Among the Birds in Northern Shires

CHAPTER III

ON MOUNTAIN AND LOCH

Mountain bird-life, if scarce, is not without its charm. That of the loch, taking one season with another, is more varied and abundant; so that combining the two districts together – and they are in most cases inseparably associated – we shall have abundant material to interest us. The mountain bird-life of England – except, perhaps, in the extreme north – is comparatively limited, especially nowadays when persecution has worked such havoc amongst certain species. That of the loch is peculiarly of a Scottish type inasmuch as the present chapter is concerned. The bird-life of these two districts is essentially of a northern type, belonging, like the mountains and lochs themselves, to a wilder and more rugged scenery than any the southern shires can boast. Many of the avine forms belonging to these localities are strictly boreal or even arctic in their distribution, finding a suitable habitat by altitude rather than latitude; many of them are but winter visitors or abnormal wanderers to the south. In some cases these particular localities are the home of representative species that take the place of more southern types, and afford us a fine series of ornithological comparisons of the deepest interest. The naturalist familiar with bird-life in the southern counties only, will, in investigating the avifauna of mountain and loch, enter upon an entirely novel series of avine phenomena.

From the moorlands to the mountains and lochs is in many localities a transition of an almost imperceptible character. In not a few cases the moors terminate in mountain summits beyond the borderland, where the two species of heather cease to climb, or the most sturdy and tenacious ling that clothes the hillsides for still another thousand feet or more. In a similar manner the lochs are usually situated in hollows among the hills, or penetrate in winding fiords from the sea between towering highlands or heath-clothed wastes that at higher altitudes terminate in bare and wind-swept mountain summits. As with the avifauna of the moors and heaths we shall find that the birds of the mountains are more or less a shifting population. Indeed the similarity is made even more complete by the fact that in both regions – moor and mountain – we find but one sedentary species. Upon the moors we found the practically resident Red Grouse; upon the mountains we shall find the Ptarmigan, a bird that clings to the bleak summits throughout the year. In some respects the Ptarmigan is a more interesting species than the Red Grouse; there is more variety in its economy, and the bird itself is one of the most beautiful examples of protective coloration that the entire range of organic life can show. Our first acquaintance with the Ptarmigan was made nearly twenty years ago, near the summit of the Cuchullin Hills in Skye. Although the time was May, patches of snow were lying in the hollows and a cold piercing wind swept along the hillsides. Lower down the slopes we had lingered to watch the gambols of a pair of Ravens that were haunting the rocks; whilst a Peregrine Falcon had just swept by. Upon a small piece of level ground we flushed several Ptarmigan, one after the other, that had been lying concealed on the stony face of the mountain. They were readily identified by their white wings. After the first bird had risen we scanned the ground carefully for others, but none were seen until they rose in noisy flight and sped away. It is interesting to remark that the Peregrine we had seen a short time before must have flown right over the spot where these Ptarmigan were crouching. Possibly the recent appearance of the Falcon had made them lie closer than usual, and rendered them loth to take wing. With the exception of a few weeks in the very depth of winter, the Ptarmigan is more or less changing in colour throughout the year. In mid-winter, as