Category: Spring

Graffiti Sheep

Posted on by glengorm2020

On Tuesday the 25th of February, at 9am GMT, the parallel universes of Farming and Ineptitude collided.

I don’t usually help out with our livestock – for good reason – so when opportunity knocked I was most pleased.

The Glengorm farm is a man-zone of tractors, male posturing and humorous banter. It is a place where man-points are scored by being the muddiest, lifting the heaviest, or maintaining a grip on the wildest.

[*The only notable exception is at lambing time, when it swiftly fills with little girls.]

Recently, Angus worked two full weeks without realising that his leg was broken – this display of resilience was much admired. Many man-points were scored.

But on the 25th of February, The Scanner was due. In farming, this is equivalent to being visited by a wizard.

The Scanner comes over annually from New Zealand, on a two-month migratory passage that sweeps through the sheep farms of Scotland. He is an important carrier of sheep-related intelligence and an enthusiastic participant in humorous banter; but his primary purpose is to count unborn lambs.

In the days leading up to the arrival of The Scanner [who, by the way, is called Daniel and is a thoroughly nice man] all the female sheep are gathered from the hill and brought to the small fields surrounding the farm and fank.

Watching Daniel don a shoulder-length pink glove and a certain amount of  gel, I thought the Glengorm Girls might be in for an uncomfortable couple of hours. However, mercifully, he is also equipped with a small hand-held ultrasound device which is placed on their bellies – externally (!)

The sheep come into the fank in groups. Once the first group was in, I was shown how to mark each ewe [on Mull, this is pronounced to rhyme with “cow” ] according to the number of lambs she has within her. My demo took place on a fence post, and was done with spray in a jolly shade of purple.

Nodding to The Scanner with manly bonhomme, I stationed myself next to “The Shedder”. The Shedder is a small standing area – sort of like a cattle crush – in which individual sheep can be contained whilst scanning or anything else of that nature takes place.

As each ewe is separated from the group, it enters a narrow passage. This passage is called “The Race” [on Glengorm, at least]. Standing ready at The Shedder, I didn’t fully appreciate why.

Blackface sheep have a reputation for being wild. Contrary to popular belief, both ewes and tups [the term for a male sheep] have an impressive set of horns. Watching the first expectant mother line itself up to the race, I began to understand that she would reach terminal velocity long before she reached me. Her nostrils flared, and with a nervous skittering of the feet, she hurtled down the narrow passage and took a spectacular leap. She almost cleared the crossbar into the shedder, but not before the scanner had grabbed her by the fleece and nonchalantly stuffed her back.

Each sheep was scanned in a matter of seconds – quite literally, about two or three. Once the number of lambs was identified, I had to mark the sheep prior to its release. This sounds straightforward; in practice, sheep are reluctant art partners.

What should have been a neat coloured spot squiggled and trailed – depending on the trajectory and mph of the sheep. Gentler cross breeds were fine. The Blackface left sporting childish Mr Scribbles, celebrity autographs or “crouching-tiger-hidden-dragon” [in the slightly mortifying words of the scanner].

Blackface sheep have a number of set approaches to the scanning process.

There are “The Jumpers”: these individuals steel themselves for maximum height and impact, bunching their little hooves underneath them, before launching up and in the general direction of the barrier. At times, two or three ewes would be piled like Junglebook elephants, as those behind gamely clambered over the forerunners.

There are “The Crawlers”: these individuals hesitate, then hunker down and try to shimmy past in stealth mode. Probably the least effective method as far as the sheep are concerned; somehow, we always managed to spot them…

Then, there are “The Runners”: these guys don’t mess about. They thunder down the race trailing farmers, fellow sheep and equipment behind them, making boldly for the exit… running like the wind… only to be shut into the shedder with a resounding clunk. A couple of brave souls almost made it, but Dan’s skills with the gate are every bit as good as his scanning.

Daydreaming , between shouts of “TWIN!” I contemplated the revolutionary effect Daniel could have on maternity units nationwide. This man could save the NHS millions at a stroke [though admittedly, patient satisfaction might take a hit]. His ability to decipher the vague black and white doodles on the ultrasound screen was uncanny – but then, having scanned over 4 million sheep in a 20-something year career, he does know what he’s doing.

What all sheep do seem to have in common is the delivery of a neat little “Screw You” skip, just as they make it back into the yard.

Presumably, the thought of surviving to graze another day makes them feel light on their feet – even when carrying triplets.

So, you might be wondering why we go to the trouble of scanning and marking our sheep at all. The answer is food.

The ewes are separated into our lambing parks based on the number of offspring they carry. For those with more than one youngster, additional feeding is required to keep them in good shape.

