Words of the Wild Competition shortlist - 2024
Junior entries
Motherhood by Alexandra Yates ...................................................................................
Wild with Grief by Eileen Page .......................................................................................
Into the Wild… by Olivia Phillips .....................................................................................
Osprey by Annie Gillam
The Tender Sight by Daniel Otsapa
Natural Beauty by Arianna Ciucci
A Letter from Scotland by Clarisse Marriott .....................................................................Shortlisted
Beavers by Basty Booth ................................................................................................Shortlisted
The Moor at Dawn by Georgina Edwards .......................................................................Shortlisted
Clara and the Golden Eagle by Sarthak Vijay
A’ Choille by Mara Hughes
An Unexpected Encounter by Ophe Groves-Raines
Adult entries
In the Stillness by Hannah Murphy
A Walk in the Wild by Anne V McClure
Òran an Fhèidh by Marcas Mac an Tuairneir ....................................................................
A Chirm o’ Gowdspinks by Neil Sutcliffe ...........................................................................Shortlisted
A Slice of Light by Caroline Needham .............................................................................Shortlisted
Leveret in a Lather by Peter M McCulloch
Dìle Bhàite by Mel Reeve
Margaritifera margaritifera by Olga Dermott-Bond
The Dolphin in Skye by Julie Shackman
The Summer of the Owls by Wendy Hedgecock ...............................................................Shortlisted
Song of the Dipper by Mick Drury ...................................................................................Shortlisted
The Wren by Malcolm Ramsay .......................................................................................Shortlisted
Junior entries
Age 16
Deep inside the forest, the earliest signs of blackberries are beginning to emerge: small clusters of yellowed fruit, gradually turning pink. It will be months before they are at their fat, purplish best, and soon after that the bushes will grow heavy with flies, while lower down in the undergrowth, badgers and pine martens pluck the fruit from its brambles with daggered teeth. The village children will come here, too, clutching in their chubby fingers borrowed plastic pots and the promise to bring home enough for a crumble; their mouths and fingers will be stained crimson and their wrists will boast the thorny wrath of the bushes’ defensive pricks.
The thought of fruit has made me hungry and I pick a spot by the foot of a birch to eat my lunch; tin-foiled sandwiches and an apple. The harsh crinkle of unfolding foil is unnaturally loud and I endeavour to make little noise as I eat, hoping some of the wildlife will emerge to accompany me.
I don’t notice her straight away. It is only as I take the first bite of my apple that I spot the pair of sharp, inquisitive black eyes. She is deep in undergrowth and her body no more than a shadow; too big to be a squirrel, too small to be a deer. She hasn’t noticed me; her eyes dart from tree to tree with almost aggressive persistence, searching.
A nearby rustle scares her and she leaps forwards, somewhat inelegantly, into the sun. Sharp snout, large ears, honeyed crest; this is a pine marten, and a beautiful one at that. Without warning, she stands, front legs hanging before her. Everything from her keenly assured gaze to her mouth in a somehow constant snarl is carnivorous - I have read about her many times, her unique ability to catch squirrels, her fondness for lamb, her opportunistic resourcefulness. I have also read that she will rarely come out in daytime, and wonder if she has babies hidden nearby; yes, that’s right, she births in late spring.
She is no more than fifteen feet from me, but so concealed by dense thicket that she is still entirely unaware of my watching her. Her nose twitches, and bright eyes continue to dart. I am struck by her almost folkloric rarity, and am overcome by a strange sense of intrusion, like I am breaking some untold rule by watching her, such is her beauty. Yet there is also a familiarity in this most primitive form of motherhood; what is more natural, more common, more innocent than the desire to provide for one’s children? In her watchfulness I see my own paternal fears reflected; in her vigilance my own labour. Perhaps the only real difference between man and animal is a self-imposed one - the righteousness that forms our supposed intellectual superiority. For in the pine marten’s eyes is an awareness, a self-recognition, which I cannot match: she is acutely conscious of her role in this rugged Scottish wilderness, of her power as predator. She possesses an assurances envied by centuries of philosophers; here is an animal who knows her purpose, and how many people can say that?
Her tail now twitches, long and practically plumate, as she stands. There is something very meerkat-like about her alertness, the polarity of the serene quiet expressed by her body and the incessant motion of her gaze, simultaneously predatorial and protective.
She sees me at last; there is no pause of recognition as she instantly darts, disappearing into undergrowth as quickly as she emerged. As mother returns to her litter, I too stand, and as I walk, I hope for her sake that the blackberries are ripened early.
Age 15
There was a girl in the tree. And a man in the garden chair. They sat, in their respective perches, in a garden that looked onto the hills beyond. The garden was beautiful, though not, as some would say, “well-kept”. No, this beauty was one of untamed wilderness, overgrown and luscious. In fact, the feeble fence that separated the garden from the neighbouring woods was so covered in green vegetation that they blended together.
The girl looked around seven. Her tawny brown hair curled over her head, stopping short just below the ears, like someone had taken a pair of shears to it. Despite the length of the cropped hair, a collection of twigs and leaves of varying hues had found themselves rooted inside. This, compiled with dirt beneath her fingernails and a streak of mud across her arm, would have acted like camouflage, were it not for the bright yellow dress she donned. Somehow, perhaps it was the sizeable eyes that did it, she resembled a fawn, all dainty and fresh.
The man was older, with wrinkles and grey hair. He had the eyes of the child and though they had no other identifiable shared features, they seemed remarkably alike. He stood and called to her, his voice slow yet smooth; immediately she shimmied down the tree to his side.
Upon reaching him, she took his hand and they smiled simultaneously. They were large, genuine smiles, the kind almost extinct in the world today. He, with his other hand, pointed at the sky. To the untrained eye, this may have appeared a random action, but she understood. Together they stood, watching a golden eagle soar through the clouds, hand in hand on that warm summer’s night.
Olive Allaway had changed. This did not surprise them much. After all, people change after death.
Her face was blank and unreadable. She did not move, except to blink. Positioned on a hard, straightbacked chair, her scrubbed, unmuddied hands were folded on her lap. Her hair was as tame as it could be, considering its type, with multiple clips pinning it down. At the time most were outside, playing in the layers of snow that lay past the window.
The sound of cars, traffic and angry horns pierced the room. The sound of the city.
Her mother watched her, arms crossed. Though her brow was furrowed and a frown evident, she too was motionless. Having pleaded and whispered and shouted to no avail, she only stood there, on that winter’s morning, as her daughter sat with her back to the window.
Fallen leaves littered the floor in a fiery abundance of colour. In a pile of them, lay a girl, covered in the brittle foliage, the smell of earth filling her nose. Her eyes closed and a smile settled on her face.
The pale sun made an appearance, scattering shadow over her. The wind whistled, carrying with it the calls, “...Olive? Olive!”
Olive, hearing these cries at last, leaped up and bounded towards the approaching woman. Reaching her, she took her in a quick embrace. Although she looked at her mother with a smile, she must have seen something in that gaze as, slowly, the smile withered and died.
Her mother fixed a wobbly smile to her own face and crouched down, gripping tightly onto Olive’s hands. She knelt so her face was placed just below her daughters, although intended as a soothing action, the effect was not so. Kneeling meant something of importance, and the scanning eyes did not aid this course.
“Honey…” here her voice trailed off and she regained herself with a couple of choking coughs. “Grandpa passed away, this morning,” maybe in seeing no response, or maybe in acknowledgement to herself, she continued plainly, “Grandpa’s dead.”
Olive was frozen. She hadn’t been cold before, yet now she shivered. Her eyes wandered off into the distance, no longer was she looking at her mother. The word bounced around in her head. Dead, she thought. That can’t be right. Death didn’t happen to her, to Grandpa. What did it even mean, really? She felt as though she was hearing underwater. Only the occasional phrase infiltrated. He’d died peacefully, in his sleep. Like that mattered, she thought. Like that made any difference.
