I’ve written a fair few spring-related articles over the years, each one pondering the various signs that herald the end of winter. And while I’ve always reasoned that spring is a culmination of numerous natural cues across a period of weeks, if I was forced to single-out one thing that represents spring more than any other, then it would be the return of the curlew. Appearance wise, the curlew is surely a contender for our most recognisable bird silhouette. Large, with long legs and a long neck, a small head, and a long and thin beak that curves downwards. That…

There’s not much life up high this time of year. Or at least, that’s the impression you get as you push through shifting sprindrift and up wind-scoured ridges. You can easily buy into the notion that there’s only you up there. As far as you’re concerned, you’re the only creature mad enough to try. But it’s often at times like those, when the wind is raging and you feel the need to keep moving to stay warm, that a small, plump white bird crosses your path. It’s never the case that I catch advance sight of its silhouette on a…

Usually, when I have a week’s autumn holiday on the west coast, I expect rain at some point. Or wind. Probably both. If I get two usable dryish days, then I consider myself lucky. And so, on the first day of November, with high pressure already established over the UK, I was delighted to see a dry forecast for the following week, as we were off to Argyll. The only snag was the forecast did look rather grey, with few sunny breaks. And true enough, on that first day it was gloomy. Dry, yes. But very gloomy. I told my…

On 1st September, little is more likely to cause a social media pile-on than excitedly proclaiming ‘Yay! It’s the first day of autumn! Goodbye summer!!’ Cue legions of annoyed folk ranting and arguing about equinox, equilux, harvest moons and goodness knows what else. Weather bods like to compartmentalise the seasons into three-month batches. Meteorological autumn is therefore September, October and November, and 1st September is its first day. It’s nice and orderly, happens the same time every year, and given that the meteorological autumn offers me the earliest opportunity to put summer to bed and confidently embrace the prospect of…

If you’re fortunate to share your daily life with swallows, as many of us are, you mightn’t necessarily realise just now reassuring a presence they are. They bring constant movement to the air, constant twittering to the sky. They’re a familiar but subtle backdrop to the summer months. And then, just like that, they’re gone. And everything just feels a bit….empty. We’re not quite at that point yet, but with day length shortening, it’s not far off. Swallows and martins Just so we’re clear which bird we’re talking about here, swallows are the lightning-fast ones whizzing about the place with…

After a winter of relative dormancy while much of the natural world slumbers, our senses kick into high gear as the warmer months progress. The explosion of life and activity means there are many amazing sights, sounds and smells for us to take in. But while most species grab our attention via one or perhaps two of those senses, the scots pine manages to tantalise all three. The sight We all know what a splendid sight old scots pines are, with their scaly red bark and sprawling asymmetrical crowns, and we love them for it. Their gnarly, deep green beauty…

There’s a big, dome-shaped mound on my regular walk through the local pine forest. Light brown, it’s seemingly made of soil but, on closer inspection, it’s covered in a thatch of heather, pine needles, moss and dirt. Although its summit stands higher than my waist, it makes for a surprisingly inconspicuous feature because, even a few metres away, it’s well hidden behind the heather that flanks it. You could therefore be forgiven for not really noticing mounds like this, huge as they are. For the past five months, the mound has been still and lifeless. But today is that rarest…

Winter nights are rather quiet affairs, but I’d forgotten just how quiet they were until a familiar sound pierced one of them last week while I was out for a torchlit stroll. Huuuuu……..Huh….Huhuhuhuuuuuu. It sailed through the chill night air, clear and sharp, from somewhere within the dark recesses of a granny pine. I stopped in my tracks and waited for a repeat, which duly came after 10 seconds or so. Huuuuu….. I waited, listening for the familiar response. A short moment later a fainter, more distant sound, high pitched and squawky, called out. Kewick!…….Kewick! Tawny owls. The walls of…