blog – Page 4 – Glengorm Castle

A Whole Lot of Otter

Posted on 15th April 2015 by glengorm2020

Recently, I experienced a desire to know more about otters. For reasons unknown, their whiskery faces had bubbled up to a more prominent pool in my consciousness. Thumbing the instructions for a new trail cam and staring into the middle distance, I felt compelled to investigate.

Encounters with these animals have an arbitrary quality. I have never pursued them; simply enjoyed those occasions when our paths cross. As such, otters have seemed mysterious to me. Capricious, even. So armed with freshly honed field skills, I packed my lunchbox and took off for the coast. The weather was fine and fair – the first bright morning following many days of rain.

I don’t generally like to fly my own kite (!) but I have become something of a dropping connoisseur. What was once a passing interest has pupated into an unusual and eccentric obsession. For this we can thank the Aigas Field Centre.

Otters use their spraints as a means of communication, so they are normally deposited in choice locations where the scent will carry and not be erased by the tide. Often, these parcels of fishy fertiliser cause local plants to thrive; sprainting sites will look unseasonably green during the cool months.

Fresh otter poo is dark and crispy, with a sweet musk smell that goes easy on the nose [you heard it here first]. Consistency and composition will vary based on what your otter has been eating. The sometimes-present shards of crab and lobster shell can induce a light clenching in the muscles of the casual observer; try not to let that put you off. If you’re really keen, there’s always anal mucous to look out for too…

I have spent a lot of time looking around our coastline. Once I learned to see, a hidden network of neat grass paths, soft couches among dry vegetation and feeding pools filled with the bloated skins of toads popped up like a picture book. I only had to half close my eyes to imagine a whisky-brown back bounding between the thrift, or turn the page to see it snoozing under a downy of sea campion.

Some days later I went back to check the trail cam. The first video started with a blank screen of reflected infrared and a series of peculiar rustling sounds. Confused, I flicked to the next file.

A bristle of delicate whiskers slid out of the whiteness, followed by the outline of spiky-wet fur and a glimpse of beetle black eyes. A five-toed foot slapped irritably at the camera housing.

The otter was practically glued to the lens.

The stage curtain had lifted, but the taste of victory was bittersweet. I had pried into the life of something wild, and in doing so, caused a piece of its glamour to fall away. Its haunts and habits were exposed, its cover blown. Unwittingly I had become a keeper of secrets.

After all, nothing makes a creature more vulnerable than a GPS map of where it goes to the toilet.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

OtterCam: fully installed and ready to record…

Mammal Handling

Posted on 20th February 2015 by glengorm2020

The Bank Vole rotated slowly in its polythene bag. I wasn’t confident that I could catch it.

As it regarded each member of our group through ink-drop eyes, I wondered darkly what it was capable of.

Alicia – staff naturalist at the Aigas Field Centre – made it all look easy. She tipped the bag and the vole scuttled into a corner. Once there, she reached up from underneath to gently restrain its head; using the other hand to scruff it expertly.

Safely caught by the loose skin on its nape, the little creature was whisked out of the bag and presented to us in mid air. Its tiny pink feet paddled ineffectively. Realising that there was no chance of escape, a look of resignation settled and it allowed us to measure its ears.

Other members of the group, nervously clutching bags of voles, got stuck in. I was heartened. Success was everywhere.

We had set the traps the previous evening; baiting them with grain [plus some warm bedding] and hiding them between tussocks of grass and heather. There were three different sorts – some of metal and some of plastic.

Retracing our route at dawn, only the final batch of traps had been successful. Each was opened in a strong plastic sack to allow the occupants to be captured. We were collecting bio-metric data for submission to the Mammal Society.

The bank voles were quite amenable, and after a brief struggle, allowed themselves to be carefully transferred between group members for handling practice.

Measurements were taken. Data was recorded. Voles were admired.

The Woodmouse, however, proved to be an entirely different animal.

Woodmice are very beautiful. They are larger and more handsome than the familiar House Mouse. Rather than being mousy-grey all over, their coat has the rich orange hue of autumn leaves. Their chin and underside is a crisp, clean white; with an elegant pinkish-brown tail, every bit as long as their body. Their faces are pointy and alert -being framed by a spray of twitchety brown whiskers.

They are also quite neurotic – which, I suppose, is what happens when everyone else wants to eat you.

My woodmouse did not look pleased. It’s beetle-bright eyes bulged; every hair on its body seemed to thrum with latent energy and adrenaline. Swallowing anxiously, I reached into the plastic sack. The woodmouse made a terrific jump, fully extending its spring-loaded hind legs, and almost vanished up my sleeve. Hastily I crunched the plastic sack shut and withdrew my arm. I tried once again to restrain it in a corner from underneath.

Reaching in for a second time, I managed to finger the little pocket of loose skin behind its head. Holding as firmly as I dared, I elevated the mouse and brought it into the open.

It squirmed like an eel. Alarmingly, the mouse’s body didn’t seem to be attached to the inside of its skin, so it was able to rotate freely within its furry coat. I struggled manfully to maintain a grip, but failed.