Sheep without lambs [so “yeld” sheep, to use the correct term] are given one year of good grace, after which their farming career is over should they fail to conceive again. These sheep were given an ominous red mark on the shoulder, and packed off back onto the hill.

The marks not only help with the separating process, but also help the farmers to sort out stray or missing lambs once they arrive. If a ewe has only one at foot, but bears a “TWIN!” mark, then they know to start looking. Speaking from experience last year, lambs just love to get lost.

Add to this the unbridled joy that some ewes get from stealing eachothers offspring, and you see that lambing is a thoroughly infuriating and time consuming business. Thus, further marking systems are required:

Once born, each pair of twins is given a number. This helps to ensure that everyone is where they need to be [and that the farmers’ blood pressure remains relatively stable].

Happily, the count of unborn lambs this year is the best on record for Glengorm. This was something of a surprise, considering the poor weather we’ve had all winter. According to the farmers’ vague explanations, bad weather can affect “the mood” somewhat.

For our flock of 800 ewes the final result was over 140% [ie. 1,120 unborn lambs between them].

Sadly, not all of these youngsters will survive… but it’s a very promising start!

 

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

[and sheep-marker extraordinaire]

We’re watching ewe…

Watching Ewe

Cuckoo

Posted on by glengorm2020

Suddenly, the brown vegetation of winter gives way to fresh life and colour.

The grass has sprung into action – coating our dusty fields in a cool green cloak. Orchids glow between the tussocks like purple jewels, and Thrift blooms in delicate clumps among the rocks.

Thrift in bloom close to Flat Rock – last night, an Otter crept up behind us as we watched the sunset there!

The slopes around our shore have a diffuse mauve coating. Though they have been slow to open this year, the sweet fragrance of Bluebells mingles pleasantly with the salty air. Wood anemones and Wood sorrel glitter like a carpet of stars under the trees, and tiny birds forage in the branches for insects to feed their young.

The first Bluebell of the year… it doesn’t look too perky in this picture, but they soon livened up!

Many summer migrants are back to breed: Whitethroat, Blackcap, Willow and Garden warblers drench the shady paths in song. Cuckoos in the Pheasent Wood provide a soothing bass, but are best seen in the fields near Lephin Cottage. Driving along the track yesterday, I saw at least four individuals either wobbling gamely on telephone wires, or watching intently from fence posts. Incredible to think that they’ve traveled all the way from Sub-Saharan Africa! Seeing these birds again reminded me just how intriguing they are…

One of my favourite migrants: the Spotted Flycatcher – photographed just opposite The Lodge. These charming birds flutter through the trees after insects.  

Cuckoos are sometimes villainized for their parasitic lifestyle, with many people accusing them of being “lazy” or “poor parents”. In fact, female cuckoos invest some considerable effort in securing good foster homes for their young.

Think about it: in order to judge at what time she must deposit her egg into a nest, the female cuckoo must watch her targets carefully. Birds have a set incubation period (usually about 12 – 14 days for a small species). If the cuckoo mistimes her approach, she risks the host chicks hatching before her own, and damaging or destroying her egg.

One of the Swallows nesting in the Castle – very difficult to photograph in flight?! 

In some instances female cuckoos are known to eat clutches that are too close to hatching, in order to force the host parents to start laying again so that she can add her egg in. Her strategy relies on her egg hatching first, so that the cuckoo chick can eject the host eggs and be the sole occupant of the nest. This all sounds horrible, but when you consider that a female cuckoo can parasitise up to 50 nests a year… she certainly has her work cut out keeping track of them all!

A female cuckoo will only parasitise nests belonging to the same species as her own foster parents. This seems to ensure that her egg looks similar the eggs of her prospective foster family. If her egg looks dissimilar to other eggs in the nest (for example, if the colour pattern is different) it will be rejected and destroyed.

Her plumage helps to temporarily scare away the adult birds as she approaches; even I have mistaken Cuckoos for Sparrowhawks on occasion! Her blue-grey back, long tail and barred chest have evolved because of the benefits they confer. It takes her around 10 seconds to remove one host egg and replace it with her own – a remarkably quick process. Interestingly, if another cuckoo has already parasitised the nest, she seems unable to differentiate between the host eggs and other interlopers.

One of Glengorm’s Irish [mountain] hares in its summer pelt. Note that they are smaller than Brown hares. 

Once the cuckoo chick hatches, it assumes a murderous squatting stance. Using a special cupped area on its naked back, it shoves the other unhatched eggs over the side of the nest with gritty determination. This done, it plops cheerfully back into the middle and looks forward to being the sole recipient of all food brought by the adults.

You might think that the cuckoo chick would struggle here, as they are often much bigger than the natural chicks of their hosts. How could a cuckoo possibly grow on the slim-line diet of a tiny Dunnock?

