After the FL came something very different indeed: the HT. To me it looked classically and classily elegant, and its forward-placed focus wheel allowed three fingers of my right hand to grip the tube, with my first finger falling naturally on the focus wheel, so in hindsight it was nearly an open bridge grip, without the bridge at the objectives. And yet the HT wore its two bridges, one above the focus wheel and one below, not just openly, but with them emphasised by a surrounding framework, so they became a prominent feature. I loved it and loved the way it took the FL view to the next level of transparency with, IMHO, just a touch more red in the colour balance.
Choosing memories from my time with the HT has been really difficult because luck seemed to be with us and provided so many first-class sightings. OK, let’s start.
On the tip of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, in late autumn, we found a wintering Slavonian Grebe. You might say there was nothing earth-shattering about this, but what was utterly surprising was this individual repeated swam within 5-6 metres of us as we sat on the rocks watching it. Time and again it slowly circled our small bay, diving and surfacing and eventually passing close to us again. What a beautiful bird, even in winter plumage. And yet this wasn’t the first Slavonian to have come so close to us. Way back in the 1970s as we hid beneath a big old willow tree to answer ‘calls of nature’ a Slavonian Grebe, in full breeding plumage, came swimming through the willow fronds so close to us we could almost reach out and touch it. It took one look at us as we (ahem) adjusted our dress, and carried on its way, through the willow fronds at the other side and disappeared. From its demeanour one might have deduced its motto was ‘keep calm and carry on’ as it swam steadily by without missing a beat. Slavonian Grebes are cool dudes.
In spring the following year another water-bird captured our hearts. This time it was a female Goosander, swimming close to us with a crew of chicks on her back, in the channel between the Scottish mainland and the Isle of Skye. We had chosen to travel over to Skye on the one remaining small ferry (the ‘Glenachulish’, Kylerhea ferry) rather than take the big ship ferry or the bridge, and this lovely Goosander was ample compensation for the extra time and mileage, plus we glimpsed an Otter in the distance from the Glenachulish.
Little did we know at this point that we were destined to see far bigger species, and in abundance, later in this during this visit. On the journey back from the Western Isles, we stayed on Skye and visited a promontory on the north-east coast to look for a tiny orchid called Bog Orchid. We didn’t find it, but had ample compensation when a procession of several Minke Whales passed by, followed by numerous glimpses of Harbour Porpoise as their backs and small dorsal fins broke the surface time and time and time again. And then, as if this was not enough, a large pod of Bottle-nosed Dolphins of perhaps 25 – 30 individuals paraded by. We have never seen such a show of cetaceans before or since. It left us both open-mouthed with astonishment, and with aching arms from holding our binos up for as long as we could. The whole parade lasted 3 hours and made us wonder whether there was any communication between the three species.
Three species of cetaceans was quite a thrill but on our next visit to the Languedoc in the south of France we were astonished to record 4 owl species in one evening from, and indeed, almost in, our cottage. The first two owls were not so difficult. For years on every visit to this cottage, on most evenings, there had been a Little Owl on a nearby roof and so it was on this evening as we sat outside on our balcony. It was amusing to see it swivel its head to watch the groups of Swifts come hurtling by uttering their excited screams. The Scops Owl was occasionally heard calling in the evening and as we watched the Little Owl we heard the Scops call 4 times. As we were watching the Little Owl to our right, we didn’t see what was approaching from our left, over the vineyard. An alarm call from some small bird made us glance round and there flying nonchalantly into the village was an Eagle Owl, being pursued by Jackdaws that now looked no bigger than Sparrows. It landed on a nearby roof but by the time I had grabbed my camera it had floated away. We sat back and excitedly discussed the evening’s owl-a-thon, and as darkness fell, we went back inside our cottage and closed the door to the balcony. But no sooner had we sat down around the huge old dining table than we heard a frantic scuffling and muffled noises from the window at the far end of our big roof-space room. We went to investigate and found a Tawny Owl jammed between the external anti-burglar bars and the glass window. It was facing into the room and was clearly alarmed by our presence. It was in a state of panic and couldn’t work out that it only needed to squeeze between the bars to make its escape. I stepped away from the window and left Troubadoris making soothing noises to it and by golly after a short while, its plumage settled down and we could see from its face that it had stopped panicking. And then, without even saying ‘hi and goodbye’ it turned, popped out between the bars and flew away into the night. Four owl species in what seemed no time at all, and running the full spectrum of drama from none at all from the Scops, via slapstick comedy from the Little, to majestic drama from the Eagle and full-scale hysteria, briefly, from the Tawny.