And so, a woman knelt, with a girl who had grown up in a matter of seconds, surrounded by the fallen leaves of an autumn afternoon.
The traffic gradually melded into winding highland lanes. The radio was off; only silence felt appropriate. They’d been there a while. Olive, Mum, Dad, Grandma, his friends. They all seemed happy, laughing. Olive, well, she stood at the back. Her corner, as she had come to think of it, was serving as a sanctuary of sorts, from the people, from the photo of him.
She wondered why they were all holed up in the stuffy house anyway, when he belonged outdoors. She wanted to leave. She needed to. Stumbling, Olive ran out onto the patio.
Heart thumping, she tore through the undergrowth, hardly stopping when she reached the fence. She scrambled over, drawing blood, and fell. Though her cut stung, it was nothing compared to her pricking eyes.
She left a trail of blood behind her as she hurtled onwards.
Olive wouldn’t have stopped, were it not for it, standing on a rock, staring at her.
It was bigger than she thought, up close, and beak noticeably sharp. Its eyes were the colour of amber and for a while they were all she could see. Slowly she raised her chin and it froze. Considering her, it lowered its own into what seemed like a regal bow.
She watched it take off into the sky.
A hesitant shadow of a smile graced her lips. Bit by bit it grew until it was almost indistinguishable from its predecessor. Although her face was wet and eyes still sad, she held that smile, on that spring evening, following the golden eagle through the clouds.
“Goodbye Grandpa,” she whispered.
Age 10
I opened my eyes and suddenly I could see a bright light coming from above. I was startled and shut my eyes tight. I felt dizzy like I was rolling over and over being tossed around by an endless whirlpool. I opened my eyes again and saw the same bright light I'd seen the first time. I would not close my eyes this time. I was going to see if it went away. “Is this what life is?” I thought… “I hope not!”
After a while the light started to fade away then it vanished completely. I thought “that was weird!” but I was glad it was gone. Now I could see the white walls of my tank.
I could not see very well, like all Lobsters. We use antennae to feel our way around. I could taste and smell the chemicals in the water. I could taste them because we use the little hairs on our legs to taste.
Suddenly there was this squirter thing coming towards me, it was sucking up all of the little lobsters in its path and squirting them into a jug. I was scared! I tried to swim away from it but the water kept pushing me back towards it, then it sucked me up into the tube, then it squirted me into a jug. When they had got everyone they poured us into another tank with lots of others. I had a good look around and it was the same as the other one, but there were only little lobsters.
Suddenly, I felt really hungry and as if to answer my call all these little squares of food started dropping into the tank. I smelt one right in front of me and I grabbed it and then started eating.
When I had finished and there was no more food left I closed eyes and went to sleep….
I opened my eyes and there was this bright light again, but it faded away after a few seconds. I was now in a square box only big enough to hold one whole lobster. I looked around to see if there was any food but there was not. I realised that the water was not moving like it was in the last two containers. Then all of a sudden little bits of food got squirted into my container. I was so hungry. I ate it all quickly and hoped there would be more but there was not. I looked down and I saw another lobster below me, it was in a container the same size as mine.
I was looking around to see if there was any more food when I realised that I was bigger than I was before. I was a beautiful light blue colour with bigger, stronger claws than before. I thought I must be in the middle stage of growing, because I was smaller than a fully grown lobster, but much bigger than before. I felt tired and I went to sleep…
I woke up and looked around. I was back in the bigger tank. I could feel the water pushing against me, but it could not move me around anymore. That was when I realised I was a fully grown and strong lobster. I had massive claws and they looked strong enough to break through the tank, but sadly they could not and even if they could I wouldn't be able to because there were these band things around them. I was so hungry. I thought I would look around to see if there was any food, there was not, but there were lots of other fully grown lobsters. They were all the same colour as me, a lovely dark blue colour, so dark it was almost black. I went back to my spot in the corner of the tank. Then food started dropping into the tank I ate them and went to sleep.
I woke up to see a hand reaching down towards me. It grabbed me and lifted me up out of the tank into a box with one other lobster. Then it put a blanket on top of us and I felt much calmer. After a few minutes the blanket came off again and the hand lifted me out of the box. I felt scared. I felt like this big giant was going to make me someone's dinner! The hand took out their sharp claw things and snapped at my tail. It didn’t hurt but I felt it! It made a V shape in my tail! I tried to swipe back but my claws were tied. Finally they chopped the bands off my claws. Then they took me down some steps to the sea and the next thing I knew was that I was submerged in cold water floating to the bottom of the sea and watching all of the fish
swim by. When I reached the bottom I could feel the soft sand on my feet and I could see all the beautiful seaweed with the fish swimming in and out of the rocks. I knew this was where I belonged. This is what life is I thought.
I am now a wild lobster!
Author’s note: The marine hatchery in North Berwick rears, protects and releases over 15,000 juvenile lobsters into the Scottish seas every year. This year I helped out there and released two.
by Annie Gillam
Age 11
Up, up, up on the tallest pine tree, an osprey sat in a fine fortress of tangled sticks and leaves.
Her sunflower-yellow eyes were the stars in a midnight sky, and her piercing gaze could send you into a dazed trance.
As the sun, a blazing chariot, raced across the sky, competing against the slow snail like clouds, a male osprey was visible against the horizon. He shot like a bullet high, high, high into a beautiful splash of colour that had been flicked across the sky: oranges, crimsons, lilacs and saffrons. Then. Suddenly. He was gone.
As the day slowly bled into night, the' Queen' rose; she soared up, up, up into the protection of the night sky, swirling and swooping; diving and looping.
My heart soared too; I flew with her, mapping the curves of her feathery body and gazing into those mesmerizing eyes. I could see depth and wisdom in those eyes; the mountains and the valleys, but also stormy seas; days of loneliness and sadness. As I came slowly back to earth, the girl whispered something in my ear; I didn't hear her because I was gliding gently across the dry, baked sands of Africa; on my way to my new home...
Osprey
The Tender Sight by Daniel Otsapa
Age 13
Into the cave, where shadows dwell, I wander forth, a curious spell. The air is cool, a breath of night, Soft whispers echo, out of sight.
My steps resound on stone so cold, A rhythmic beat, both young and old. The scent of earth, rich and deep, Fills my lungs, a secret to keep.
The faint drip-drop of water's grace, A crystal tear in this darkened space. It splashes lightly, a tender kiss, On stalagmites, a timeless bliss.
My fingers trace the rugged walls, Their textures rough, where silence calls. Each crevice tells a tale of yore, Of ancient seas, of molten core.
A gleam ahead, a secret light, Glows softly in the velvet night.
I reach the chamber, vast and grand, A hidden world, untouched by hand.
The ceiling, painted with gems aglow, A starlit sky in caves below. Their colours dance, a silent song, In hues that to the dark belong.
A gentle wind, a subtle brush, Caresses skin in quiet hush. It whispers tales of time and space,
Of journeys past, of nature's grace.
In this silent sanctuary, I find, A peace that settles in my mind.
The cave, a womb, a place to be, Embraces all, sets spirits free.
Emotion swells, a tidal wave, Of awe, of calm, within this cave. A world within, so vast, so close, A secret kept, a quiet boast.
The taste of damp, of mineral kiss, Clings to the air, a ghostly mist, On lips it lingers, cool abyss, A whisper of the deep abyss.
Fingertips brush the rugged wall, Rough with stories, ancient call, A touch that feels both grand and small, As if the stone remembers all.
The sound of drips, a solemn choir, Notes like pearls from some unseen lyre, Each drop a spark, a fleeting fire, That sings of time's unyielding spire.
A gleam of light, a subtle hue, Reveals the cave's surreal view, Stalactites hang, like tears of blue, Reflecting prisms, glistening dew.
