I couldn’t be less of a night owl. Unless something exceptional is happening, I’m tucked up by 11pm and asleep minutes later. This means that I routinely miss the northern lights, which appear in the sky above my village several times each winter and early spring, and I wake up the following morning kicking myself at the missed opportunity.
So naturally, when the alert came last week I was already in pyjamas. Luckily I hadn’t yet nodded off, so I scrabbled for thermals, camera and tripod and legged it outside. I could already see pillars of aurora even through the streetlights, so I felt the familiar dread that I’d missed the peak of activity. Still, I was grateful to be seeing this crazy phenomenon that I so often sleep through.
At 23.22 something caught my eye right over my head. I thought it was either a shooting star or one of my extensive collection of eye floaters, but when it didn’t stop I realised it was the aurora. Bizarrely for Scotland, the beams had stretched all the way up the sky and were flickering in so many different directions that I couldn’t look at them all at once. A massive diagonal column slanted to the side of me and a narrow band pulsed above me every few seconds.
In my bleary-eyed confusion, I’d grabbed a lens that was a bit too cropped for landscapes, and while I got some interesting close-up shots of the pillars, I was keen to photograph the whole sky. So I gallantly ran home (up a very steep hill I might add) to switch lenses. I arrived back just as the sky turned raspberry. I couldn’t see that colour of course, but my camera picked up a vivid blush across the entire horizon, layered above the more usual green aurora.
Some folk say they can see the colours but I’ve never been able to, not even when I watched the northern lights in Arctic Norway. I don’t mind seeing silver instead though – what I love most is the movement. Wisps of light being blown by an undetectable wind is the most surreal thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I jumped up and down in the pitch black with my hands clapped over my mouth until well after 1am.
Here’s a short time lapse of my photos from the night. I don’t pretend to be skilled at either astrophotography or time lapses, but I had to give it a try to show just how jiggy the aurora was!
I said I didn’t stay up late unless something exceptional was happening, and that display qualified. I was a wide-eyed night owl at last.
Extending from Moray’s western border near Nairn, along the Moray Firth and all the way around the right-angled wedge of Aberdeenshire, the North East coast of Scotland covers over 200 miles of coastline. Read on for my top five beaches along this stretch, from west to east, where you can spend the day foraging for shells, watching wildlife or just soaking it all in.
FINDHORN
Findhorn has a beach of two halves. Surf down a steep shingle bank onto an expanse of fine sand, revealed at low tide. The bay here is known for its seals – depending on the tide they might be hauled out on the beach (if so then keep your distance) or bobbing in the shallows.
Covesea
At the foot of Covesea Lighthouse is another sandy beach, running to nearby Lossiemouth. As the tide recedes on quiet winter days, you might see sanderlings feeding here. They move in sudden bursts like a breeze has swept them up.
Sunnyside
A lesser-known spot, Sunnyside is close to the ruin of Findlater Castle. Perch on the hip-high bank or roll your trousers up and explore the rockpools that collect among the geometric rock formations.
St Combs
The fishing village of St Combs, five miles southeast of Fraserburgh, has a curved beach facing east, making it a good sunrise location. The sand is the colour of Biscoff even on an overcast day, threaded with narrow water channels trickling into the bay.
Forvie
Forvie National Nature Reserve is 13 miles north of Aberdeen and famous for its magnificent shifting sand dunes. Watch seals and a variety of birds on the River Ythan or venture north along the beach and join walking trails through mixed heather and marram grass.
I say this every month… but honestly what a month! We’re moving towards my favourite time of year – there were still some randomly hot days in September but autumn is definitely in the air now. This morning I crunched through my first frost since February and it was finally cold enough for my mittens.
At the start of the month I took part in an art exhibition in my village. The theme was the sea, linking to the arrival of a 10 metre-high puppet called Storm which made its own waves across Moray. I submitted some of my coastal bird photography to the exhibition and brought along my calendars to sell. There were over a hundred works up on the walls and we had visitors coming down for a look all weekend. I haven’t exhibited since university finished three years ago, so it was great to see my work printed again.
Storm comes to Burghead!
My exhibition pieces
A week later I hosted two more nature writing workshops – one in Roseisle Forest and the other along the Moray Coast Path. I enjoyed doing this again later in the year – while the June workshop in Roseisle included more birds, this time it was all about the fungi. When the event started early in the morning, the sun was glistening on dozens of spiderwebs, and amongst the gorse bushes were several wood ant nests. Along the coast, we watched gannets diving out at sea and dunnocks singing in the blackberry bushes. My workshop participants wrote some beautiful things – although we all walked the same paths, the pieces were so diverse and it was really rewarding to hear them.
Last week I had family up to visit that I hadn’t seen in years. Although we had some blustery winds that whipped the bay up into a bubble bath, there were still plenty of opportunities to watch wildlife. My uncle had been hoping to see his first crested tit, and we were lucky enough to see two at once! Other bird highlights included a sandwich tern diving in the estuary and a whole cloud of rooks swirling in the air above us.
Photo: Rod Cameron
This month I’ve also been working furiously on my master’s degree, which I’ve just finished. My final portfolio was 20,000 words and although I started writing it last summer, I was still scrabbling to finish it the day before the deadline. My portfolio is called ‘Finding Home’ and it’s about my connection with Scotland, beginning with my first visit when I was six years old. Gathering all these pieces together has made me realise how many different ways my new home has inspired me, from memoir to folklore to fiction. Although it was rewarding to write, I’m glad it’s done now…
And now for the most exciting news: I’m going to be an author! This has been in the pipeline for more than a year and now I can finally tell everyone that I’m writing a Slow Travel Guide to Northeast Scotland. The book will be published by Bradt Travel Guides in spring 2023.
Back in February 2020 I attended a National Geographic travel writing masterclass and got chatting with the MD of Bradt about the possibility of a Slow guide for Moray. We swapped emails and a few months later I was asked if I was interested in writing a guide not just for Moray but for Aberdeenshire and the Cairngorms National Park too.
Slow guides are all about getting away from the ‘top sights’ and looking for the hidden gems of a place, enjoying each forest, café and stone circle at a leisurely pace. They cover nature, history, geology, food and culture, encouraging walking and cycling to experience the destination more thoroughly. Northeast Scotland is packed with potential Slow content and it’s an honour to be able to share its beauty and charisma with other Slow travellers in this book. I’m going to research, walk and write my socks off to make this guide the best it can be.
An excellent month’s progress. Bring on the dark half of the year!
Day one of the Mindful Creative Retreat was a huge success and I was looking forward to kicking off day two with my own writing workshop. We met outside Roseisle Forest in Burghead and spent the morning wandering along winding trails within the 1700 acre Scots pine woodland. It was a boiling hot day so we kept to the shade beneath the trees.
For me, good nature writing uses all the senses. Although describing sights is the most obvious, incorporating sounds, smells and textures really brings a piece to life. I encouraged everyone to look down as well as up, noticing the way the sun shines on spiderwebs and pinecones scuff underfoot.
I was pleased to see the fungi in Roseisle was already abundant – a welcome reminder that autumn is nearly here. Beside every tree was a fungus of some sort, varying widely in colour, size and shape. We spent a lot of the morning crawling around on the ground getting photos!
Photo: Kim Grant
As well as fungi, we found a small wood ant nest right by the path. These red and black insects play an important role in the forest ecosystem, helping with seed dispersal, hunting damaging pests and acting as a food source for badgers and pine martens. Wood ants also provide a parasite removal service for birds, which deliberately scratch the surface of the nest to encourage the ants to spray their feathers with formic acid. This kills the birds’ parasites!
Wood ant nest
By midday the sun was scorching so we headed to the beach for a paddle. After cooling down, we sat on the sand to write about the morning’s discoveries.
By evening the temperature had cooled and we met up in Hopeman for a walk along the coast. We were lucky enough to have another gorgeous sunset, which lit up the beach and turned the cliffs to gold. There were plenty of juicy blackberries to be plucked and we stopped for a rest in a sheltered cove. Here we enjoyed some rock pooling and I found some tracks in the sand. They were too big for rats so I guessed mink, which I’ve occasionally seen darting over the rocks.
We explored the cove until 9pm when the sun eventually set. Golden colours blended to corals and crimsons and we watched the exact moment the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Jen commented that it was a special thing to witness because it was a rare occasion you could see the earth turning.
And so we reached the end of another full-on but rewarding day on the retreat. The third and final day featured even more creativity and mindfulness. Coming soon!
Last week I took part in my first ever retreat. Back in June I met Kim Grant from Visualising Scotland when she attended my event in the Moray Walking and Outdoor Festival. Afterwards, she invited me to run a writing workshop in her upcoming Mindful Creative Retreat in Moray. Also helping out was Jen Price from Mindful Routes. I’d just got back from a six week trip to England so the retreat came at the perfect time for easing me back into the wild Scottish landscape I’d missed all summer.
The retreat began in beautiful Forres. As well as writing down our intentions for the next few days, Jen led us through some breathwork exercises. Several ladies in the group had yoga experience so were used to noticing their breathing. I, on the other hand, was a complete beginner so initially found it challenging to ‘belly breathe’ from the diaphragm. One of my intentions for the retreat was to notice my breathing more and to hopefully see a change in it.
After a peaceful morning session we walked back through the forest, listening to woodpeckers and spotting fungi and red squirrels along the way.
