I knew what I’d find. When I opened the curtain and wiped a patch in the misted window with a squeaky finger. Frost. A good sharp one too. Pretty rare this side of Christmas in these parts. The sea winds off the Atlantic usually see to that. I feel a strange lift in my spirits and hurriedly pull on trousers and shirt. Downstairs and the dog seems to be sharing my enthusiasm for the frosty dawn. Boots and a puffy jacket on and out into the half light. Dog capers excitedly as we head off towards the bay.
We get to the little bridge and there it is. I was expecting it, even though I knew it was still weeks early. A stag, proclaiming his rights in the dawn. The sound of autumn in the Highlands. Awe inspiring, spine tingling. It carries though the still air with perfect clarity. I could go home happy now, but don’t. The dog and I carry on down the narrow tree shrouded lane and out into the meadows near the shore. A roe doe and her followers trip daintily away as we approach. A bunch of mallard are dabbling busily by the stepping stones, I feel the need not to disturb them. Every minute they feed is precious at this time of year.
We turn around and head back towards coffee. As we emerge from the yellowing trees Blabheinn and the Cuillin are laid out before us, gilded and glowing in the first rays of the day. It almost seems like a cliché but as we walk down the quiet road another sound reaches us, faint at first, carrying down from an enormous height. A skein of pinks, high, as high as the Cuillin, making landfall from the North West. Their ‘wink wink’ call unmistakable, evocative and beautiful.
Only a fifteen minute walk, back now in the warm, coffee on, toast in the toaster and all is well with the world.
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