The mouse scrabbled onto the cuff of my jacket, before plopping down onto my boot and leaving a rooster trail of displaced pine needles as it shot immediately into the brash.

I’m just grateful that it didn’t bite me on its way out…

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward [ – and inexpert mouse handler]

The offending mouse: notice its amazing ability to rotate within its own skin?!

Dawn over Aigas

Posted on 10th February 2015 by glengorm2020

Perched among the manifold cushions of Sir John’s sofa, I wasn’t quite sure how I’d talked myself onto it. It was a most alarming situation.

To my right, a stuffed Ptarmigan stared blankly out from a large bookcase. To my left, a well-doing Jack Russell [called either “Nip” or “Tuck”] met my glance with mute appeal. I had tried to dress smartly and was thus reluctant to allow him onto my knee.

Back through the hall, I could see my coat dangling in front of the Aga and dripping rainwater onto Lady Lucy’s kitchen floor. I eyed the puddle guiltily. It was a horrible afternoon.

Sir John first made his way into my life some years earlier. For my birthday, a friend kindly gifted me a book called “The Birdwatcher’s Companion”. It was a nicely presented volume, with a cover of rough beige paper and an ink sketch of some binoculars. The book was an anthology of facts, poems, excerpts and drawings – all starring birds.

Hidden within was one of my favorite pieces of writing. Even now, sitting by my stove and listening to hailstones battering the slate of my roof, I am at a loss to explain just why it affects me so much.

The extract was about a whooper swan. It described the author’s discovery of a mortally wounded bird that had collided with a power cable. The language was beautiful. Perfect. The sad finality of the words “All it knew was the fear of my presence and that it could not fly away” brought tears springing to my eyes as I read them.

Tactfully, the section finished before events reached their unhappy conclusion. Blinking and staring at the last full-stop, I looked down for a name and a title. John Lister-Kaye. Nature’s Child.

It sounded like the sort of book I had to read.

As I became more familiar with the “who’s who” of conservation in Scotland, I discovered that Sir John – in addition to being a naturalist of terrifying repute – was also the proprietor of the Aigas Field Centre. This institution has connected people with the wild highlands for over thirty years; I hoped that they would teach me to do the same.

Back in the sitting room, “Nip” or “Tuck” had maneuvered skilfully onto the sofa. He regarded me with earnest eyes and a sanguine expression. Sir John was asking shrewd questions about my motives for approaching Aigas. My thoughts had been invaded by swans, and I wasn’t doing a good job of answering.

Three weeks later, I couldn’t find my torch. It was 6am, and I was bumping about in an unfamiliar room, trying not to wake the rest of the house. Peeling up my blind, a clear and twinkling sky peeked through the pine boughs. I shuffled into my wellies and did my best to close the door quietly.

Aigas smells different to my home on Mull. A stiff breeze carried the dawn; laden with the rich-damp smells of river and forest. I couldn’t see them, but it was exciting to imagine the sleek bodies of pine marten flowing along branches overhead. Or the tawny flanks of wildcats, melting seamlessly into the undergrowth and guided by eyes like green marble.

I was heading towards a small loch further up the hill. I had only been there once before, but hoped that I would be able to find the circular trail and follow it along the shoreline.

At first the surface was a dull, frozen cataract. Hard snow crunched underfoot – making quiet progress difficult. I continued past the beaver lodge and recently nibbled trees, towards a shining stand of birch on the farthest shore. Blackbirds clucked and chittered in the forest beyond. I stoped to see what had alarmed them. The grey-brown shape of a sparrowhawk flickered past.

The Aigas Loch looked beautiful that morning

The eye of the loch opened slowly, like an old dog. The rolling clouds warmed and grew pink – blushing over the ice like a bruise on milky skin. Reflected trees stretched ghostly capillaries towards a pupil of dark water. Above, six crossbills chipped and dipped through the cool morning air.

Each path was peppered with deer slots and badger prints. Woodpeckers beat their timber drums as munching larvae beat a hasty retreat. Siskins offered a wheezing harmony; gathering in yellow swarms around branches that sagged under the weight of pine-cones.

As I broke cover from the forest and headed up onto the moor, three roe deer sprung across my path. Each paused, eyeing me with wary curiosity and twitching its black moustache. The moon still lingered above the dun. Beyond, the mountains were rosy with sunlight and snow.

I don’t know what my time at Aigas holds. Standing by the cairn, watching the rising sun skitter across a silver Beauly, it seems full of promise.

…I’ll keep you updated!

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

Breaking Dawn: the moon was still out on the moor above Aigas

Deer Diary

Posted on 15th October 2014 by glengorm2020

The autumn rut is my favourite seasonal event on Glengorm.

I can categorically tell you that nothing else – and I mean nothing – will get me springing out of bed at 5:30am.

Last year was the first occasion that I lead groups out to watch the stags; in all honestly, I was quite unlucky. The deer were slow to get going, and for almost a week of “prime rutting time” I despaired of finding any!