Photo: Kim Grant
Photo: Jen Price
In the afternoon we had lunch at Logie Steading and visited Randolph’s Leap – a dramatic river surging through a hilly valley just outside Forres. Kim led us on a mindful photography walk, encouraging us to experiment with light and notice how the water changed from crashing to standing still at different points along the river.
Photo: Kim Grant
After breaking for dinner, we met in the evening at Findhorn, where the sky tempted us with silky clouds and hinted at an impressive sunset. Here we did some more mindful photography. Kim asked us to explore different parts of the beach and take more creative images. I loved inspecting the barnacles and mussels attached to the rocks exposed by low tide.
The evening was so lovely we had a sea swim! Seeing the scarlet sunset rippling on the water while actually in the water was a totally new perspective. Oystercatchers flew over our heads and terns dived just a few metres away.
Photo: Jen Price
Photo: Jen Price
Swimming at sunset was such a peaceful and mindful way to end the first day of the retreat. Have a read of what happened on day two here!
Recently I was very pleasantly surprised to see an email in my inbox from the editor of Pay Our Planet magazine asking me to write a feature for them. I hadn’t heard of them because it was going to be the very first issue. I leapt at the chance and decided to write about red squirrels, which are an animal very close to my heart. During my time at university I was lucky enough to have some very up-close encounters with red squirrels in Lockerbie, and can now spot them quite regularly in the forests near where I live.
I was particularly taken by how environmentally aware Pay Our Planet is. Studies have shown that mangrove trees store carbon at a rate of four times that of mature tropical forests, so Pay Our Planet have partnered with the Eden Reforestation Project to plant mangrove trees in Madagascar. For every subscriber of the digital magazine, Pay Our Planet plants 15 trees each month. This makes that subscriber carbon positive, meaning their actions remove more carbon from the atmosphere than they put into it.
It’s been such a privilege to share the story of one of Britain’s most well-loved species to an international audience. I’m so grateful to Pay Our Planet for giving me the opportunity to not only write a feature for the magazine but also for putting my photo on the front cover!
With all the dolphin excitement recently, I’ve been sticking closely to the shore on my walks and neglecting the forest. I’ve always been worried that I’ll walk for miles and then get an alert saying there are leaping whales in the complete opposite direction.
But, the other day I decided to take a chance and walk the dog in the forest for a change. Within five minutes, I saw a flash of rosy red and my heart did the familiar jolt that happens whenever I see something unexpected. And this was certainly unexpected: a pair of bullfinches not twenty feet away from me.
I’ve been trying to get a decent photo of a bullfinch for years. They’re one of my favourite birds but I’ve only seen them a handful of times. On every occasion they’ve either kept their backs to me or been concealed behind branches. I’ve taken a few blurry shots that prove they were there, but they’ve never been good enough to post. Now I was being treated with both male and female. While the male is more conventionally striking, I find the dusty brown plumage of the female just as beautiful. I just love their short, stubby bills, which are perfect for cracking hard seeds.
During the entire encounter my dog was amusing herself elsewhere, completely indifferent to my excitement. I stayed with the bullfinches as they hopped around logs and fluttered up to low branches. I could have sat and watched them for hours, but after a while I left them in peace.
Still buzzing from my sighting later that day, I decided to go back to the forest for an evening walk. There would be fewer humans and hopefully more animals to see. Roe deer were another of my favourites and a few weeks ago I saw a flash of brown fur as a doe pelted past me. I was keen to get a good photo of one – they were another animal that I’d never managed to get a proper glimpse of. So, despite the warm evening I wrapped up and headed out again. The sun wouldn’t be setting until 10pm so I had plenty of daylight left. In fact, it was prime golden hour and the broom – a shrub similar to gorse but without the spines – was glittering.
It seemed I hadn’t run out of good luck. After walking for less five minutes I saw movement through the trees. Four of the skinny saplings weren’t trees at all but slender brown legs. I froze where I was, conscious of every snappable twig by my feet. She was moving slowly, leisurely. I dared myself to tread up a grassy mound for a slightly higher viewpoint. There was so much dense ground foliage that I couldn’t see her very well. She headed to my left, straight towards a clearing between two columns of trees where I’d be able to see her perfectly. I lifted my camera slowly to my face and waited. When the moment came, the click of the first photo caught her attention and she turned to face me. For about ten seconds we stared at one another. Her pricked ears were huge satellite dishes on an otherwise skinny face, punctuated by large eyes and the characteristic roe moustache. The light was fading and I stretched to a slightly higher ISO than I would have liked. I knew the images were going to be a little grainy, but my deer was posing magnificently.
Eventually, human voices cut through my moment (of all the 1700 acres they could have chosen!) and the deer darted back the way she’d come. With such a slow shutter speed I had no hope of capturing her at that pace, so I just watched her springy legs disappear into the trees.