In a corner's quiet, tucked away, Fragments of the past hold sway, A shard of pottery, cold and Gray,
Whispers of lives, an ancient day.
Emotion stirs, a wistful thread, A yearning for the tales unsaid, To touch the hands that once had led, These relics to their stony bed.
The cave, a cradle of lost lore, Holds wonders in its silent core, A bridge to those who came before, Their echoes linger, evermore.
Natural
Age 10
Beauty by Arianna Ciucci
The natural beauty made me sit in awe
Red squirrels foraging throughout the place
Ospreys flying with such grace
I was happy to be in this peaceful space.
But all of sudden animals disappeared without a trace
Turned out it was the human race
Monsters I saw in a wrecking craze
Ugliness I now saw
What have we done to it all
We made everything fall.
Not so far away
People helped to create a new way
We pray for a new day
Where animals are free to play
And grass grows high
Where the birds fly
In a world where humans try
Where animals thrive.
Age 16
Dear father,
The ocean is even better than you said, none of your words could describe how utterly breathtaking it is in person and I doubt mine will ethier. We are right by the sea; it's a whole new gigantic world. On the train long before I could see the water I heard the melody of the waves gently caressing the shore. I could even smell it, never did I think the ocean would have its own special scent. I suppose I will miss the city, miss the sensations of home but not for a while here is far too magical for that. I do miss you of course, my aunt and uncle are lovely and all but they’re not you. Here I feel safe there’s no sounds of bombs or guns, just the gentle melody of the ocean and the chorus of birds.
On my first day here auntie took me down to the beach and I saw the most amazing creature. I saw a seal! People make up stories of mermaids but that seems silly really because seals are far more magical. They have almost the faces of a dog but the body of a fish they’re grey mostly with unique markings. I tried to name some of them but there’s too many of them to keep track of. When they are on land they waddle and flop about in the most peculiar way but when they swim all you can see is a face popping out the waves even now and again, although I’m sure they are graceful once they are under the water I can’t be sure, despite the clear water they still only appear as a blob from above. There were even some pups, they were even cuter, small,white and fluffy things. They can’t swim yet, my aunt says it will be at least another couple of weeks before they can go out with the others, so for now I will make the most of being able to watch them all day.
Oh and there’s dolphins I think they must be favourite. They are like the gymnasts of the sea. They are so playful. We went out on the little row boat for my 8th birthday and the whole pod came to see us. They jumped up out of the water and nudged the boat. They came so close I could have touched them but I don’t know if they would have liked that so I slightly reluctantly kept my hands inside the boat. At first I was scared they would hurt us or tip our little wooden boat over but they were only curious and we made it back unscathed. I wonder what they thought of us floating there above their home. I’m not entirely sure whether I like the boat yet, I suppose I must get used to it if I want to go back out to the dolphins but it’s sickening the way it moves and rocks. It’s a weird sensation being completely surrounded by water but still being dry. My uncle says he will have to teach me to swim properly so I can stay safe when we go out on his boat again.
Many of the creatures scared me at first but not anymore, not even the crabs scare me. I still don’t like them. They have far too many legs and these big claws like some scuttling alien creature. They won’t hurt me but that doesn’t mean I have to like them. My uncle laughs at me for being afraid of them but he’s not the one that’s had to run away to this strange new world. When I go down to the beach you can see their empty shells which is very cool. I rather enjoy collecting shells, not necessarily the crab shells but the smaller ones. Perhaps I could send you some. I wonder if they would still smell like the sea by the time you got them. They come in such a vast array of shapes and colours and they are all so different. I wish you could be here to see.
Even at night the sky’s alive. We lie out on the grass looking at the stars and there’s bats. I never thought of them as a real species. If I'm honest they were just a Halloween thing but here every night they take over the sky they only appear as a black shadow darting across the sky. It gets completely pitch black here at night without the city's lights and fires. Each night I go out to watch the show, we are allowed out at night, don't worry you can even forget the war is on sometimes.
I’ve been so busy this is the first time I’ve had a chance to write. There’s a storm at the moment so we are all cooped up inside. I miss the beach already, I was just getting used to it and now I’m trapped inside. The
waves are angry, they crash against the cliffs and beach creating huge waves. It's spectacular from a distance at least. I would not want to be close to them at the moment. All the animals seem to agree, rabbits, squirrels and all the rest seem to have moved up from the water edge. I suppose they can’t swim and even if they could it’s not a good time to try. I do like to watch them from the windows instead of going down to the beach to watch the seals and birds. I wonder what the seals and dolphins think of the storm they will be stuck in the raging waters but I imagine it would be fun for them, however I feel bad for the seal pups who were only learning how to swim and now they have no choice but the ocean.
As much as I love this place. I do wish the fighting was over so I could come home to you dad,
Lots of love, Rita
Age 9
Beavers
Beautiful is it not as the beaver swims by?
Easily cutting through the glittering surface of the river towards the bank.
At last it reaches the shore,
Very slowly it waddles towards an overhanging tree,
Eating - no, gnawing! Then crash! The tree topples into the water
Ripping through the surface - and yet this is not destruction but construction.
Soon new plants will grow and new habitats will form.
The Moor at Dawn by Georgina Edwards
Age 16
Over the moor as the vernal mist from the dawn turns to mizzle, the mountain hares bound and fleet. Disturbed from their grazing on heather and sedges, they zig-zag through the moor to the heath towards their serene shelters in the shallow forms. A mother and father lead their leverets to shelter, ushering them into the forms as the early bucolic sun kisses the moorland.
A shepherd emerges over a hill, herding his sheep onto the verdant moor. The docile lambs are led to patches of lush vegetation by the ewes. As the flock ruminates, the shepherd observantly monitors them. He sets himself down on a stump, taking a moment to rest and to eat. The grouses whirr and whistle, crossbills chirp and sing out into the placid stretch of the moor.
In the loch, a romp of otters slide down the river banks and feed on the perch and pikes. Herons wade through the diaphanous water, hunting for fish and squawking. A symphony of nature's instruments bridge together like the verses of a song, creating a healing balm. The screams of the sliding otters creates a cacophony of noise, but it is soon drowned out by the dancing of the wind in the willow trees and the swishing of its branches. The dendrites of the willow reach over the loch's water like a viridescent blanket.
As the shepherd leaves the moor and the sheep baa and bleat, the mizzle dies down and the mist returns to envelope the expanse of the moor. Once the disturbance of noise fades and the light shower vanishes, the hares return to the heath to graze on the heather, the delicate and dense flowers sway gently in the soothing spring breeze. The leverets squeak and bound as they nibble on the grass.
The matutinal sun ascends in the sky, bathing the moor in a tepid and tender glow and the creatures begin to amble along the moor.
Clara and the Golden Eagle by
Sarthak Vijay
Age 13
Thousands of trees were visible below, a kaleidoscope of sage, olive, and emerald greens. A peaceful paradise. Flocks of blackbirds contrasted with the deep blue sky, spreading their wings far as they sailed through the air without a care about school, jobs, or any type of stress. Just pure freedom and happiness with the sun’s warm embrace.
A golden eagle soared into the heavens, her shimmering yellow eyes scanning the mountainous terrain, eagerly looking for her next target, and before long, she spotted a small hare lurking in the grass. Dive bombing towards the ground for a chance to get an extra meal, she plunged through the canopy, not seeing a fatal flaw in her plans - her timing was wrong. She tried to correct her mistake, but it was too late.
Many hours passed before her beak was pulled out of the ground. The eagle turned to look for yet another poacher trying to kill her for a trophy. Surprisingly though, her saviour turned out to be a girl around the age of 10 or 11, with curly brown hair that reached her shoulders. The girl had caramel coloured skin with a curious smile that beamed across her face like a rainbow.
