Nethy Bridge

This post is for Lindy who is my eighth reader, I hope she enjoys it. We met John and Lindy, a really nice couple, at the Mountview Hotel in Nethy Bridge. An excellent birding organisation with some great guides is based here and in the evenings the drawing room is populated with some serious avian observers. Probably the last thing a mini bus full of birders needs is a photographer saying "hang on I haven't got a shot yet" as they are keen to get the next species in the scope. So Liz and I took advantage of the self-catering bungalow situated at the rear of the hotel, this allowed us to do as we pleased at a fairly leisurely pace.

There are walks above and below the village bridge that track the river as far down as Broomhill Bridge. That there are Dippers here is well known and as my readers know it is a bit of a bogey bird for me - one I can never get close to. So we set off one morning to see what we could find, sure enough Dippers were present and as usual scarpered as soon as I showed my lens to them. Though I did manage to capture a record of some sort through the trees, we sat and waited in cover but of course they failed to return. We were delighted to discover a family of Grey Wagtails further downstream, again the light under the trees was abysmal so we drew stumps and decided to return at a later date.

Sure enough on our return, two days later- no Dippers and even worse the Grey Wagtails had moved. Then a pair of Common Sandpipers arrived on the scene and started what I thought was display prior to mating - how wrong can you be. We were enthralled by the wing flapping and loud calling, then from out of the rocky depths of the river bank a juvenile emerged. Doh! - all this cacophony was designed to warn us off, so we hastily withdrew - no Grey Wagtail shots then.

 

The walk above the bridge was more rewarding, a Grey Wagtail posed perfectly for me, just right to be on a stone in the middle of the river, I'm not really sure about the one on the branch. Chatting to a local resulted in advice to venture much further upstream where "Dippers abound". So it was camera and tripod over the shoulder and a long march upstream. Finally, on the far bank we found a lone Dipper, it remained motionless for the ten minutes we were watching it, the white eyelid that is seen when they blink the only indication that it was alive.  Then another, mid stream, perched on a rock and to top it all the sun came out. Click, click. click and I was happy.

 

After this we took the car down to Broomhill Bridge to watch the myriad of Sand Martins feeding above the river, darting between the trestles of the wooden structure on a feeding frenzy, the River Spey is certainly very rich in insect life. Having had a picnic lunch and a brew I decide to lug the camera down the river bank to capture some records of the nesting site in the mud cliffs. About 50 yards down I realised that I had made another error, a male Oystercatcher proceeded to scold me loudly and did his best to poo all over me. Sure enough, a close examination of the gravel island revealed a family of Oystercatchers waiting to be fed. Yet again a strategic withdrawal, perhaps some long distance shots of the colony would suffice. As I got back to the car the male was back in the field, catching earthworms and any available creepy crawlies I guess. Peace was restored.

Across the river is the old Broomhill station, or Glenbogle as it was called in "Monarch of the Glen". We had heard the whistle of a steam locomotive, time to investigate. When I was here in February I had photographed the weekend diesel railcar which runs between Aviemore and Broomhill - well you can't get the old steamers wet can you?  These photographs suffered the disdain of Kevin, a work chum of old, so I promised him shots of a proper choo choo. In the station a bright blue engine of the Strathspey Steam Railway and an ideal opportunity to get  some photographs from a nearby bridge.

Modern instrumentation.

Nostalgia is a wonderful thing, as the puffing locomotive went through the bridge I was enveloped in a cloud of the most wonderful perfume known to man - coal smoke and steam mixed in quantities that whisk you right back to a 1950s childhood. A smell that is on a par with new mown grass and fresh baked bread. What a shame that modern cameras in capturing the scene cannot record the smells too. On reflection perhaps not, both Bempton and the Farnes had a strong aroma of rotting fish, a reminder of the fish quay in Grimsby on a hot Sunday afternoon in July.  For enlightenment, Grimsby trawlers would not "land" their catch at the weekend, no demand for fish on a Monday. In those days whatever was Sunday dinner provided the basis for the family meal on Monday - oh happy days! Thus a location that was usually covered in water and ice was allowed to dry out and any fish remains would create the pong that would reside in the nose forever.

And that was it - another holiday over - without undue effort we recorded some 116 species, giving 13 year ticks and some reasonable photographs, in what, for the most of the time, were difficult conditions. To cap it all whilst I was away my birding colleague has concentrated even harder on butterflies and I am now way behind.