A female
merganser, of the red breasted variety, yesterday circled the pond three times
that I saw and then landed on the water.
It was before 7.00am and just none of the hostel guests was about. She
dibbled and dived for mini trout and other delicacies, swam around to explore
and then contented herself on the bank with a meticulous preen. I am no twitcher but put the glasses on her
and felt privileged that of the many nearby sheets of water available to her
she chose our tiny pond to visit.
I was
reminded of the first three lines of D.H. Lawrence's poem, 'Snake'.
“A snake
came to my water trough,
On a hot,
hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink
there.”
Unlike Lawrence, who felt threatened by his visitor,
'the voices of my education' told
me not that she should be killed, but revered.
Of course, within a very short time when the first up hosteller padded
by, she took off in a strong uplifting straight line, cleared the trees and was
away. Our sleepy hostel guest though saw
nothing of her and went on his way in blissful ignorance. Now we have a note at Reception to alert
folks to the possibility of them too appreciating our early morning visitor.
Two days
before and with three hostellers for company we had parked our bikes as far up
the glen as we could and walked on to the loch where my neighbour Ian had told
us there was prolific bird life this month in particular. Plenty breeze today, no midges. This loch is far more remote and another
three hundred feet higher than us. It
looks straight into the hill. There
silently we marvelled at the flights and calls of the curlew, this year
outnumbering by far the customary peewits.
Of course they saw us before we saw them. It was a true gathering of the avian clans
and we were thrilled. A solitary
goldeneye male guarded his mate and sitting tight, we guessed, in the reeds on
the far side. His striking markings can
be seen on several lochs more widely scattered in the strath. Black headed gulls curled not much above us
and went their own way.
On the
following morning at the post office I bump into Ian, another Ian, who with his
brother Donnie, farms those acres and told him of our visit. “ That loch is deep, deep; a mystery,” he
tells me. “ We've lost more than one cow
in there; I wouldn't like to say just how deep it is.”
So many of
this month's hostel guests are coming from all over. Predominantly Scottish but with a healthy flow
of independent travellers from France, Germany, Holland, Turkey, USA, Canada, the rest of the UK, New Zealand, Australia –
and that's just the last four weeks.
What is encouraging is twofold.
First, their appreciation of what they find here in terms of location,
the welcome and the facilities once they have arrived. Secondly, many have come from other Scottish
hostels, usually independent ones and are very happy to tell us of the good
times there had there. Often they bring
greetings from those hostels to us. I
like that feeling of fraternity. Our own
team this year is really switched on and robust good company. We are so fortunate and our guests like
particularly that aspect of their stay with us.
This hostel's
ground has a good track record in accommodating independent travellers. From 1900, for about ten years, Macdonalds
travelled from Lochaber on the west
coast on their way to the Wool Fair in Inverness. This fair was for the trading
of horses. A regular camping spot for
these independent travellers was right here.
The Gaelic for our ground is interpreted as 'The cool spring in the
wood'. Quite often we have found bits
of chain, horseshoes and half disintegrated tackle buried not far beneath the
surface of the camping ground.
In a
remarkable little book loaned to us by our Buckie born friend Madge and which
she discovered in Wastebusters at Forres we learn more about these early
travellers. In Elizabeth ( Suzie)
McKay's ' A Discarded Brat, a tiny's
tale of survival' published in 1979 by Highland Printers of Inverness, she
tells of such independent travellers.
“ From west the country came the
tinkers' carts, traps and caravans, lumbering leisurely along a procession of
men and women of all ages. They had hit
the trail sometime in April to reap their harvest, bringing with them linen,
coloured calico and a glitter of household wares. They were skilled in the art of soldering
kettles, pots and pans, in return for a few coppers or some rags and rabbit
skins. The tinker tribe were made up of
several well known families.
Old Angus
brought his family and their children and his aged mother who was very much
weather beaten, wrinkled and furrowed about the features and who dearly loved
to smoke her little clay pipe. The
tribal folk were not beggars, but rather the relics of the ancient clans,
forced to take the highway like rolling stones seeking moss: the women folk with their bundles of humanity
wrapped in tartan plaids, strapped safely to their backs and a basket of wares
over their arms ….........”
Later, 'our'
Macdonalds set up home in the wood here, built the start of what became our own
first cottage home and earned their honest crust for just a few years before
the call of the road took them away north.
At least, unlike their own displaced forbears, they had a choice. Hostellers listen to these tales almost with
reverence and as hostel keepers with a revived camping ground we have a sense
of satisfaction in being their
successors.
This morning,
George is rebuilding a part of the watercourse, Greg and Thea are preparing the
hostel and camping ground for tonight's visitors from Aberdeen, Switzerland,
Edinburgh and Cumbria and I am writing this.
Have a great summer.
Hostel
Keeper