“My name is Clara,” the girl started. Immediately defensive, the eagle tried to lift off from the ground; however, her body refused to push as a result of many hours without food and water. Clara’s face filled with worry as she picked the injured bird off of the ground and into her arms. “Are you okay?” The eagle’s vision dimmed before giving out entirely.
Regaining consciousness, the eagle saw a plate of food before her. Doubts struck her mind about the safety of eating food that might be poisoned, but she was too hungry to let these thoughts stop her from satisfying her famine. The moon came out, and the eagle rested.
As the sun arose, she could hear the cries of birds and the rustling of leaves as the wilderness woke up around her. Suddenly she heard a voice: “I’m back!”
Clara ran through the bushes in a red jacket and jeans, with a box in her hands. She unpacked the box when she reached the eagle, revealing more food and also a first aid kit to tend to the eagle's injuries. Clara tried to get close to the eagle, but she was still hostile towards the girl, and she snapped her beak to warn Clara to not get any closer. But Clara was determined. She gently approached the eagle with a strip of meat she had taken from her kitchen in hopes of feeding her. But suddenly, the eagle scratched her with her talons. Clara clenched her jaw. But even though it hurt, she couldn’t just leave this eagle to die. Slowly, she approached the eagle again, this time speaking softly to her, like a mother to a newborn, hoping the eagle understood in some way. The eagle gradually relaxed, allowing Clara to feed it the strip of raw fish and later allowing her to nurse her wounds with the medical supplies. Clara began telling the eagle some stories while the eagle eagerly listened, but before long she had to go; she had dinner.
And thus began a routine: Clara would come in the morning with food, water, and fresh bandages, telling the eagle countless stories about her childhood and her friends and family. Afterwards, she would go and come back every couple of hours to check on the eagle. At this point, Clara had decided to name the eagle. After going back and forth with names for what seemed like years, they eventually settled on ‘Ember’ with a head nod from the eagle as a sign of approval.
Over time, of course, Ember’s wounds healed, and she was happy about staying with Clara for the time being, as long as she was fed each day and they would spend hours together, Clara teaching tricks that Ember graciously performed, dancing effortlessly in the sky. The sky shone a brilliant blue, with Ember weaving in and out through imaginary obstacles.
One day, however, they were not as alone as they once thought. Another swift bird dashed across the sky in a blur, its golden feathers gleaming. Ember rose to the sky with a cry of joy, with the male eagle dropping a stone from its talons before nose-diving to catch it in midair. Clara was awestruck. The male eagle repeated this action several times before Ember responded by copying his movements. The male eagle then stopped mid-dive, instead swooping towards Ember, who replied by giving another mock-attack
It seemed like hours before they finally stopped, and Clara was mesmerised. The time had come for them to part, and the sun was setting as Ember was giving calls to Clara, as if to thank her for all the hospitality she had shown towards her and to tell her that she would now be starting a new life with her mate. They flew into the Scottish sunset together, dancing and chasing and preparing for their nest. Clara was proud of how she had saved Ember, but also a little sad that she had left. Clara looked around at the wilderness. Clara caught sight of a plastic bag that was blocking some fish in a stream near her feet. She untangled the plastic, letting the fish swim free. She had protected Ember, but who knows how many other helpless, injured, animals were out there - endangered or even at risk of being extinct? She knew she couldn’t just leave them to starve or get hurt by humans; she had to help them, just as she had helped Ember. A breeze passed. Clara could feel everything around her - the trees, the sky, the water - it was all alive. Clara felt a pull from nature to protect the wildlife, and she knew what she had to do.
Age 9
A bheil thu a’ cluinntinn am bualadh mo chridhe?
Fhad ‘s a tha mi coiseachd sìos an t-slìghe.
A’ coiseachd sìos an rathad, a’ coiseachd tron a’ choille, Tha na duilleagan a’ tuiteam, tha a’ghrian cho soilleir.
Tha na fèidh a’ruith, tha na h’èoin a’ sgèith,
Tha an gràineag fhathast a’ cadal mar a bha e an-dè.
Tha flùraichean purpaidh a’ fàs bhon làr, Is tha dealan-dè a’ dannsa san adhar.
Chunnaic mi rabaid, is stad mi ri-taobh
An fheòrag bheag, ruadh a tha a’sreap suas craobh.
Anns a’chraobh, tha mi a’ faicinn ialtag,
Chunnaic e boiteag, is chuir e na bheul e.
Aig an lòn sàmhach, tha iasg a’ snàmh,
Tha sionnach beag bideach a’cagnadh air cnàimh.
Tha gàire mhòr air m’aodann,
A’ coiseachd tron a’ choille is a’ faicinn tòrr rudan.
The
forest
Can you hear the pounding of my heart
As I walk down the path?
Walking down the road, walking through the forest
The leaves falling, the sun so bright
The deer running, the birds in flight
The hedgehog still sleeping as he was yesterday
Purple flowers growing in the ground
And a butterfly fluttering in the air
I saw a rabbit, and I stopped by the side
The little red squirrel climbing a tree
In the tree, I see a bat
It saw a worm and popped it in its mouth
In the quiet pool, a fish swims
A tiny wee fox is gnawing on a bone
And I have a big smile on my face
Walking through the forest and seeing all things
An Unexpected Encounter by Ophe Groves-Raines
Age 13
As the night turned dark, the trees rustled either side of the road. We drove, as owls and other hunting birds soared overhead. The mountains loomed above, the loch an ominous dark blue below. The long grasses swayed in the night, the stars and the unnatural headlights of our car the only thing lighting the dusk. Then we saw them. About five of them, swimming, only their antlers above the water. We came to a stop, as they began to emerge, their wet fur dripping as they moved slowly out of the loch. Only their feet now in the water, as they paused to look at us, pulled over on the verge. They moved on, slowly at first and then faster and faster, until they entered the woods, bleeding into the dark of the forest, branches twisting in the breeze. We sat, shocked at what we had just seen. A magpie's harsh rattling call echoed in the night. We pulled out into the road, our lights once again lighting up the dark asphalt, as we continued our journey north.
Adult entries
Hannah Murphy Winner
My wife and I often joke that she’d trade her ring to meet George Clooney, her silver fox, while I’d trade mine to photograph a kingfisher. Now that I am retired and she has five years to go, I spend my mornings by the river, waiting for my elusive bird while she is at work, dreaming of George Clooney. I hope she never retires, lest she go searching for the silver fox. I’m afraid she’d find him and never come back.
At dawn, I kiss my wife goodbye, who's indulging in extra sleep on her day off. She’s snoring again, but every time I mention it, she’s adamant she sounds like an angel. I smirk at the strange creature and tiptoe downstairs, avoiding the creaking pressure points. I grab my green parka jacket, slip on my brown walking boots and tie my laces. I take a deep breath before slowly rising, and my knees ache. I know I’m getting slower, but that’s okay.
The dewy grass glistens in the morning sun, droplets sliding down the blades. A pleasant mist hovers over the tall grass, and the air feels crisp against my cheeks. I wish I could put the tranquillity in a bottle. I stroll along the stony path, now overrun with grass. But before I reach the white gate, a red squirrel leaps over it, and a bee follows, flying to the sweet-smelling lavender. I always tell my wife that if no bees come to our garden, there’s no point having one.
The early morning stroll to my riverside spot is quick through the forest, but I take it slow, guided by the gentle breeze. This forest has thrived as my faithful friend throughout the decades.
My boots squelch in the mud, its earthy musk awakening treasured memories of my granddaughter. She’s in her stamp every puddle phase. Hidden in the oak trees, robins serenade me. I pause and spot one on the tallest branch with a puffed-out orange chest.
The path descends to a fork, and I turn left to find my stream. Wooden steps, clothed in moss, take me down a lower path where my river is straight ahead. A shimmering mist hovers over the stream as the sun waits for it to pass the perfect front-row seat for my kingfisher.
With my eyes sharp and camera ready, I wait on a bench by the riverbank. Slowly, the mist surrenders to the sun, and rays reflect on the gentle river, waltzing peacefully. This scene is a sanctuary to me, bestowing serenity, though I have done nothing to deserve it. I inhale deeply and whistle with the breeze as I have done for countless mornings and will do for many more.
A happy family of mallard ducks meander into vision. They ‘duck’ under a giant branch suspended over the water. I press the shutter, capturing the moment for my granddaughter. She wants to be a duck when she’s older.
I lean forward and smile. I’m sure if my grey eyes could sparkle, they would. The synchrony of birdsong, swaying trees and flowing water refreshes me. And any minute now, my beauty shall arrive.
Hours pass no kingfisher. But I remain hopeful and have my cameras ready. I’m on the edge of my bench, my eyes wide in awe, and my cheeks ache from smiling. My heart is free to dance by the river, though I am still, and my stomach flutters with every bird I see.
Two hours later, I hear children behind me walking home from school. I rest my chin on my hand and yawn. The trees droop their branches in solidarity, hoping for a sighting, but they can only house the birds, not call them. Yet, the river perseveres, gifting clear water to the sea, so I refuse to give up, too.
Dinner is soon, and I appreciate the time I spent here, knowing he will arrive one day. Just as I rise, my heart leaps there he is, a streak of blue! My kingfisher shoots across the river. My heart pounds, the camera clicks, and I hold my breath. He lands on the suspended branch, his cobalt blue dots shimmering like fish scales. He dives, rises with a minnow in his beak, and hits it against the branch before eating. My eyes don’t blink as my camera clicks in a frenzy.
Time feels still as I stand frozen. What a crown jewel he is, and he is so close to me. His body is a jubilee of turquoise blue feathers, mistletoe green edges, and an autumnal orange belly. He is radiant, even when diving for seconds. My dad always said the kingfisher's beauty blooms without the need for spring, is stunning in summer’s glow, enchanting in autumn's fire, and peaceful on a snowy winter's day.
Then, he flies away and out of sight. Off again on another adventure beyond the river. I place my camera to the side and laugh. It is truly spectacular, and I wonder if he’ll be back tomorrow.
My camera's memory is full as I dash home to my wife. My hands tremble as I anxiously turn the key in the door. Stiff fingers fight for patience, but my racing heart says no, my granddaughter's favourite word. I fling the front door, throw off my boots, and shout, “Darling, come quick. I saw one.”
“I’m in here,” she calls from the dining room.
The rich aroma of gravy, rosemary, caramelised potatoes, and steaming broccoli greets me as I enter. “What's the occasion? It’s not Sunday.”
“I thought a roast would cheer you up if you didn’t find your bird. You’ve been looking for weeks.”
“And it was worth it.”
A Walk in the Wild by Anne V McClure
‘Cumbernauld is wild,’ I say. ‘Aye,’ folk reply, ‘I’ve heard it’s pretty rough outside the Spur pub at kicking out time.’
Join me for a walk; away from the brutalist 1950s Town Centre, now leaky as a sieve; away from the graffitied underpasses and the endless roundabouts. Come and see that you can get as lost in green spaces as among the house numbers.
First, let’s saunter down Luggiebank. A few years ago you’d have found a tangle of dogwood choking birch and hawthorn, refusing to let light penetrate the understory, allowing nothing to grow on the forest floor. Now shrubs and trees unkink their stymied limbs and stretch towards the light. Bluebells, dormant for years, are spreading out in glimmering rivers. The dreaded dogwood, dismembered, has its uses. Woven into dead hedges, standing in serried ranks, it becomes home to insects that birds feast on, and shelters mammals like hedgehogs and voles. Some hedges are higgledy-piggledy, made by folk keen to attack the next dogwood. Others are engineered to perfection by someone with patience. See that path, smoothed by decades of padding feet? That’s a badger clan’s route; don’t put anything in its way.
At St Maurice’s Pond let’s see if the grey heron is at his usual spot, standing motionless like a Grenadier guard in his greatcoat. Above the boardwalk, damsel and dragonflies flit on glistening blue and silver wings. There’s the gorse whose flowers prove that on the sunny side they taste of coconut and on the shady side of peas. Between the pond and carpark, firework colours of orchids and knapweed, ox-eye daisy and meadow vetchling explode from the meadows. Frogs shelter in the shade of those plants and grasshoppers hum. We scythed those meadows on hot August days as if in a local version of Poldark. Except we kept our shirts on. It is Cumbernauld, not Cornwall, after all. Hear the mew of a buzzard and look up to see an adult catch a thermal, watched by a juvenile learning how to use this aerial elevator.
The Community Park is Cumbernauld’s best food take-away. You’ll find hazelnuts to ripen at home, sloes for gin and brambles for jam, rosebay willowherb to make black tea, hawthorns for ketchup and cleavers to give a crisp, cucumber taste to water. If you feel you’re being watched, you probably are, as deer are plentiful. Hear the satisfying crunch as volunteers snap Himalayan Balsam they’ve uprooted, clearing waterways of a plant that doesn’t belong and would take over. Come back at dusk, stand on the path between the hedgerows, and have your hair parted by soprano pipistrelle bats chasing insects in a Top Gun precision fly past.
Another day we can visit Broadwood Loch, Abronhill peat bog, Seafar Woods and all the other places. Meantime, as you walk from your house to the shops, enjoy the wildflowers planted in Carbrain Gully. If you’re in the Village, visit the Middle Age Langriggs, one of the last remaining in Scotland, now restored to a place where local folk grow food and wildlife is abundant.
But we do have time to visit the Glen, and I’ve saved the best till now. When the earth last warmed, some 15,000 years ago, the ice that covered Scotland a kilometre deep retreated north, leaving a great lake of meltwater just outside Cumbernauld. Finally the force of the water broke through, gouging great channels through the rocks, carving the Vault Glen. Over time the Glen and its slopes were covered by generations of trees and plants that grew then fell, decayed and created the soil for a myriad of insects, birds and animals to live in and on. It’s said, the meeting of two streams here, the Red Burn and the Bog Stank, gave Cumar nan Allt its name.
No one knows the age of the yew trees in the Glen. Unlikely, but perhaps they date to when Romans built the Antonine Wall a few miles away. Maybe a Syrian archer, on his way to a frozen north and an unknown future, marching through England, saw a twisted old yew that reminded him of the olive trees in his native land, took a cutting and brought it here.
Then this yew watched the Romans retreat, the medieval building of the Village church and the raising of the Comyn’s motte and bailey castle. Perhaps John ‘Red’ Comyn leaned against it as he debated whether to accept Robert the Bruce’s invitation to meet in Dumfries. A decision to go which cost Comyn his life, gave Bruce the kingship of Scotland and changed our history forever. Those days pine marten, red squirrel and wolves shared the woods with humans. I’ve heard rumours that pine martens have been seen here again.
That tree knows if hooded Druidic figures really do cavort around the Dovecot at night. It’s withstood the building of the railway and even the filming of Gregory’s Girl.
Now, in daytime, the Glen echoes to the sound of children laughing and dogs barking. To the clatter of crews filming Outlander. To the people of Cumbernauld who discovered a sanctuary here during lockdown and who love the place. Some who come out at 5am to listen to the bird chorus, spotting tree creepers and nuthatches and thrilling to the joyful blue flash of a jay. Folk who widen paths and hold each other up when they’re sad, who mend fences and tell ridiculous jokes. In the hush of a snowy, winter night a fox crosses the stream by a fallen log bridge, leaving unexpected footprints for us to find four feet off the ground. Hoar frost crackles out of decaying wood creating fantastical shapes. Our walk is done.