Well, with an enormous brightly coloured gape (the inside of the mouth – seen when chicks beg) and a plaintive call that mimics a whole nest-full of hungry babies, the foster parents are driven to provide enormous quantities of food. Though able to spot foreign eggs on occasion, the adult birds have no mechanism for identifying foreign chicks. So long as the cuckoo keeps begging, the caterpillars keep coming…

Cuckoos of various kinds are known to target approximately 100 species of bird worldwide – in Britain these are usually species like Dunnock, Meadow pipit and Reed warbler.  The genetic processes linked to the colour of each bird’s eggs are still unclear. Originally thought to be determined by the female genes alone, it is interesting that in over 90% of studied cases, the chosen host also turns out to be the same species that fostered the male cuckoo.

Sadly, cuckoos are declining badly. Whatever you might think of their morals, their trademark song is surely one of Britain’s most evocative sounds. The British trust for Ornithology – BTO – began a program of tracking cuckoo migration in 2011 to try and discover why mortality is so high. For information about the results so far, see:

http://www.bto.org/science/migration/tracking-studies/cuckoo-tracking/what-have-we-learnt

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

Get to the Point

Posted on by glengorm2020

The beautiful weather of the last three weeks has finally broken.

Although the herby smell of warm, dry grass was delicious the smell of smoke rising from the resultant wildfires was much less so.

The distillery in Tobermory had to pause production because of the drought (a tragedy!) and Mull was officially – if briefly – the driest place in the country.

Rather than being the bright and verdant pasture for which Glengorm was named, the fields remain stunted and dull. This has been a bit of a worry for calving and lambing; things have been slow to start on the farm this year. However, if you visit us for a walk, you’ll see that the trickle is starting to swell to a flood. Little lambs are tottering after the ewes on over-sized feet, and within a week or two, I’m sure we’ll start to see gangs of them racing around and playing King of the Castle. This seems to be a universally enjoyed game for all lambs, in which they compete for a position on the highest piece of ground they can find (within shouting distance of mum, that is!)

The Skylarks and Meadow pipits are in full display mode; watch out for their lovely courtship flights as you walk through our fields. The Wheatears are back from their migration, and males can be seen singing boldly from prominent tussocks or boulders. The Hen harriers have been a bit quiet of late, so I can only assume that they are busy preparing to breed. Males have been seen “Skydancing” elsewhere on the island, so I’m keen to find out what our birds are up to. I did catch a very brief glimpse of a female yesterday, but she was off over the heather before I could see what she was doing.

In other news, Alex and I have re-homed a beautiful dog (if you were on the ferry last Sunday, you might have seen him!) “Big-George” as he is fondly known, seems to be settling in well. He’s a large black and white Pointer – perfect for keeping me company on those long upland walks. He was both well-loved and well looked after at his previous home, so we feel very privileged to have him.

Now, George is a bit of a foodie, so if you see him pottering around outside the Coffee Shop… you’d better watch your sarnies. There was a mildly embarrassing incident involving a wheelchair and a tuna sandwich in Oban, from which I have only just recovered. He also thinks my small parrot is a treat, and sits expectantly whenever Quito perches on my hand. Despite Quito’s desire to remain un-eaten, and George’s ambitions to the contrary, it really does feel like he’s completed our household.

I had secret hopes that George might engage in a bit of Pointing from time to time – we have lots of game species on Glengorm, and keeping track of them can be tricky. As it stands, the only thing George has pointed out so far was a particularly fetid deer carcass. Delighted with his find, he then embarked on a series of enthusiastic rolls. As far as George was concerned, I could keep my Grouse and Woodcock. He also eats deer-poo like Smarties, so if he offers you a kiss…

You might have heard about the Sperm Whale sighted in Oban Bay at Easter. This young male spent nearly nine days circling the harbour area – right where the ferries dock. He was estimated to be between 11-14 years of age, and roughly 11m in length. A group of these whales had been photographed off the coast of Sky shortly before his arrival, which was unusual enough in itself.

The Sperm Whale is the largest toothed animal on earth, and also the deepest-diving mammal species. They are usually found in waters reaching depths of several thousand meters. Here, they journey into yawning ocean trenches to feed on Giant squid and Octopus. They have the largest brain of any creature, living or extinct, and produce some of the loudest vocalizations known to science.

For this 20 tonne individual, Oban Bay – maximum depth 40m – must have been quite an experience. Save a few battered calamari rings from the local chippie, Oban isn’t famed for its abundant supply of Giant squid. People were both amazed and concerned.

For me, the whale might as well have arrived from outer space. Never in my wildest dreams had I hoped for a chance to see such an enigmatic creature. After two days of restlessly checking Twitter, I coughed up my seven-quid and galloped onto the ferry.

