you do fall off give a good scream so we know”. Although a potential near-death experience, it was a fantastic opportunity to spot wildlife. Black grouse were in abounds, their white-circled eyes easily distinguishable in the mist. Although more well-known for their lekking behaviour, male grouse are also known to wander solo outside of the breeding season. I captured this photo of a rather melancholy individual contemplating the bad weather…

 Other spots included several mountain hares, who vanished into the undergrowth so rapidly it was nigh impossible to grab a snapshot, and a common buzzard hovering above a potential snack.

Miraculously having reached the summit alive, we made out descent back down through the valley. The scenery was stunning – classic heather moorland turning the land from fir green to a mixture of deep purple and russet brown, naturally overrun with black grouse – and we followed the river  as it carved its path through the valley landscape. 

On our way down, we were greeted by a stag who maintained a careful watch from his high post. What remained of the mist served to make him look even more majestic as he stood, still as a statue, and monitored our passing. Stags are a big feature of Glenmuick; the area boasts a thriving population of red deer, whose numbers often creep above the sustainable limit. As a result, the population must be managed and deer stalking is a popular recreational activity. We rarely saw does, but there would often be three or four stags grouped together on the vast plain outside the bothy, and several other more solitary individuals roaming in the distance. What always surprised me was how wary they were of us; I’d always imagined stags to find courage in those enormous antlers and charge relatively easily, yet we could only approach within 50 yards before the bravest would turn and flee. Still, they are the very definition of regal and undeniably beautiful, with coats of deep auburn and straight-necked, proud stances. Visiting in November time we caught the end of the rutting season – ruts were much less often, but still occurred. I was lucky enough to find an antler – an aftermath of a recent fight as it was still bloodied – right outside our front door. It now stands pride of place in my office; a reminder of one of my favourite places in the world.

The montrose basin: A bird-watchers paradise

On Tuesday I was lucky enough to be given a tour of the Montrose Basin, a local nature reserve just an hour and a half away from Aberdeen by car. The reserve itself is enormous, incorporating a plethora of different habitats; saltmarshes, freshwater streams, extensive reedbeds and arable land. The basin is perhaps most famous for the bird species that feed, breed and roost here - most notably migrant waders and wildfowl. This year the reserve had a record breaking number of wintering pink footed geese: over 78, 000 individuals were sighted, which drummed up a wealth of media attention!

So, naturally, I arrived at the basin with my birders head on. I was most excited to see a Kingfisher, a bird I've always wanted to see in the wild. I'd been assured montrose was the place to spot them, and, sure enough, there was one perched with a rather regal air right outside the visitor centre. Conspicuous in his vivid uniform of turquoise and burnt orange, he kindly stayed there long enough for me to grab a quick photo before flitting off to complete the days business.

Other spots included a huge variety of garden birds (great tits, tiny blue tits, and a multitude of sparrows or "spuggies" as they are known back in geordie-town) and Mrs Pheasant, who wandered about rather forlornly until the slightly more flamboyant Mr Pheasant appeared...

One of the most important habitats on the reserve is the reed bed, a great, rippling sea of rushes that provides vital hiding places for many wetland species. A pair of bearded tits have been spotted in this area, and although they didn't show their faces to me, it's greatly hoped that they'll start nesting at the site.

Another key ecosystem is found within the mudflats that border the estuary. Ideal estuarine conditions support an abundance of invertebrate life, namely lugworm, Hydrobia (miniscule marine snails) and Corophium: tiny shrimp-like creatures that belong to the crustacean subphylum. This in turn attracts a great number of shorebirds and waders; spots of the day included oyster-catchers, curlews, widgeons, redshanks and eider ducks. I have long had a soft spot for the latter, since we became well acquainted during the field work for my dissertation on the Ythan estuary (another fantastic site for wildlife). Their call sounds rather like a portly builder cat-calling a passing woman, and has to be one of my favourite bird calls (second only to the African grey 'go-away' bird, whose disdainful and distinctly snobbish call can be heard from nearby trees). 

There was also a grey heron, pictured here stalking the shallows.