The Tax Office is gone. The Town Centre will come down. Few buildings last. The rocks and the trees and the land endure, although changed and always changing.
All within 3 miles of your door.
Is Cumbernauld wild? Yes, yes, yes.
Is mi an lainnir leth-fhaicte sa choille, fo sgàil nan duilleagan is glas ùr-fhàis, mo bhian cho ruadh ris gach leathad
’s cuirt’ san Fhoghar gach laoim gu bàs.
Bi air d’ fhaiceall mas tu a theannadh rium dlùth, oir, leis an dìobardan, bheir mi às, measg gach geug is blàth nan craobhan ’s e tha dhomh tèarmann, is tha fasgadh do gach dathas ann.
Chorus:
Leig leam ruith, thar nan stùc-bheann b’ aithne dhomh is mi nam laogh.
Na tig nam char, ged a ghabhadh tu fod sheilbh gach gleann is bràigh.
Leig leam beò,
na mo thìr is mi ag òl o allt nach traogh.
Na tig fam chobhair
oir ’s tu a thionndadh m’ fhonn gu càrnan m’ uaigh’.
’S ann annam tha èirigh ’s gealladh grèine, fo chasan-searraich, dannsam seo mo dheann, nach fhàg thu mi ciùin is aon-fhillte ged ’s tu a bheireadh mo linn gu ceann.
Biodh ort nàire mas tu thruailleadh mo shaoghal, b’ ann leis gach beathach seo a bha an gleann ’s sinn co-shìnt’ ri cearcall beatha ’s biodh sin na thèarmann –’s sin oighreachd do gach luran ann.
Chorus
Is mi a thigeadh gu ìre air an raon, fàgte saor air lèanagan far am bòrc feur,
le bàine gid a bha cho brèagha air mo cheann, ’s sin a thilg bhuam mi, le làn aois, a-nis ’s mi a chì gach rud a chuireadh tu air ais, bha e ann mu thràth, na tig nam char, eagal ’s gum mair gach clach is coinnleag mar a bha.
Chorus
Deersong
I am the flicker, half-seen in the forest, under the leaves’ shade and green regrowth, my pelt as russet as the hillside, when the autumn brings the undergrowth to its close.
Be careful if you would approach me, as, with the haze of summer, I will vanish, amongst each branch and treebloom this is my sanctuary, and a shelter for young.
Chorus:
Let me run, across the mountain peaks I knew as a fawn. Don’t come close, if you’d own every glen and brae. Let me live, within my land, drinking the stream that does not dry. Don’t approach, to do so turns my home into my gravestone.
In me, the ascent and promise of the sun, under sunshafts, let me dance here my dash, could you not leave me quiet and uncomplicated, even if you’d bring forth my end of days.
Shame on you if you’d pollute my world, for to every beat belonged the glen, and we, lain in parallel with the cycle of life, let this be our sanctuary –it is the birthright of each one here born.
Chorus
If I could come to age upon the uplands, left free where green shoots erupt, with a flash of white, so beautiful on my head, this I would cast from me, in the fullness of age, and now I’d see that all you’d put back, has already been, don’t approach me, lest every stone and bud remain, as it was.
Chorus
A Chirm o’ Gowdspinks by Neil Sutcliffe
Shortlisted (song)
Oh, the gowdspink's a bonnie wee bird - gowdspink – goldfinch it flits frae tree tae tree. Its peerie heid is bleezin' wi a cramasay patch. peerie (Shetland) - small And it's oh, gin I could flee on its back, cramasay - crimson and soar intae the lift, lift - sky it wid tak awa' the dule o livin. dule - sorrow/pain
Refrain:
And it's no that ilka day i' ma life ilka - each has been waefu' an weary, waefu' - woeful/sad But gowdspink, gowdspink, tak me wi' ye.
Noo there's mony a thing that's wrang wi the world, or so it seems tae me, and a' oor waes are rooted back in days lang syne. days lang syne - days long ago Aye the mill-wheel keeps on birlin' roon birlin' - spinning frae morn intae the nicht, grindin oot the daily dule o livin.
Refrain
I hae loved and tint that love o mine tint - lost then learnt tae love againaye waiting on the person wha wid tak ma haund and gae through this life thegither wi me, if only for a while, wha wid thole wi me the dule o livin. thole - bear/endure
Refrain
Oh, the gowdspink's a bonnie wee birdit's never by its lane. its lane - its own
A chirm'll flauchter by whaur-e're ye choose tae wait, chirm – charm (collective noun)
Frae ilk ane hings a siller threid, tae heize yer hairt up high abüne the Yird, heize - lift Far frae the dule o livin. Yird - Earth
Refrain
Scots glossary:
gowdspink - goldfinch peerie (Shetland) - small cramasay - crimson lift - sky dule - sorrow/pain ilka - each waefu' - woeful/sad days lang syne - days long ago birlin' - spinning tint - lost thole - bear/endure its lane - its own chirm – charm (collective noun for a flock of goldfinches) heize - lift Yird - Earth
A Slice of Light by Caroline Needham
A slice of light
Pierces the dreich
Spilling quicksilver
Over still lochan
And tiny islet
She-otter wakes
And sniffs the air
Whiskers quivering
A long slow ripple
Traces her swim
Cub close behind Feartie
They play
Tip-tails scrieving
In joyful circlet
Their bubble-trail
Shimmers
Effervescent
A sudden sound
And they are gone
Gliding through pipes
’Twixt loch and burn
Where folk wi’ long lenses
Cannae spy
Abreast of the current
Shortlisted
They weave and dive
Through drifts of crowfoot
Scuffing jaggy stones
And caddis-fly husks
Wi’ outstretched claws
Upstream
At Duddingston
A slice of light
Pierces the dreich
Safe and sound
Beneath the bank
Beside the shore
The otters sleep
Ye huddle thee mid turf an’ stane, stane - stone
Is fear amid thine reason?
I hae nae mind tae wirry thee,
Ma hairt thee cause sicht pleasin’. hairt - heart sicht - sight
Wid it be yon muckle, greedy gull? muckle – mighty/huge
Or yon weasel seeking a kill?
Or would it be yon icy wind?
That haes thee lay sae still?
Yir tiny ears clappit ower yer back, clappit - clapped
Lain oan fur o'dappled dun, dun – dull brown
Camouflaged in earth an' stane,
Merging wae the eenin sun. eenin - evening
I huckle doon admiring thy charm, huckle doon – crouch down
Gently I stroke thin tiny head, Nae a blink from staring eyes, Posing as if near tae dead.
Thine mither is nae far awa, mither - mother
Watching ower fearing yer fate, She's out there worrying her hackles, Returning, when yon hour is late.
So lay thee still in constant fear, An' pay nae heed tae me,
The evening sun is sinking fast, Then calm will come tae thee.
“Bheir am feasgar dhachaidh gach duine is ainmhìdh”
(The evening brings home each man and beast)
The rain cascades down, a sheet of water cutting across the landscape until the hills begin to disappear into a haze of grey. The loch water is pockmarked and curdled, gusts of wind sending waves skittering into the pebbled shore. We huddle closer to the huge boulder, hiding in the shallow lee of its side, giving brief respite from the sudden deluge. The dark shadow of a bird appears for a moment in the murky sky, wheeling around before diving down to settle on a tall tree. The branch bobs beneath its weight and we fumble for the damp handbook of British birds. It’s impossible to tell from this distance. Probably just another buzzard, but we saw the briefest glimpse of an eagle on the wing yesterday, and my heart thumps faster at the memory. I long to lose myself in this guessing game, to wonder at the shape of its silhouette in flight and to spy upon its journey, but we are racing against time here.