most readers may know, the bird is pure unsullied white, with the exception of a jet-black patch in front of the eye in the male, and the outermost tail-feathers, which are black in both sexes. In early spring, sometimes it is said by the middle or end of February, the first signs of the coming summer plumage are seen on the neck, and during the three succeeding months the birds undergo a complete transformation, the feathers on the breast, it should be noted, being assumed last of all. It is a significant fact that the parts of the plumage least exposed, such as the flight feathers and the feathers on the belly, present the smallest amount of change from the white winter dress. This is more apparent in the male than in the female, doubtless owing to the fact that the latter is more liable to injury whilst brooding on the nest. Broadly speaking, in the male in summer plumage the upper parts and the breast and flanks are dark-brown, more or less mottled, and barred with gray and buff; whilst in the female the upper parts are darker, practically black, mottled with gray and rufous, and the under parts are chestnut-buff barred with dark-brown. This plumage prevails during June and July, although subject to some change by sun and abrasion, whilst towards the end of the latter month signs of the autumn livery begin to be apparent. In this dress again the sexes are similar, as we might naturally expect to be the case, now that the breeding season is over, and both male and female are exposed to the same conditions of life. The upper parts, the breast and flanks, are gray, vermiculated with black. By the end of August this autumn dress is fully attained. It is worn for nearly a couple of months, subject of course to some change from abrasion and sun. Then comes the transition to the white winter plumage, which in most cases becomes complete by the middle of November contemporaneously with the snow that lies upon the mountains for the next three months or more. This beautiful arrangement of nature becomes even more impressive by certain comparisons. For instance, the Red Grouse, living as it does amongst the ling and heath, and in a region where snow seldom covers the ground for many days at a time, retains a brown dress throughout the year; in this species also the flight feathers are constantly brown in hue, just as those of the Ptarmigan are white. But the nearest ally of the Red Grouse, the Willow Grouse (the Lagopus albus of ornithologists), inhabiting the tundras of the arctic regions right round the world, assumes a pure white plumage for the winter (readily distinguished, by the way, from the Ptarmigan by the absence of the black patch before the eye), and in this case again the flight feathers are constantly white – a dress that is admirably protective amidst the winter snows of its northern home. Here, then, we have two birds distantly related, like the Ptarmigan and the Willow Grouse, donning white plumage in winter for protection, whilst the Red Grouse, so closely allied to the Willow Grouse, and resembling it in many details of its economy, remains practically the same in appearance summer and winter alike. The retention of the white quills is a very interesting fact. These Grouse moult their flight feathers but once in the year, in autumn; and probably the reason they are constantly white is because this tint is no disadvantage to the species, being always concealed except during flight. As we know, these birds take wing most reluctantly, always endeavouring to elude observation by crouching close to the ground. Similarly, the central tail-feathers of the Willow Grouse and Ptarmigan are the only ones that change in colour with the seasons – varying from white in winter to brown marked with gray and buff in summer, and gray mottled with black in autumn – the remainder being constantly black, and when the tail is closed of course concealed by the central pair.