Inspired by such an early sighting, I pressed deeper into the woods, keeping my ears open for any unusual sounds that I wouldn’t hear during the day. The fantastical idea of pine martens popped into my mind but I pushed it away. To see a wild pine marten on my first evening forest walk would something close to miraculous. But a fox or perhaps an owl might be more likely, so I stayed as quiet as I could and did my best to avoid noisy leaf litter, although my stealth skills left a lot to be desired.
It’s astonishing how soothing a forest can be, if you let yourself align to its peace and quiet. I regularly stopped to listen to the birds, which at 9pm were still going strong. Far off, a blackbird perched on an overhead wire. If I closed my eyes, I could easily have been sat on my garden porch in Hertfordshire. A blackbird used to sing in the holly tree every evening without fail, and the sound became a firm part of my childhood. Elsewhere in the forest tonight was a chaffinch’s downward running tune, a wren’s bolstering trill and a chiffchaff whistling its name. I took recordings on my phone of all the assembled voices.
I walked and sat in the forest for three hours, until eventually at 10:15pm I began to feel the chill. Even so, the light was close to what it had been when I arrived, just without the bright sun – everything was lit with a milky glow that carried on long into the night. Moray is situated on the same latitude line as Gothenburgh in Sweden so during the summer months, the days last much longer and nothing goes completely dark. It’s a phenomenon I haven’t gotten used to yet. Many nights recently I’ve gone to bed and it’s still been light outside.
Taken at 10:17pm
I decided to call it a night. Looping back the way I’d come, I headed down the straight track that was lined on both sides by thick clouds of broom. I glanced briefly through a gap in the foliage and saw a face. Freezing, I stepped slowly back and came eye to eye with a male roe deer. My fingers itched for my camera, but there was no real chance of getting a photo. I could barely make him out with the naked eye. Most of his body was shrouded in shadows cast by the trees, but his face and antlers were dimly lit enough to spot. Again, we stood eyeing each other for a few moments before he took off, bounding down the ditch and up again. Then a sharp, gruff bark broke through the trees, which I realised was the deer! I’d never heard their barks before and couldn’t believe how canine they sounded. I wondered now if perhaps I had heard it and just dismissed it as a dog. It was haunting, especially in an ever darkening forest, but I loved it.
When I broke out of the trees and onto the open field, the spell broke. I felt a physical difference between the forest and civilisation. For hours I’d immersed myself in a place where people weren’t the most abundant presence and it was unbelievably refreshing. I decided, during the summer at least, to make my evening forays a regular thing. Daytime walks are good – I’d seen my bullfinches that morning after all – but there’s something far more mysterious and captivating about the night.
I am now officially trained as a Shorewatcher for Whale and Dolphin Conservation (WDC). I’ve been wanting to learn more about my local wildlife and contribute to marine conservation now I’m living in Scotland, so when I found out about the Shorewatch programme I was keen to get involved. Luckily I managed to complete my training in Inverness earlier this month, only a couple of weeks before the new regulations that now prevent us from going out for anything other than food shopping and exercise. Although I now won’t be able to start Shorewatching for a while, I’m going to use my time to get better at identifying British cetaceans using books in preparation for when I can get started properly.
Shorewatch is a citizen science project that’s all about scanning an area of ocean for ten minutes and recording the presence or absence of cetaceans (whales, dolphins and porpoises). The areas are especially assigned Shorewatch sites, which are found all over northern Scotland. The data collected is sent to WDC and used to monitor populations of cetaceans and flag up potential problems that may be occurring, such as deep-diving species that are straying into the shallows or a noticeable lack of sightings in an area where we might usually expect them.
Shorewatch is particularly beneficial because it is a completely non-invasive way of surveying. As the volunteers are positioned on the shore instead of in boats, the cetaceans show natural behaviour. WDC also don’t believe in tagging animals, so prominent scars and nicks in dorsal fins are used to identify individuals. For example, the team can recognise Spurtle, a female bottlenose dolphin, from the large area of sunburn on her side.
I haven’t seen any cetaceans in Moray yet, but I’m sure that will change over the coming months. The season will hopefully kick off properly in May, and going by the incredible photography I’ve seen, the bottlenoses really go to town with their acrobatics! However, when all you see is the flick of a tail or the subsequent splash, it can be tricky to figure out what species you’ve seen, so I’m learning how to identify different species in the water. The Moray Firth is famous for its bottlenoses, which are both the largest and most northerly in the world, but many other species have been spotted from Burghead shores including harbour porpoises and even orcas and humpback whales! I would definitely cry if I saw an orca in my local patch, but I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Hopefully I’ll get to see the resident dolphins soon. We all went to Chanonry Point after our theory training to do a practice Shorewatch, and although there were no dolphins, we saw a common seal and a white-tailed eagle! I haven’t seen one since my trip to Carna in 2016, so to be able to watch the “flying barn door” on the east coast was a real treat and a fabulous introduction to Shorewatching.
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