I shift my position. We need this rain to stop. Even as the thought forms in my head, the sunlight cuts through the curtaining rain, shattering it into liquid gold. From up here we can see the curve of the valley, Loch Torridon far below, and the small collection of shops and houses tucked in beside. It looks like a painting, the rain hanging in the sky for a moment before faltering and stopping. Nearby, the distinctive shivering sound of a snipe echoes across the boulder field in triumph. I picture the brisk mountain air rushing over its outstretched tail feathers, thin beak pointing down, as it dives. As the sunlight moves across the forest of ferns and coconut-smelling yellow gorse flowers, the heat of its rays finally reaches us. I close my eyes to the warmth and breathe in deeply. If only we had more time.
One hand pressed to the familiar weight of the boulder which allowed this moment of shelter, I ease myself into a standing position. The lichens beneath my palm crunch a little, and I quickly withdraw my hand, feeling guilty. You follow my lead, and together we stand overlooking the vista, like lairds or kings, in awe of all that we survey. If we are to make a move, it must be now.
Slinging your pack onto your back, you step out from the shadow of the great boulder, its many children scattered across the landscape like scree from the clenched fist of a giant. Without a backwards glance, you begin to skip and slide down towards the loch. Biting my lip, I follow. We’re moving far too fast, wet boots and slippery undergrowth beneath our feet are a recipe for disaster. You’re receding into the distance now, outlined like a wild animal in the late afternoon sun; a deer in the headlights. I try to copy the route you take, as your form becomes smaller and just part of the landscape, another tiny piece of this vast landscape, unmoved entirely by our presence. I tear my gaze away, feeling the blood rushing in my veins. My focus needs to be on where I put my feet, and how I move my body.
For a heart-stopping moment, everything slows, and I feel myself begin to tumble, the momentum pulling me down. I wonder if I’d roll all the way down to the shores of the loch, head over heels. Then, you’re there, one hand on my shoulder and I right myself again. We’re nearly at the road. Looking back, I can hardly pick out our boulder from the tumbling mass. The lone road in and out of Torridon winds temptingly in front of us, and I start to think we really might make it. A herd of deer pauses from picking at the verdant ground to witness our passing. They flick their ears as we approach, but return to their rumination as soon as we are a safe distance away.
The road beneath our wet boots feels solid and unforgiving, I’m too used to the springy gorse and sucking mud. My gait feels uneven, but we continue at an unforgiving pace. I feel the creeping tendrils of hope in my chest, the beginnings of a smile tugging at my mouth. A wood warbler with its bright green back chirps a little song before spinning off into the sky, now stretching out in perfect blue. My legs ache, and there’s a tugging pain in my wrist from catching a hold on a boulder badly, but I find it impossible to care. My lungs
have never felt so big, I feel as though I can inhale extra oxygen and store it for later, as a reminder of this impossible place.
The village is quiet. Too quiet perhaps. The hope building in me suddenly feels rash and foolish. How could we think we’d manage it? You’re striding ahead of me despite this, almost jogging now. And then I hear it. Softly at first, so quiet I could convince myself it was just my imagination. But it’s there. The door of the local shop - the only shop for miles, in fact - jingles as it opens, and here we are. We’ve made it. There should never have been enough time, we were too high up in the hills to get back before closing, but somehow we have. You step out of the shop with a triumphant grin and the bottle of whisky in your hand like a trophy.
We sip at our drinks, the stars overhead like a thousand grains of glowing sand. The salty smell of the loch makes me feel like I'm at the seaside. Everything is still, but I can picture everything that makes this place so alive, even if I can’t see it - the otters in their burrows, seals under the surface of the sea loch, and the pine martens in the trees. We’ll sleep well tonight.
Margaritifera margaritifera by
Olga Dermott-Bond
(An ode to the fresh water pearl mussel)
Her name appears twice, an incantation for each side of her shell. Old and wise,
she has grown as big as my hand, her dark craggy cloak ancient as night sky.
Dug in between the rocks on the Oykel her water-bothy seems the perfect place.
A name with grit inside in it: her body swallowed a tiny mistake, so she is destined
to spend a century trying to conceal an error with a swirling circle of accidental beauty.
Let her keep this secret: she will never tell if her grey skirts conceal a strawberry moon
that shines whole and hidden, lavish pink and luminous – other queens have diamonds,
let her keep her pearl.
Shortlisted
Author’s note: Margaritifera margaritifera is the name for fresh water pearl mussel. Scotland’s rivers have some of the finest mussel populations in the world, renowned for their beautiful pearls, which can be pink or lilac in colour. They can live for over a hundred years and one in a thousand has a pearl inside it. They are under threat because of rising river temperatures and water pollution.
The Dolphin in Skye by Julie Shackman
Slapping silver, Weaving and dancing, Under gun metal grey clouds, Twisting and rolling, Through the peaks, Of Skye's North Atlantic mirror.
Studded, Bursting clots, Of heather, Watch from the grumpy hillsides, The wide beam of The Coral Beach, The bleached, pastel shapes, Like a scattered jigsaw puzzle, Its pieces thrown in a toddler's tantrum.
And yet, she ploughs on, Her sharp, glossy dorsal, A proud sail, Propelling through the pearly water, Her bottle nose, The enigmatic smile, Carrying the islands' secrets with her.
The End
The Summer of the Owls by
Wendy Hedgecock
It was one evening last August when our momentous discovery took place. I was about to turn on the kitchen light when I caught sight of a creamy blur passing the window, quickly followed by another.
‘There are definitely two of them!’ I called out excitedly.
My husband wasted no time in joining me, grabbing the binoculars en route. We peered into the twilight. As our eyes adjusted, we both gasped. As well as two adult barn owls, one on a gatepost and one atop an old cooker awaiting recycling, there were three juveniles perched unsteadily on a fence. We froze, stayed silent, and just looked. It was completely entrancing. A whole family of such magnificent birds gathered together right in front of us!
The parents were vigilant. Whilst at least one remained near to their offspring, they repeatedly changed position from gatepost to fence; from cooker to barn door. If anything caught their attention, their heads swivelled in order to assess the risk.
At times, one of the parents flew out of sight, presumably on a hunting expedition. Every action appeared purposeful. The night was not for rest.
The young ones didn’t stay together constantly. We saw one or more seemingly seek protection by sitting close to an adult. Alternatively, they returned to the safety of the barn’s interior, before later reappearing at the broken window in the door.
We watched until the fading light allowed us to do so no longer. It felt like no time at all had elapsed, captivated as we were with this other world; their world.
Over the next couple of weeks, as the sun was setting, we took up position at the darkened kitchen window, eagerly anticipating another insight into owl family life. We weren’t disappointed.
Usually, one of the adults appeared first, watching from the glassless barn window. They would then invariably alight on one of the gateposts to our field. In addition to head swivelling, we noticed another feature of lookout behaviour was bobbing up and down. This movement of both head and body was astonishingly fluid and mesmerising to watch.
The young owls soon followed outside with the second adult. They were almost the same size as their parents, but initially lacked their grace and expertise. In our early sightings, it appeared that they were experimenting with short flights, landing somewhat clumsily in the long grass. At times they chose their perch inadvisedly, such as a flimsy shrub. This could be a group decision, with all three trying to maintain balance on insubstantial branches before settling upon a more solid object, such as the fence or garden seat.
We didn’t see the juveniles being fed, but they returned to the barn intermittently. Perhaps they were fed indoors, when the hunting adult returned. However, we noticed that the remaining parent was often in the grass with the young ones and wondered if this might be associated with learning how to hunt.
As time went on, the young owls became almost indistinguishable from their parents, both in appearance and behaviour. They began to fly further afield. Autumn arrived and our owl sightings became increasingly sporadic, eventually stopping when winter drew nearer.
We live in a rural area on the coast of the far North of Scotland. One of the abiding joys of living here is the wildlife. We deliberately keep the grass long in our field and have more or less left the outbuildings as they have been for decades, in an attempt to provide some wildlife habitat.