Ptarmigan are nothing near such noisy birds as Red Grouse, and their usual note is a hoarse and guttural croak. Otherwise there is much in their economy of general resemblance. They pair in spring, make a scanty nest upon the ground, and their eggs very closely resemble those of the more familiar species, but the markings are larger and not so heavily dispersed – characters that are in perfect harmony with the different nature of the ground upon which they rest. The eggs are generally laid in May. Then again we remark the same tendency to flock in autumn, as in the Red Grouse. As previously remarked, this single species practically exhausts the resident avifauna of the mountain heights. There are a few other species still to be noticed, but none of them are confined to these localities, although they may be met with in them at any season. Some of these birds are migratory, others wander about visiting lower ground, and are therefore in no sense permanently indigenous to the mountain tops, or even to their lower slopes.

Dealing with the resident species first, we have the two species of British Eagles that in spite of persecution have managed to retain their place in our avifauna. They owe their survival most probably to the inaccessibility of their haunts. Time was when the Golden Eagle frequented the Peak district of Derbyshire, and when the White-tailed Eagle regularly bred in the area of the English Lakes and even in the Isle of Man; whilst farther south still we find records of its nest in Lundy Island and the Isle of Wight. Persecution has succeeded in exterminating these Eagles in all such lowland haunts; even the South of Scotland has proved no safer refuge, and at the present day the mountains of the north are the sole locality in which they are normally found. We can vividly recall our first meeting with the Golden Eagle. We had spent many days amongst the Highlands in fruitless quest of this fine bird, but all that rewarded us were a few heads and feet, time-worn and ancient, nailed here and there to some stable or kennel door of a gamekeeper’s premises, and any number of tales told by shepherds and keepers of how the species had been shot and trapped without mercy. At last our search was rewarded by the discovery of an eyrie in a magnificent cliff. We shall never forget how we watched the big black bird soar out of the rocks and circle overhead, and how we stood gazing in admiration as it swept down from the air towards its nest, with its mighty wings held up and expanded to their utmost, just as we had often seen the Kestrel do, or tame Pigeons, to give a more familiar instance. We have seen a good many Eagles – of both species – since that eventful morning nearly twenty years ago, but never with such excitement as then. We are glad to say that the Golden Eagle in one or two localities seems to be increasing. This is specially the case in certain deer forests, where the bird is held (and justly so) to be harmless. There is, however, plenty of room left for the preservation of this fine bird, and we should like to see the placing of poisoned meat made illegal. The White-tailed Eagle is perhaps the most familiar species of the two, but this bird loves the hills near the sea, and its favourite resorts at the present time are amongst the grand mountain scenery of the Hebrides, the Orkneys and Shetland. We have often watched the magnificent aerial movements of this Eagle from the mountain tops in the haunt of the Ptarmigan and the blue hare. Like the larger Gulls and the Vultures, it will remain in the highest air for long periods, sailing round and round in spacious circles, ever and anon gliding obliquely down, then resuming its ordinary flight. We often used to meet with it high up the hills in Skye, a district which we believe still continues famous for this Eagle, and we knew of several nests or eyries scattered over the island. Both these eagles breed very early in the year, long before the ordinary stream of tourists flows northwards; but this, we regret to say, does not prevent many an eyrie being robbed of its eggs by shepherds and others, in the pay of the collector or dealer from the south. The last pair of Scotch Golden Eagles' eggs that we examined had been forwarded unblown from the Highlands, roughly packed in a tin box, and both were broken. One of these eggs, we believe, is now in the Weston Park Museum at Sheffield. Eagles are somewhat sluggish birds, resembling Buzzards in disposition, and exhibit none of that dash and activity characteristic of the Falcons, or even of the short-winged Hawks. They are also very unclean feeders, being little better than Vultures in this respect. Of the two the White-tailed Eagle is the worst; he is a regular scavenger of the shore, and in not a few cases we have known him lured to his doom with a mass of stinking offal, a putrid lamb, or decaying fish. Healthy vigorous birds or animals are seldom attacked by this Eagle; it confines its attentions to the weakly and the wounded creatures that cannot move fast or offer any serious resistance. The Golden Eagle is a trifle more fastidious in its selection of food, and frequently captures living and healthy creatures, such as Grouse and hares, but even he does not refuse to make a meal on carrion. When we take into consideration the food and the sluggish habits of these Eagles, we are at a still greater loss to understand the ruthless war of extermination that has been waged against them for so long. As birds of prey go they are comparatively harmless, and should be left in peace. We have heard a good deal about the destruction of newly-dropped lambs by these Eagles, but there is much to be said on the other side. Lambs at this early age are liable to many fatalities, and it is scarcely fair to attribute their disappearance to the Eagles. Many lambs are drowned or killed by storms, and by accidental falls over rocks and cliffs: their bodies offer a welcome meal to the Eagles. Some of these fatalities are due to the carelessness of shepherds and keepers, who take good care that the sheep farmer shall be made to believe that Eagles are responsible for them. Many years ago we were up the hills with a keeper and his dog. The latter – a wild unruly brute of a retriever – chased a lamb, and knocked it over a steep bank into a mountain loch. We recovered the body, and then the keeper with a sly look informed me that he should tell so and so that the loss of this lamb was due to an Eagle! It is the tale of the lowland coverts over again. There a scarcity of game is attributed to poachers or vermin, whilst in reality a dishonest keeper has disposed of it to an equally dishonest dealer. In the Highlands the loss of Grouse and lambs and deer calves is too often laid to the Eagles' charge, but let us hope that such a custom will cease, and that these beautiful birds will duly profit by the circumstance.

