Tag: Nature Writing

Kayaking with Otter

The only sound are gentle drops, running off my orange paddle, hitting the salty waters of Loch Eishort—a North Atlantic bay in the Inner Hebrides. I sit motionless in my kayak watching the sea haar silently flowing over the hills, sinking into the ocean. As above so below mesmerised when the horizon disappears entirely I hang suspended, floating amongst the clouds. The stories of Avalon appearing out of the mist suddenly make sense. I think; turning around to face coral island—too small to be a mythical land, and yet …

Naddy watch! An urgent shout runs across the water in hurried strides. Two o’clock from me. There is something huge! It’s moving fast.

I suddenly feel vulnerable in my small kayak suspended between the vastness of water and sky. And then I see them—large disturbances in the water. Distances are difficult to judge, I will look it up later and estimate about one mile and a half East of us. As if a huge fish is being chased by an unknown creature, trying to escape with zig zag movements. For a fraction of a second I see something poking out of the water, too large to be a seal head, no dolphin fins, no fins at all. Whatever it is, incredible speed carries it across the bay, going inland. Something is hunting, we agree, and stay well away. Do Kelpies live in saltwater?

landscape photo of J in his kayak in the still bay the grey sky and clouds are mirrored in the water and so is coral island and the shoreline

Let’s continue across the bay and visit Allt na Peighinn waterfall, we agree. Although curiosity pulls me towards the unknown creature. Not that I could keep up that speed in my steady fat fishing kayak. Disconcerted my eyes keep tracing the inlay for whoever caused the commotion but tranquillity has returned, my nerves settle, and soon enough my attention is forced on territorial terns. Yes, we are wearing base caps, and no we are not persons of interest for the feisty flyers. They are having beef with local gulls and are cheered on by oyster catchers. I am picking up speed, lest the inhabitants of Eilean Gaineamhach Boreraig turn their attention to me.

Finally, the waterfall is moving closer. I check the time it took us to get across the bay. We pull ashore for a snack break, and decide to follow the coastline before crossing over again. J is slightly behind me scouting for fishing spots. When I notice movement ahead. Is this a seal? No too small. It’s an otter! I quietly squeal.

The creature pauses its movement and I viscerally feel attention wash over me. No way did she hear my squeal? She is still too far away to see clearly. But. I know. I just know she is coming towards me. Pause. She lifts her head out of the water, another surge of attention. And off she goes smooth movements snake towards my kayak. Pause. Again. Pop up head. Again. Attention again. And off she goes, again. Tiny bow waves purposefully wash in my direction. I can literally feel J holding his breath just as I do. I don’t dare turning around to check in with him. In mutual agreement we stopped speech, movement, even breath. The water is holding us in place. The kayaks have stopped drifting. And suddenly she is so close I can make out the powerful body slinking elegantly through the water. Pause. Head out of water, curious eyes lock with mine. She dives forward. Yet a bit closer, right in front of me, her eyes lock with mine again. I gasp. Hello, I say. Thank you for visiting with us. She nods, and looks on. Then her tiny ears fold over, and I can see her nostrils close. She dives once more and pops up again, next to me, the other side of the kayak now, eyes lock once more. I can feel hot tears running down my cheeks. An eternal moment.

“A blizzard descends upon a town”

This was our writing prompt from the first session with Cathy McSporran

He tumbles down the street, ice cold anger, burning hot rage; some of this becomes stuck in the small cobblestone alleys; where he rips off shop signs, and freezes window panes until they crack from the arctic chill. People tumble like leaves; hoods, and scarves held tightly with both hands, they fight against the rage, bend over–standing upright is impossible–yet they push forward. Shelter is so close. So close. A woman shouts above the howl; trying to tell her husband she found an open door. Yet all she sees are blurred shadows; snowflakes are slung at her face and eyes, so hard that the tears keep running. She cannot see her husband. He cannot hear her. With all her might she pulls the door open; it smashes close behind her. All of a sudden there is silence. And now her tears stream on their on volition.

Meanwhile, he keeps howling, raging, hauling microscopic ice shards at everything in his way. One goal. One goals only. That building up on the hill, the highest point, in this small town. Granit grey with coloured glass windows. He can see it; despite his rage blinding everyone who is caught up in the anger. There must be reckoning. He screams now as he heaves his full might at the building. They have angered the ancient ones.

