Winter Draws On

Well, looks like our long and unusually pleasant summer (here on Skye at least) is drawing to a close. I must admit, it is nice to seen the burns and the river charging along again. I was getting a little fed up of the sluggish trickle, I expect the fish were too. The wind has returned too - not so pleasant. Still, man up and face it. Just wish that someone made chainsaw trousers with a goretex layer. Why not, it seems so obvious to me and they are expensive anyway. Wearing a layer of flexothane over them is so constricting and sweaty. Very unpleasant.

I'm a little worried about my hands this year. The Lyme seems to have left a legacy in my fingers which causes them to be cold and painful, this could prove to be not only unpleasant for the winter but also dangerous. Maybe it's time for a saw with heated handles. Might have to give the new Husqvarna 550XP a try.

This year shows a profusion of rowan berries. The field fares will be here in a few short weeks to strip them away. Already the swallows are grouping and twittering, perhaps discussing the forthcoming journey south. It will not be long either before the grey skeins arrive. They come in high over the coast, battling with turbulent winds off the Cuillin to carry on towards the east and the productive arable fields of Easter Ross, Perthshire and beyond. They are a wonder and a joy to me, even though I no longer take a harvest from their numbers, to watch them is enough.

Twenty plus years ago we would lie in the ditch along side some frozen Pethshire potato field waiting for them to drop in. In the pre-dawn gloom each of us would lie imobile, teeth chattering as the express train roar of the skeins dropping and whiffling would swamp our senses. Don't look up, whatever you do, they'll see your face and put the air brakes on, back pedal on enormous wings and side slip into the dawn. No, wait, wait until you can't wait any more, until the tension is unbearable, until you are shaking with anticipation. Then George says quietly, 'now' and we each stand and shoot. Bump, bump, bump, the shots barely noticable in the cacophany. The coldness is forgotten, hands and feet are instantly warm. If you are lucky there is a thump as one of the birds hits the ground. The labrador, for who the waiting has been even worse, rushes out and returns with a pink foot. A young one if the Diana has allowed it. It'll roast well and will taste better than all the farm yard geese ever bred. You must leave now, the geese need that field, you must do so with a minimum of disturbance, even while you are walking off, ones and twos are circling and calling, ready to drop in to feed. Sitting in the back of the Land Rover on the way home, the grey body is on your knee, you stroke the feathers and feel the sadness and give a quiet prayer of thanks to the old gods.

George has been gone these long 12 years now and we miss him every day. It wouldn't be right for somebody else to say 'now' so now, no one says it and the geese have that field at least. I like to think that that old gander at the front...well maybe.