The 2013 rut was preceded by an exceptionally cold winter and a slow growing season for our vegetation. Though photoperiod [how many hours of daylight there are] is the main driver for rutting behaviour, it seems reasonable to suppose that a difficult cycle might put the deer behind schedule.

This time, however, they are right on cue. Alex and I were up bright and early to locate the stags.

Walking around in the pitch-black on Glengorm is a strangely soothing experience. No birds sing, no wind stirs the larch trees and only the distant boom of breaking waves spoiles the silence. That, and the baleful roaring of our stags.

Once upon a time Red deer were forest dwellers. Since the vast majority of Britain’s ancient tree cover has been removed, we are now more used to seeing them in the open.

The vocalizations that Red deer produce during the breeding season are designed to penetrate thick cover. “Roaring” carries well because the long soundwaves are able to diffract around obstacles such as trees. This differs from similar species such as Elk, which emit a higher frequency “bugling” call and prefer forest edge habitat.

Male red deer call throughout the night during the rut, and often during the day too. All of their energies are devoted to breeding behaviour; individuals can lose up to 20% of their body weight. Some will die from exhaustion, or be unable to recover condition before the cold weather of winter breaks.

If your day needs a comedy injection, google bugling Elks and marvel at how girly they sound!

Our Red deer stags are anything but girly. If you didn’t know what was out there, you could be forgiven for thinking that our forest was full of velociraptors. The quality of the call varies based on what message the stag is trying to deliver. Mostly, it is like a long, loud snoring burp. I have been accused by my beloved of producing similar noises from time to time.

Stagsroar for several reasons: to indicate their size and vigour [to both other males and hinds], to challenge a competitor or to reinforce a victory.

As we entered Sorne forest, it was clear that there were stags both in and out of the tree cover. We continued through the gloom and emerged by Baliacrach. Dim shadows could be seen moving along the ridges against the lightening sky, and at least six animals were roaring across the glen. The wind seemed changeable; this made the task of choosing a route difficult.

Red deer rely heavily on scent and hearing to monitor their surroundings. Though they are flighty at all other times of year, massive increases in testosterone levels [1000 x the resting level – yikes] can make the stags belligerent and unpredictable. From late June, their internal reproductive organs undergo histological changes in preparation for breeding. By mid September, their “accessory” reproductive organs [use your imagination] have increased considerably in size, as has the girth of the animals neck. Oh, and did I mention the antlers? Made of bone thicker than my wrist with up to eight forward facing spikes on each side?

Basically, it is in the interests of your longevity not to meet 190Kg of antler-swinging sexual frustration head on.

With that in mind we headed off through the darkness towards the deer. We had holding grounds from the previous year in our sights, so cut through the ruined houses to a five bar gate. We moved quietly, trying not to rustle clothing or vegetation.

At my immediate left, there was a sharp bark. We froze. It was still too dark to see the animal, but we could both hear hoofbeats traveling away from us. Ahead, around five stags were calling from the ridge. We passed through the gate and agreed that it must have been a lone hind on her way to the roaring males. We were aiming for a small patch of trees that would provide cover when dawn came. Right behind us, there was a gut churning bellow.

One of Glengorm’s young stags

Alex and I slid on our bellies into one of the black houses and peered back towards the gate. Standing at it was a sizable stag. It was far too dark to see more than his silhouette, but he was rubbing his nose along the bars where we had climbed over. He was less than 20m away, but thankfully on the other side of the fence. The fence was no real barrier to him of course; but I had the feeling that without it, he might have wandered closer.

Each antler bore at least six tines [points] and the stems were well shaped and solid. He kept sniffing the places where our scent was left, becoming increasingly agitated. Alex and I mouthed expletives to one another and flattened down behind the stones. The stag stood squarely, letting out a series of terrifying roars. From belly height, he looked exceedingly tall. These roars had a more guttural quality than those of the surrounding stags, and I am quite sure they were being delivered for our benefit.

At such proximity, the sound seemed to vibrate inside our chests. We could smell him. The weird bluish light of dawn was gathering, and against it, a pocket of hinds could be seen watching from the next rise. It started to rain. Eventually our male joined his harem; drifting off towards Balimeanach.

These two hinds [and calf] are part of a 22-strong harem belonging to “Mr Big” – the largest individual currently near An Sean Dun.

Alex and I let out a joint sigh of relief. When I walked back past the gate later on, I could see huge hoof slots in the soft ground. If it hadn’t been so dark, I’m quite sure he would have seen us crouched behind the wall.

I continued alone towards An Sean Dun, where the main activity had been last year. Using vegetation as cover I was able to pick out at least four stags – some with hinds – roaring above Mingary. More were calling from the Quinish forest, though I was not high enough to see them in the clearings.

As first-light brightened into morning, most of the master stags left for cover. Younger animals, hoping perhaps to steal a chance mating, loitered around the holding grounds. The rain was persistent, and they hunkered down in the bracken until just the tips of their antlers were visible. Every now and then they would rise to spray urine or to call a couple of times. I stayed with them for an hour, before distant gunshots sent them packing.

All in all, it was worth getting up for.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward