Busy Doing Nothing

There has become a recurring theme in the emails I receive from friends and family, and in those I write... The same problem faces me as I sit down to compose another blog post. 

We are living through a coronavirus lockdown. There's nothing to write about !

I suppose I could have a moan about the somewhat challenging weather that this winter is presenting to us. The recent intense cold snap has seen the Roskhill River freeze over for only the second time since we moved here in 2008. Last night, one of the (admittedly somewhat exposed) Skye weather stations recorded a highest wind gust of 84mph. From my window, beyond the shivering sedge on the moor, I can see huge plumes of spray round the cliffs where monster waves are crashing in from the Atlantic.

But the weather here is often extreme, and I have written about it many times before.

Maybe the local birds are worth a mention. We keep stocked, simple peanut and fat-ball feeders in the garden, which regularly attract a reasonable variety of common garden birds. Currently, we have more than the usual number of blackbirds, with often as many as four males chasing each other round the lawn, while Mrs B (an especially large and feisty female) keeps guard under the feeders, seldom letting any other ground-feeding bird more than a fleeting visit for any crumbs that have fallen from the fat-balls above. 

Yesterday, I happened to be gazing out of the window while chatting on the phone, and a single snipe pottered out from under the bushes and began probing around into the mossy lawn. The bird gradually made its way to the edge of the lawn, completely ignored by Mrs B and the cock blackbirds, to where a row of well established pines provide a bit of a windbreak. The grass is longer and unkempt there, and the snipe spent a good twenty minutes contentedly probing about, presumably finding something good that snipe like to eat. 

And lockdown doesn't mean 'locked-up'. We still get out and about. Dog-owners don't get the luxury of choosing not to venture outside when the wind is howling or the river is all ice. We wouldn't choose to stay cooped up indoors anyway. We are thankful that we live in a place where we do not have to consciously avoid close contact with other humans - it is quite rare to see another human here. But every day we can enjoy the landscape and the sky, and never tire of its beauty. And for now,  like everyone else, we will wait, remain patient, read our books, puzzle over our jigsaws and vacuum the carpets yet again.

I will share below a couple of Sue's recent photos.

From the garden

Loch Dunvegan

Super Cupar

Silent Night

Once again, I sit at my desk at Roskhill, looking out on a dark, still and silent landscape as the fading light from the already set sun once again paints the sky in impossibly beautiful streaks of yellow, orange and blue.

The first strange month of 2021 has almost ended. Government-imposed coronavirus rules and restrictions have meant that throughout the entire month, we have been almost no-where, met almost no-one, done what feels like, almost nothing. 

It is such an alien feeling. Humanity here is almost at a standstill while we wait for science to save us from any further spread of this so infectious of diseases.

We are told that another whole month, and maybe more, will have to pass before anything much - for human life here in Britain - may change.

But the sun will keep on rising and setting. Time continues inexorably. Snowdrops are already in flower by the garden shed, and spring's yellow bounty of bright bobbing daffodils are busy thrusting their leaves through the almost frozen soil. Next will come the bluebells. 

Planet Earth will not stop turning, and every new dawn brings us a little closer to our hopes for the human future - to meet the friends we miss, to hug the ones we love.

But for now - it's another silent night on Skye.

Winter Skye

 I imagine that winter affects the landscape and the people, plants and other animals within it, in much the same way in every remote region within the UK. You don't have to be on Skye to experience boggy ground, stark, dead vegetation, or buffeting winds, or the seemingly incessant need to don an extra fleece and waterproof clothing for every foray outside of the cosy comfort of your home between the end of August and the beginning of June. (Actually, on Skye, you may need the waterproofs and extra layer all year round...)

However, Skye does have a trick or two which I reckon places our location a notch or two above most others.

Trick number one - The half-hour weather-reversal. One minute - storm clouds, howling winds, driving rain... Thirty minutes later, blue sky, calm and dry. Of course - it can also reverse the other way round.

Trick number two - Rain here, dry there. 'Here' and 'there' may only be a couple of miles apart. 'Here' can have rain all day, while 'there' remains dry all day. Same applies between November and April if you replace the word 'rain' with 'snow'.

Trick number three - All the weather at once. It is not at all unusual to be getting soaked in a rain shower while the sun continues to shine brightly. The bonus here is a dazzling rainbow.

Trick number four - Weather? What weather...? Skye can put up such an astonishing range of cloud formations you are so busy looking at them, you don't notice the weather at all.

Winter Skye? Yes please.

The photos below are a teeny sample of the winter pics I have taken from and around Roskhill over the years. I promise - they are all reproduced here exactly as the camera saw them. 

(On a PC - clicking on any photo will open a full-screen gallery).

Do You Believe In Omens?

Exactly one year ago, almost to the minute, I wrote a blog post describing my first dog walkies of the new decade. I think it was the most eerie morning sunrise I have ever experienced. The post is here: 

First Light 2020

We all know only too well how the year panned out.

This morning, 1st January 2021, Cupar and I walked the same route as on the last 1st January. Today, everything was absolutely normal. To the west, a nearly full waning moon lit-up a pale blue sky, casting a creamy white light on the tops of the few puffy clouds. To the east, the slowly rising sun was beginning to edge the horizon with orange, while straggly grey clouds hung overhead, and a cold northerly breeze blew over the silent moor.

Nothing was weird or strange. All was calm. Now, a couple of hours later, I sit at my desk with the sun up, the sky now bright, and the reeds quivering gently in the field beyond our garden wall. My thoughts are to the overworked doctors, nurses and professionals who must be so exhausted of coping with the demands of their jobs during the long, weeks and months that the world has been suffering the coronavirus pandemic. My thoughts also to the thousands of families who have lost loved ones to the terrible disease. 

Let us hope that the peaceful, normal dawn of 2021 is a good omen, and heralds the dawn of real hope that we will all soon be through this most demanding and challenging period of our lives, and we can soon begin to return to living as we have lived in the past, allowed again to visit much-missed friends and family, and - perhaps most important of all - giving them all a big, warm hug.

Let us hope for a happy New Year.