Image of a snow covered mountain side I stood on the path while taking it so the path emerges from the foreground disappearing almost immediately behind a bend. The horizon is thick snowclouds but just above is a bit of blue sky and the winter sun has a huge halo around it. CC Nathalie Tasler

Along the Path


They stand guard, tall presence, evanescent permanence. Centuries, and decades, carried them through storms and heat, snow, and hail. A haphazardly thrown together wood pigeon nest visible now that the canape of leaves is thinning. I can feel their hum, soundtrack of a silent silver-lighted evening. Maple, birch, beech, elm, ash, rowan. Scots pine with her gnarly branches towers over hawthorns’ crooked and knotted bodies, arms reaching to shape elder futhark runes. Othala holds all. Twisted limps, adorned by thorns and blood red pearls. Unlike the elder striving up and out as straight as can be, the last of their night-sky velvet booty beckons the tentative forager. Elfen ears such bright spots of orange early in the year, are floppy dachshund shaped and coloured now—just not as fluffy.

alley of redwood trees

I breathe-in autumn and the ever present pulse, breathing out tension and arrhythmia. Step by step by step. Breath, by breath, by breath. Pause. Exhale more. And more, until the last of this breath is gone. I gulp, swallow, drink the humid terpene laden air, the smell of petrichor heavy on my tongue, my lungs expand deeper, wider. Don’t pant against the tightness, just exhale—even further—until nought is left. And then trust, trust your body as the reflex demands expansion, of lungs, chest, diaphragm. Trust the breath of life, trust the guardians—producing oxygen on exhale—trust in your feed moving forward. Step, by step, by step. Breath, by breath, by breath.

golden autumnal beech trees the light shines through the leaves and the trunks appear black. it's all rather dramatic
a misty path disappearing into the trees, a hawthorn leans into the image on the left branches knotted so the shape the elder furtak rune Ogham


*Elfen ears are mushrooms not sure what their actual name is this is the name I know them by
** There is indeed a hawthorn whose branches are shaped like the rune Othala along the path 

Maple Tree and Wren

wren sitting on a leafless twig singing loudly in front of a grey sky

He is complaining loudly–the second smallest bird with his proud straight tail feathers, pointing upward in righteous indignation. I know not what has him agitated like this. Maybe neighbour’s cat is on the prowl? The wee black one is an exceptional huntress, bringing down mice the size of her head.

The other birds were fed up with the kerfuffle and have long abandoned their favourite shelter. The starlings settled somewhere in the neighbourhood. The magpies chatter away two gardens over. Robin popped by quickly to announce he is not giving up his territory. Na-ha no way! The blue tits and goldfinches have huddled in for the night, silent sighs form breathy clouds in the cold air.

Although, they settled in the hedge, not the tree, who has given up his vibrant dress. The gold and amber cloth shed for winter’s rest. Barren branches still attract, provide shelter, food, and roost, but are not safe to harbour our winged friends during the dark November nights–when the moon and stars light areal pathways for a silent killer.

Her hoots reverberate within my body, joy rising before consciousness even processes the soundwaves. As much as she brings us joy, as much she bodes danger for our temperamental little friend, who still prattles on. Hush, hush and hurry my tiny agitator, it is time to shelter for the night.

Tide Pools

Tide pools
The receding ocean creates magical underwater worlds.
A temporary present by the grace of the moon.

Palaemon elegans: too pretentious?
Okay then: rock pool shrimp.
Erratic movement entropy as my shadow falls
The claw of crab just about visible hiding in its bed-rock.

Magic bubbles slowly fizz to the surface.
Did you know these underwater meadows and forests of kelp
Create more oxygen than the rain forest?
Don’t dump shit into our rivers.



Sleeping Dragons

Black and white striped toe-socks
Rest on the window sill
Dragons sleeping on the other side of the bay
They have been there for eons
Their rocky scales rounded by a sheet of ice
Sharp edges from erosion

Photos of black and white striped socked feet on old fashioned window sill looking across the bay

It’s time to wake sleepy heads!
I send my thoughts
Tumbling through the stormy day
Smoke rises from their nostrils
Slowly banding round and round the hills
Until it raises into low hanging clouds

You say: it’s mist
From a rainy day
I say: it’s the dragons wakening
Their eons of rest are over
Earth heating too quickly now
Making them stir

Beware dragon riders
Your time has come

low clouds rolling on mountains in the Scottish Highlands, photo taken from across the bay looking towards the mountains Watermark @storyfae

Might be Sweary

A lunch time walk

belligerent sharp edges dig into the soles of my feet
trail-runners my arse
not designed to withstand the gravel part of my lunchtime stretch
I go into a one legged fold over position my yoga teacher would be proud of
as I wrestle the annoying little bugger out of my shoe
digging with my pointer finger until I got it
snipping it away
only to be in the same situation again five minutes later
this is my favourite stretch though
gnarly ancient hawthorns line the path
distorted branches creating rune like shapes
it stinks of dog poo always at the same spot
I cuss the owner as usual and walk quicker
finally I can take a deep breath again

close up of white hawthorn blossoms surrounded by green leaves

Along the Pathway

Anis dominates my walk.
Not the actual plant, the scent.
Wild fennel galore.
Legions of hopeful seeds.
Pushing aside the gentle meadowsweet,
towering over ribwort plantain,
and even vivacious nettles don’t stand a chance.
Flowering brambles wind around fennel stems
–striving for rare Scottish sunshine
Fragile blossoms with pink hues attract furry helicopters
with heavy yellow Jodhpurs on their hind legs.

Close up of bramble blossoms