Another raptorial bird by no means unfrequently met with on the mountains is the Peregrine. In some parts of the Highlands this Falcon may be found breeding on the face of some towering storr rock amongst the frowning hills. We had an interesting experience of such a nest on the lofty storr at Talisker, in Skye. This charming little spot nestles in a hollow in the hills, is surrounded by trees of goodly growth and a wealth of other vegetation – literally an oasis among bare mountains and upland moors. We used to sit out in the garden and grounds there and watch the Peregrines about their nest, which was situated in a gaping fissure perhaps two-thirds of the distance up the face of the cliff. A pair of Ravens also had their nest in the same rock, together with numbers of Jackdaws and Starlings. Whether the Peregrines respected the lives of their more weakly neighbours we cannot say, but the Ravens oft resented the near approach of these Falcons, sallying out from the cliffs and buffeting them in mid-air. Time after time we watched these Falcons dart down from the higher air with both wings closed and enter the fissure which contained their nest. The late Mr. Cameron, then residing at Talisker, informed me that these Peregrines had frequented the rocks here for many years, notwithstanding the fact that their eggs or young were taken every season. At such a vast height the Peregrines looked no bigger than Jackdaws, whilst the latter birds resembled Starlings flying to and fro before the rugged cliff. The Raven, we are glad to say, is a familiar bird still among the mountains of the north. The time has gone for ever when we could number this fine species as a denizen of the mountains of the Peak and some other English uplands, although we have heard that it still nests amongst the hills of the Lake district. The hoarse croak of the Raven is one of the most familiar bird-notes heard among the Highlands. Notwithstanding gun, trap, and poison, the bird somehow or another still maintains its position; possibly its excessive cunning and wariness are the chief means of its salvation. This bird is one of the few species indigenous to both the north and south of England that is still commonest in some of the southern shires. In Devonshire, especially, it is by no means uncommon, both on the central plateau of Dartmoor as well as along the rock-bound coasts. Indeed, until within the past few years it used to breed within a mile or so of Torquay. We own to a special weakness for the Raven notwithstanding his questionable means of getting a livelihood. He has been our sole companion in many a rocky glen, and cheered us by his wicked croaking on many a lonely ramble over the wild hills of the north. We specially recall his lively ways at St. Kilda, when of an evening we used to wander up the heights of Connacher to watch the Fulmars and admire the glorious sunsets that canopied the lonely Atlantic. We can also remember how we were cheered by his croak when wandering, lost and hungry and tired out, across the mountain heaths enshrouded in a dense mist between Sligachan and Talisker, just as night was falling, and when, after making up our mind for a night on the hills, we had the good fortune to meet with a shepherd and obtain from him our bearings. For a northern bird the Raven is another early breeder; and it is interesting to remark that there is very little difference between the date of nesting in the extreme south of England and the Highlands, March being the month in both areas. In the Highlands, Ravens' nests are invariably destroyed whenever they are accessible; but fortunately the wily birds, in not a few localities, select fissures and rock ledges quite inaccessible save to a winged enemy. A dead sheep or other animal will almost without fail attract Ravens from a large area, and we have on one occasion counted no less than seven on such a carcass, sharing the prize with the Hooded Crow. A keeper friend of ours informed us of a much larger congregation at the body of a dead horse, the birds in time picking the bones of every scrap of flesh. Speaking of Ravens brings us of course to a passing notice of the Hooded Crow. In England we have plenty of Hooded Crows during autumn and winter, especially in the eastern counties, but they do not breed in the country (if we except possibly the Isle of Man). In the Highlands, however, the bird is a resident pest – like the poor, always with us, and, sad to relate, as little welcome. Amongst the mountains of the north, especially in the littoral districts, the Hooded Crow is certainly the commonest bird of the Crow tribe. He practically replaces the Carrion Crow, the familiar species of the southern shires. These Hooded Crows are wary birds; they need to be, or their race would soon be exterminated in Scotland. But for downright impudence and cunning commend us to the Hooded Crows of St. Kilda. These gray-coated rascals would allow us repeatedly to approach them within a few paces; indeed, they would sometimes allow us almost to kick them out of our way, as the saying goes; but this was only as long as we did not carry a gun. Had we such a weapon with us the crafty fellows would invariably keep at a safe distance. This was all the more remarkable, for at the time of our visit and stay on St. Kilda, in 1884, there was not a gun on the island except the one we carried, so that the birds could not have been taught to shun such an object by experience. We might attempt an explanation of the fact by suggesting that the birds became suspicious when they saw a person carrying an unfamiliar object; but against this we have the behaviour of birds in other localities where guns are common, being no more wary than these unsophisticated crows of St. Kilda. The St. Kildans detest them, and with good cause, for they commit sad havoc amongst their fields and gardens, and are as keen “collectors” of eggs as the men themselves. The Hooded Crow is a far more sociable bird than the Carrion Crow, and we have remarked them gregarious at all times of the year. In winter, of course, they become most so, and nowhere is this trait more apparent than in the low-lying English counties. We shall have occasion to meet with this interesting bird in a future chapter (conf. p. 276). This brief list practically exhausts the typical land birds and Passeres of the mountains, with the sole exception of the charming little Snow Bunting. In not a few northern English shires this species is a fairly well-known winter migrant, but it breeds sparingly on some of the Scottish mountains, a few pairs finding an arctic climate by vertical instead of latitudinal migration, but most of its kindred journey far beyond our limits to rear their young.