For several years before discovering the owl family, we had been thrilled to notice the signs of barn owl activity around us. We had seen owl pellets on outbuilding floors, spotted silhouettes against late sunsets and glimpsed shadowy shapes in flight. We had a feeling that there was more than one, but had only had single sightings. In an attempt to leave them undisturbed, we had seldom entered the barn we believed was inhabited. Earlier last summer, I’d heard rasping sounds coming from that barn during the day, but had thought little of it. We now believe it was the chicks calling for food.
As this summer approached, we dearly hoped that we would have a repeat of our experience of last year. We had again found evidence of barn owl occupancy and felt positive.
One evening in early June, there was a particularly glorious late sunset and I decided to go outside to take a photograph. I stood still for a few minutes afterwards, admiring the crimson sky, when I felt a rush of air behind me. I looked out of the corner of my eye to see a barn owl, tinged with pink in the light, on a nearby gate post. At that moment, it turned its head and we made fleeting eye contact, before it flew away. I felt exhilarated to have had that connection, but also disappointed to have intruded into the owl’s nocturnal world.
As summer progressed, we had occasional glimpses of a lone barn owl flying past the window. As always, it was an uplifting sight and we told each other that it would likely be late summer before there would be any signs of a family.
Then, in mid July, our neighbour told us the devastating news that he had seen a dead barn owl on the main road a mile away. We desperately tried to convince ourselves that this was not ‘our’ barn owl, although any such death is tragic in our opinion. Our fears were not to be assuaged.
We are bereft. We shared our outside space with barn owls for so many years, but no longer. However, our experience of last year’s family will forever be a privileged memory.
The fate of the second adult and the young owls is unknown. We try to retain a vestige of hope that somehow, somewhere, one of them is ensuring this bloodline of beautiful barn owls continues.
Song of the Dipper by
Mick Drury
A still morning, an alder leaf floats by, gets caught in an eddy, circling. There are many more to come as the autumn gathers, when a kaleidoscope of yellows, ochre and russet will fringe the pool edges and feed the river. The larvae beneath await this gift from the upper world of sunshine, food for the salmon and trout, they in turn for the goosander, the heron, and the osprey when it returns. The water whispers by, peaty, reflecting copper-bronze in the sun, lulling and calming the mind.
In mid summer at this still pool beneath the warm red cliffs, the fish jump, a flash of light and splash at the edge of my vision. Until recent times their numbers would have churned the water. The otter comes to feed here, its soft pads left in the sand. Fox too, for the remains. Perhaps the brown bear fished here, its leftovers and scat feeding the forest nearby. The local Pictish stones honour the salmon of wisdom. Was this once a sacred amphitheatre for the ancestors to gather, listening to the song of the river and the raven’s cronk echo off the cliffs, carving their petroglyphs, long since eroded; feasting on the abundance, giving thanks, celebrating, marking the seasons’ passing?
These awesome cliffs of layered sandstone rise sixty metres, compacted from Devonian times around 400 million years ago; some layers are rough aggregate, with cobbles and pebbles protruding, others are from finer sediment, smoothed and rounded, laid down in quieter waters. I wonder what each centimetre represents … a thousand years perhaps? The cliff walls are cut away in places to leave ledges, overhangs, holes and caves. One of the kestrels cries returning to its nest hole, ‘kee kee kee’, answered by the young within.
Along the bank, the ebb and flow of drought and spate leave immaculate Goldsworthy swirls in the sand, tiny leaves and twigs arranged perfectly by size and weight. Tree roots are undermined, revealed as stilted bones. Sabre trees stretch above the river, growing out then upwards, searching for the light. Knapweed and wood cranesbill, hawkweed and scabious grow along the shingle beach edges. Wagtails flit about.
If some natural woodland still survives in Britain, it could be along these steep river stretches, where the softer sediments allow trees to take root but the precipitous slopes are too hazardous for human feet. There’s a rich mix of old ash, alder, birch, gean, aspen, rowan, with hazels, hollies and great bird cherries beneath. Some are collapsed yet still part rooted, growing shoots again as phoenix trees; some are multistemmed, each trunk a tree in itself; many are clothed in lianas of honeysuckle or entwined by ivy, itself with trunks as thick as thighs; skeletons of dead wood are hung up or decaying on the ground amongst the fungi. Along the lip of the cliffs are the major oaks, some hundreds of years old, almost immortal. There’s one that I can climb into, and shrink hidden into a low fork, feeling held safe, a great towering crown above, vertical drop to the river below.
Looking back over the year there are times in contrast when the river roars, energising the spirit. I need this energy too, as I move into retirement, a new era of changing identity. The spates leave behind bundles of leaves, twigs, branches lodged in forks of the overhanging trees, sometimes great logs left perched on the rocks. What do I need to leave behind, let go of?
The joys of May and June, the earth alive and singing. In the ashwood the dappled sunlight filters through the fresh leaves of varied greens, what the Japanese call hamorebi. Creamy fragrant blossoms of the bird cherry plumes. The ash with purplish flower tassels, coming late into leaf. Will they survive I wonder? An occasional elm still stands, most have fallen years ago, a tangled maze of rock-hard trunks. A few sycamores await their turn in the sun. Sometimes the bark of the roe buck is here, and one year I flushed a pair of fawns which scampered away. Moving through the lush carpet of woodrush, a myriad of tiny winged insects erupts, craneflies, micromoths and bugs. There are rich patches of dogs mercury, pignut, bugle and starry woodruff. Golden saxifrage in the wet areas.
Earlier in the spring the oystercatchers passed through. A pair heading upriver, piping their loud shrieks, flying low over the water, circling and landing assuredly on rocks in the flow. Motionless, facing into the current, one preening. At dusk the thrush calls, such joy to hear again those repeated cadences as spring breaks.
In late winter, I hear the high ‘cronk cronk cronk’ and the lower gruff call of the ravens, then see them circling, swooping, diving, wings folded, an aerobatic display. They come and go as the light fades, the half waxing moon in a clear pale sky through the oak branches. The raven … the intelligent trickster, sometimes harbinger of death. Even as I walk back, the owls starting to call, and the bats flitting around, the cronking and croaking continue but I can’t decipher their message.
The end of the year, December, the dance of the winter gnats on a mild day, up and down weaving their own ceilidh of do-si-dos. The jackdaws cackling, heading in to roost in the cliff ledges; they settle then one starts up and they all erupt again, flapping noisily around. Above the lulling bubble of the river, there’s a soft melodic warbling, echoed off the cliff face. A lone wintering blackcap I wonder? Then in the fading light I spot it, bobbing on a rock in the water, the white breast and sleeky dark brown of the dipper, and another, its mate, nearby. Singing out his expectation that spring will come again. For me too!
The seasons change, the river flows on, always the river … whispering, chattering, babbling, roaring, fuming. I give thanks for this wonderful wild place that feeds my soul.
The
Wren by Malcolm Ramsay
Head bowed, I dragged my feet along the path to see the doctor once again. The way led up through dark woods, then sparser trees, pinned stark against the light. Suddenly, loud, I heard it: the sound of furious, feisty trilling. I stopped. A wren darted from bush to branch, fence to dyke, high, low; constant in its rattle-scolding.
I slid into stillness. In this tiny, busy bird is a microchip crammed with instinct: from infancy she knows what to eat, where is safe, who may be a mate, or threat; create a nest, and sit on eggs, feed frantic fledglings, and then, teach them how to fly.
The wren skittered to and fro, all the time calling. I stood still: watching, listening, marvelling, - then bounded up that hill.
The Scottish Wildlife Trust is a Scottish registered charity (charity number SC005792). It is also a company limited by guarantee and registered in Scotland (registered number SC040247). Registered office: Harbourside House, 110 Commercial Street, Edinburgh EH6 6NF.