One of the most interesting aspects of the reserve for me is that it's existence was brought forward by the wild-fowlers, who regularly use the area for their sport. They enforce strict regulations to ensure the wild-fowl populations are kept healthy, and other wildlife is allowed to thrive. It's a great example of how a reserve can be managed so that both conservation and recreational objectives can operate alongside one another, as long as a mutual respect for nature is withheld. 

Similarly, I was fortunate enough to have a chat with a local farmer, Grant. He offered an alternative perspective on the reserves management, having allowed certain conservation measures to be put in place on his land, often loosing land in the process. Although subsidies have been provided in return, Grant's family have farmed the land for generations and much of it has deep-rooted sentimental value. However, he firmly believed that working alongside wildlife - not removing it - was a necessity, and was an advocate of compromise. 

An unexpected problem came in the form of a group of mute swans. Naively I had no idea of the damage these beautiful creatures can do to crops; how can something so elegant have the same impact as two sheep? But a combination of grazing and tearing up crops with webbed feet has resulted in enormous costs and the employment of a professional 'swan scarer', who apparently is extremely inventive in his methods (one of which was having an imaginary dog called 'Queenie'!)

But perhaps the most rewarding moment of the day came when two brown hares came tumbling out of the undergrowth in the field next to us. Having never seen these animals in the wild, I was surprised at how big they are, and how relatively easy they are to spot with those tall, black-tipped ears to serve as defiant flags admist the grass. As we watched, they even began to box - a fantastic sight. It's not quite boxing season for hares - which mainly occurs in Spring - so these males must have simply been using one another as practice.

The bouts lasted for about 30 seconds before one would chase the other, their bobbing white tails only seeming to taunt the pursuer. It was a brilliant end to a wildlife-filled day. I would certainly recommend the basin to anyone - it's one definite place where the wild things are!

The reliant robin

Given that it's the festive season, the majority of my recent animal spotting has come from my parents home in Whitley Bay, a coastal town on the outskirts of Newcastle. Their humble back garden - however much it may lack in breadth - is a haven for all manner of wildlife, thanks to my Dad's serious green-fingers. In summer, the place blossoms and becomes a hive for a great number of insects. Enormous bumblebees in their stripy bomber jackets blunder their way through the honeysuckle, whilst their smaller and more nimble cousins, the honeybees, zip through the lavender borders; the Buddleja comes alive with a great variety of butterflies and beetles, of all shapes and sizes, scuttle in the midst of the flowerbeds.

But it's this time of year that for me, the garden serves it's true purpose. When the weather is at its harshest, the trees stripped bare and food is scarce, our gardens can provide essential shelter and nutrition for many species, most notably the garden birds. We have always made a point of putting out extra food: crushed nuts, seeds, stale bread. This year we put the inevitable festive excesses to good use, leaving out leftover Christmas pud and cake to provide those much needed calories (and rid us of less needed ones!).

Someone who seemed very happy with our leavings was the resident robin (christened with the appropriately festive name of...'Norman' by my niece) who according to my Mam has been a regular to our Berberis tree for many months. Norman, resplendent with his red breast, often takes place just above the bird feeder and sings his heart out. Obviously our little garden has become 'his' territory for the season.

 Seemingly, his efforts have been ignored by the other birds who have been attracted to our festive free-for-all. We are also frequented by a male coal-tit, aptly named in his dark grey miners cap; several blue-tits, and a pesky crow, who appeared a few days ago to steal the strips of pitta bread (Norman's favourite) from right beneath the robin's beak.

Our plan has worked, though; all the birds look suitably well-fed, having fluffed up their feathers to conserve heat.

Another winter visitor was a field mouse, who endlessly taunted Dad by hanging about the humane trap he had set for him. Wrongly identifying the mouse as a small rat, Dad had spent many hours trying (and failing) to capture the visitor and re-release him onto the back field. After trying chocolate, cheese and dried fruit to lure our cunning friend in with, to no avail, it was the slice of apple that revealed the truth. Somehow, our friend had worked out how to remove the food without setting off the trap. Although we didn't manage to catch the critter, I did manage to capture this photo, which shows a beautifully smug field mouse (not a rat) enjoying his afternoon snack.