Our last mountain bird is the Dotterel. But this is a bird of passage from the south, resorting only to the northern heights during summer. Unfortunately, the species is not so common on our English mountains as was formerly the case; its eggs are eagerly sought by collectors; the bird itself is in great request for its feathers, which are used to make trout and salmon flies. Although becoming rarer, it still breeds on some of the mountains of Cumberland; whilst across the Border it is more numerous, and we believe regularly nests on the Grampians and in a few other places. It is late to arrive on these mountains in spring, as might naturally be inferred, when we bear in mind their bleak and barren character, reaching them in May, and quitting them in September. We have seen eggs of the Dotterel that had been taken on the Cumberland mountains in June. It would seem that the birds do not retire to the elevated nesting-grounds directly they arrive, but frequent the more lowland fields for a week or so ere ascending to them. The summer home of the Dotterel is shared, in some instances at least, with that still more mountain bird, the Ptarmigan. The Dotterel is one of the very few species in which the hen bird is larger and more brightly coloured than the cock, and the latter consequently incubates the eggs and takes the greater share in the task of rearing the young. The hen is even said to take the initiative in courtship, but we have yet to learn that the “new woman” has quoted the fact in support of her advanced opinions! But then the Dotterel is widely known by the accompanying and preceding epithet of “foolish”, and its English name is said to be the diminutive of “Dolt”; whilst its Latin name of morinellus is said by some to have been derived from morus, a fool – facts which those interested in so-called “sex problems” will also do well to bear in mind.

Now a few words respecting the bird-life of the lochs. These lochs, so far as the present chapter is concerned, may be divided into two distinct classes. First, we have the mountain pools – sheets of water of varying size, often at considerable elevations, situated in hollows among the hills, and an especial feature of many districts in the Highlands. Second, we have at sea-level the marine lochs or fiords, another almost exclusive Scottish feature, the nearest approach to them, so far as our experience extends, being some of the charming land-locked rivers or fiords in the south-west of England. Some few of the birds that we meet with on or about these lochs may be seen in many a southern shire at one season or another, but on the other hand there is a predominating number of species that stamps the avifauna of these northern localities with distinctness. Many of these lochs are grandly picturesque, surrounded as they are with lofty mountains and rolling uplands; their solitude in not a few cases is intense. No wonder that some of our shyest birds resort to them, especially as they present the additional attraction of abundance of food. Upon the shores of some of them we have come across the rare Greenshank; on others in the Hebrides the Red-necked Phalarope (gentlest and most trustful of all wading birds) lives in colonies during the summer. From time to time the various Plovers and Sandpipers resort to their shallow margin, coming there to feed from nesting-places on the moors. Now and then in certain favoured spots the shadow of the Osprey – rarest, perhaps, of all our indigenous birds of prey – is reflected in the calm unruffled water as the bird soars over, and perhaps drops down upon some surface-floating fish. Our first introduction to the Osprey took place nearly twenty years ago in Ross-shire, at the head of Loch Carron. We had been kept rain-bound for a couple of days in the hotel at Strome Ferry, and a most miserable and depressing time we had of it, the surrounding hills hidden by clouds and the surface of the loch churned into foam by the incessant downpour. The second evening the weather cleared, and we started off for a long ramble along the loch-side; the sun shone out brilliantly, and began to dispel the caps of clouds hanging on the hills. The most abundant bird on the loch was the Common Gull, respecting which we shall have more to say on a future page. We saw several pairs of Redshanks near the swollen streams, many Plovers in the distance, a few Dippers, Common Sandpipers, and Mergansers. But the bird that interested us most was an Osprey, flying slowly over the loch about thirty feet above the water. It was hovering with quivering wings, the head almost hidden as the bird peered down in quest of prey. Every few moments the bird flapped its long wings as if to steady itself and gain fresh momentum for its flight. For some time we watched it hovering above the shallow water close inshore, and then it poised for a moment and dropped like a stone into the loch, the noise of its plunge being distinctly audible more than a quarter of a mile away. It rose in a few seconds, and then, after hovering a short time, went off in a slow laboured flight to a clump of trees, and we saw it no more. As we previously stated, the Osprey is one of our rarest raptorial birds. A hundred years ago it is recorded as breeding in the English Lake district, whilst at a still more distant date it is known to have nested on the south coast of England. Although more than once thought by competent observers to have become absolutely extinct as a breeding species in the British Islands, the bird still lingers on and returns to nest in one or two places in Scotland, the exact location of which its best friends will desire to remain unpublished. Unfortunately, the Osprey is a summer migrant to our area, and the poor birds in travelling to and from their Highland haunts are exposed to much persecution. A favourite situation for the eyrie of this bird is an island in some secluded loch amongst the mountains, and in some cases a ruin of some ancient chieftain’s stronghold supports the nest. There is no more harmless bird of prey in Scotland, for its food is composed exclusively of fish.