Because we both love dragonflies (Odonata), each time we visited the south of France we searched for Macromia splendens, a large black and yellow dragonfly with big green eyes sometimes called Splendid Cruiser. It is rare, and endangered, and the information we found to guide our searches was confusing: it likes deep cold rivers, it likes deep warm rivers, and its larvae favours shallow rivers and so on. Visits to the big rivers Aude, Hérault and Orb, yielded nothing at all, but then we visited a small, shallow water course, just about big enough to be called a river, and as I stood on the bank for the first time, a flash of yellow near the opposite bank had the HTs up to my eyes, and there it was, and my goodness it was indeed ‘Splendid’. We made our way round to the ford that allowed agricultural vehicles to cross the river and sat down on some rocks just downstream and watched as 2-3 male Macromias patrolled backwards and forwards along the bank and reversed their course just before they reached the rocks where we sat. In some ways this mirrored what happened to our searches for Bog Orchid, which we first found in the most unlikely place, once we had stopped actually searching for it. So it was with Macromia, as we had no hope or expectation of finding it at the little river. We just went there and would have been content with whatever we found, but were unexpectedly rewarded.
Almost all the Otters we have seen have had the normal brown colouration with a pale patch covering the sides of the muzzle, neck and chest, but a very few times we have seen one with fur so pale we called them ‘blond’. In each case we watched it for a good length of time so it was definitely not a case of a freak reflection of sunlight off wet pelage creating a misleading impression. The fur was not white, so neither were they albinos. We saw one on the Isle of Mull in 1998 and another on North Uist while I was carrying my HT. We had a good view of it crossing a wide bay on the west coast and then perhaps half an hour or so later it swam to meet a mother Otter and her two well grown cubs. There were many ‘yickering’ vocalisations as all 4 Otters romped around each other in the sea. It was clearly a joyful reunion so we guessed the Blondie was either a sibling of the mother or her cub from a previous year. Otters are not creatures held back by inhibitions and these continued their excited reunion for around 15 minutes before gradually breaking up and resuming their foraging. Eventually we saw the Blondie swim back across the bay, perhaps returning to its own territory, and perhaps also indicating that it made the trip across the bay deliberately to seek out the family.
Not all meetings of Otters are so joyful though, and this was demonstrated very clearly at the same site as the family meeting just described, but one year earlier. We had been sitting overlooking this site on the west coast of North Uist and had almost given up all hope of seeing any Otters when we heard a loud and hoarse ‘HUFF’, a sound which we recognised as being from a startled or alarmed Otter. Scanning the shoreline nearby and on the island just offshore we soon located the source. There was a female, recognisable by her slender face, standing on stiffened and straightened legs, facing a male, which remained about 3 metres away, its head bobbing up and down as if smelling the air. From the posture and sound, you didn’t need to be an expert to see that the female was not interested in an approach by the male, which shuffled sideways a little then sideways in the other direction, while the female maintained her stance. Presumably he was testing to find out if she was ready to mate and had found out she definitely wasn’t. Then, suddenly and without any preliminary posturing, the female turned and slipped into the sea and swam away underwater, leaving the male Otter to groom himself before slipping into the sea, in the opposite direction, and begin foraging.
It has been a pleasure looking back at these memories and perplexing deciding which to include and which to leave out in order to fit inside the character limit allowed by the website.
Lee
Choosing memories from my time with the HT has been really difficult because luck seemed to be with us and provided so many first-class sightings. OK, let’s start.
On the tip of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, in late autumn, we found a wintering Slavonian Grebe. You might say there was nothing earth-shattering about this, but what was utterly surprising was this individual repeated swam within 5-6 metres of us as we sat on the rocks watching it. Time and again it slowly circled our small bay, diving and surfacing and eventually passing close to us again. What a beautiful bird, even in winter plumage. And yet this wasn’t the first Slavonian to have come so close to us. Way back in the 1970s as we hid beneath a big old willow tree to answer ‘calls of nature’ a Slavonian Grebe, in full breeding plumage, came swimming through the willow fronds so close to us we could almost reach out and touch it. It took one look at us as we (ahem) adjusted our dress, and carried on its way, through the willow fronds at the other side and disappeared. From its demeanour one might have deduced its motto was ‘keep calm and carry on’ as it swam steadily by without missing a beat. Slavonian Grebes are cool dudes.
In spring the following year another water-bird captured our hearts. This time it was a female Goosander, swimming close to us with a crew of chicks on her back, in the channel between the Scottish mainland and the Isle of Skye. We had chosen to travel over to Skye on the one remaining small ferry (the ‘Glenachulish’, Kylerhea ferry) rather than take the big ship ferry or the bridge, and this lovely Goosander was ample compensation for the extra time and mileage, plus we glimpsed an Otter in the distance from the Glenachulish.
Little did we know at this point that we were destined to see far bigger species, and in abundance, later in this during this visit. On the journey back from the Western Isles, we stayed on Skye and visited a promontory on the north-east coast to look for a tiny orchid called Bog Orchid. We didn’t find it, but had ample compensation when a procession of several Minke Whales passed by, followed by numerous glimpses of Harbour Porpoise as their backs and small dorsal fins broke the surface time and time and time again. And then, as if this was not enough, a large pod of Bottle-nosed Dolphins of perhaps 25 – 30 individuals paraded by. We have never seen such a show of cetaceans before or since. It left us both open-mouthed with astonishment, and with aching arms from holding our binos up for as long as we could. The whole parade lasted 3 hours and made us wonder whether there was any communication between the three species.
Three species of cetaceans was quite a thrill but on our next visit to the Languedoc in the south of France we were astonished to record 4 owl species in one evening from, and indeed, almost in, our cottage. The first two owls were not so difficult. For years on every visit to this cottage, on most evenings, there had been a Little Owl on a nearby roof and so it was on this evening as we sat outside on our balcony. It was amusing to see it swivel its head to watch the groups of Swifts come hurtling by uttering their excited screams. The Scops Owl was occasionally heard calling in the evening and as we watched the Little Owl we heard the Scops call 4 times. As we were watching the Little Owl to our right, we didn’t see what was approaching from our left, over the vineyard. An alarm call from some small bird made us glance round and there flying nonchalantly into the village was an Eagle Owl, being pursued by Jackdaws that now looked no bigger than Sparrows. It landed on a nearby roof but by the time I had grabbed my camera it had floated away. We sat back and excitedly discussed the evening’s owl-a-thon, and as darkness fell, we went back inside our cottage and closed the door to the balcony. But no sooner had we sat down around the huge old dining table than we heard a frantic scuffling and muffled noises from the window at the far end of our big roof-space room. We went to investigate and found a Tawny Owl jammed between the external anti-burglar bars and the glass window. It was facing into the room and was clearly alarmed by our presence. It was in a state of panic and couldn’t work out that it only needed to squeeze between the bars to make its escape. I stepped away from the window and left Troubadoris making soothing noises to it and by golly after a short while, its plumage settled down and we could see from its face that it had stopped panicking. And then, without even saying ‘hi and goodbye’ it turned, popped out between the bars and flew away into the night. Four owl species in what seemed no time at all, and running the full spectrum of drama from none at all from the Scops, via slapstick comedy from the Little, to majestic drama from the Eagle and full-scale hysteria, briefly, from the Tawny.
Because we both love dragonflies (Odonata), each time we visited the south of France we searched for Macromia splendens, a large black and yellow dragonfly with big green eyes sometimes called Splendid Cruiser. It is rare, and endangered, and the information we found to guide our searches was confusing: it likes deep cold rivers, it likes deep warm rivers, and its larvae favours shallow rivers and so on. Visits to the big rivers Aude, Hérault and Orb, yielded nothing at all, but then we visited a small, shallow water course, just about big enough to be called a river, and as I stood on the bank for the first time, a flash of yellow near the opposite bank had the HTs up to my eyes, and there it was, and my goodness it was indeed ‘Splendid’. We made our way round to the ford that allowed agricultural vehicles to cross the river and sat down on some rocks just downstream and watched as 2-3 male Macromias patrolled backwards and forwards along the bank and reversed their course just before they reached the rocks where we sat. In some ways this mirrored what happened to our searches for Bog Orchid, which we first found in the most unlikely place, once we had stopped actually searching for it. So it was with Macromia, as we had no hope or expectation of finding it at the little river. We just went there and would have been content with whatever we found, but were unexpectedly rewarded.
Almost all the Otters we have seen have had the normal brown colouration with a pale patch covering the sides of the muzzle, neck and chest, but a very few times we have seen one with fur so pale we called them ‘blond’. In each case we watched it for a good length of time so it was definitely not a case of a freak reflection of sunlight off wet pelage creating a misleading impression. The fur was not white, so neither were they albinos. We saw one on the Isle of Mull in 1998 and another on North Uist while I was carrying my HT. We had a good view of it crossing a wide bay on the west coast and then perhaps half an hour or so later it swam to meet a mother Otter and her two well grown cubs. There were many ‘yickering’ vocalisations as all 4 Otters romped around each other in the sea. It was clearly a joyful reunion so we guessed the Blondie was either a sibling of the mother or her cub from a previous year. Otters are not creatures held back by inhibitions and these continued their excited reunion for around 15 minutes before gradually breaking up and resuming their foraging. Eventually we saw the Blondie swim back across the bay, perhaps returning to its own territory, and perhaps also indicating that it made the trip across the bay deliberately to seek out the family.
Not all meetings of Otters are so joyful though, and this was demonstrated very clearly at the same site as the family meeting just described, but one year earlier. We had been sitting overlooking this site on the west coast of North Uist and had almost given up all hope of seeing any Otters when we heard a loud and hoarse ‘HUFF’, a sound which we recognised as being from a startled or alarmed Otter. Scanning the shoreline nearby and on the island just offshore we soon located the source. There was a female, recognisable by her slender face, standing on stiffened and straightened legs, facing a male, which remained about 3 metres away, its head bobbing up and down as if smelling the air. From the posture and sound, you didn’t need to be an expert to see that the female was not interested in an approach by the male, which shuffled sideways a little then sideways in the other direction, while the female maintained her stance. Presumably he was testing to find out if she was ready to mate and had found out she definitely wasn’t. Then, suddenly and without any preliminary posturing, the female turned and slipped into the sea and swam away underwater, leaving the male Otter to groom himself before slipping into the sea, in the opposite direction, and begin foraging.
It has been a pleasure looking back at these memories and perplexing deciding which to include and which to leave out in order to fit inside the character limit allowed by the website.
Lee