I kept imagining it – perhaps resting on the bottom. Feeling the warm fuel-oiled waters swilling around it. Hearing the apocalyptic thunder of CalMacs overhead. A frightened, alien presence in the bay.

I waited with other hopefuls on the pier. After about 30 minutes, a hump of greyish-black gently broke the surface, followed by a long stretch of crinkled skin. The look of it was odd: pinched but firm. It didn’t give the impression of being loose, but rather betrayed the powerful flexing muscles hidden underneath. This, of course, was the Sperm Whale’s distinctive flank. The dorsal fin was small and hardly more prominent than the breathing apparatus. The whale moved slowly, blowing out plumes of spent breath and water droplets as it circled the north section of the bay. 

I must admit, a sense of absolute dread filled me when I saw it. The curiosity and awe that had drawn me there was replaced with a kind of guilty sadness.  The photographs always seem to be the same: the whale lies stricken and canted on the shore. It is generally raining. Tiny people in jackets stand before it, desperate to help a creature they cannot understand but somehow feel connected to. As I made my way back to the ferry hours later I didn’t hold out much hope.

Nevertheless: the Oban Whale proved to be made of sterner stuff, and confounded the fairly gloomy expectations for its fate. After spending 9-days in the bay (and engaging in altercations with several boats), he left.

No drama, no big rescue operation – it literally just swam off. I couldn’t have been more pleased.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

Sun is Shining

Posted on by glengorm2020

So, it’s been a little while since the last Blog. Why? Because it’s sunny! I’ve been outside soaking it up…

Daffodil shoots can already be seen peeking cautiously out from between the clods of soil near my house. The great tits that inhabit the wooded path have been filling the air with their ‘teacher-teacher’ spring song, closely followed by a party of long-tailed tits whose tiny voices tinkle like wind chimes in the trees. The nests these birds build are delicately woven balls of spider silk and feathers, decorated with bits of lichen or moss to help conceal them. The little chicks must be very cosy inside, and as they grow, the nest actually stretches to accommodate them! I’ll be keeping an eye out in a month or two.

On Wednesday I was out looking for rather bigger birds. I was giving a bit of an ‘orientation’ to two brothers who hope to do some filming here on Glengorm. Our luck was really in, and we managed to obtain splendid views of two White-tailed eagles down at Mingary, plus a male Hen harrier near the Standing Stones. I’m really pleased that we’ve started seeing at least one male again; it’s impossible to know whether this is one of our resident individuals, but with the abundance of females here on the estate I have high hopes for the coming breeding season. The survival of hen harriers teeters on a knife edge elsewhere in the UK, and our birds are becoming increasingly important. It makes me really proud to work in a place where harriers can be seen daily; so much so that I have chosen them as the new emblem for our Wildlife Project.

Peter and Scot really got the grand tour, and I rather suspect they slept well after it… I know I certainly did?! Peter has some great ideas for footage of Glengorm’s historical features as well as its wildlife. He hopes to capture the atmospheric nature of the ruined village and Sean Dun by using time-lapse photography. When we arrived at Balimeanach (the ruined village abandoned during the Clearances) the sun was shining through the glen. One of the houses has a lovely carving in the doorway, and there are other similar works hidden around the estate. Inside the house, we found part of a bed frame – it looked very old, so might have been original. It was decorated with flowers and must have been very pretty once upon a time. Now, it is sadly canted and rusting against the crumbling wall.

I’ve also been riding around quite a bit with Alex. He often goes out to areas of the estate that I don’t know very well when doing his farming duties. He was born and raised on Glengorm, so has had plenty of time to explore the interesting nooks and crannies!

Friday was my first proper trip up to Sean Dun, one of the two Iron Age forts that we have on the estate. The view was breathtaking, and it was amazing to think of all the people that have enjoyed it through history – long before the likes of me! From this height, it is also possible to see the ‘Lazy Beds’. These are man-made undulations in the ground used for farming right up until the 19thC in Scotland. In some instances, sea-weed was brought up from the shores to use as fertilizer. The ridges allow good drainage of the soil for crops.

We also went up to Loch Torr. In summer, large numbers of lapwing gather here. If you’ve never seen or heard a lapwing, they are one of Britain’s most sensational birds. The plumage is a deep bottle-green with an oily sheen of purple around the wings. A striking black bib covers a glossy white chest, like an inverted dinner suit. A wispy crest pokes from a square – but charming – head. In flight the wings have a curiously rounded appearance, with the black tips swatting frantically to and fro like air traffic signals on a runway. Their call is mechanical, wacky, like a sci-fi device in meltdown (think flashing lights and smoke in Dr. Who). The strange ‘zips’ and ‘pops’ seem better suited to a futuristic disco than the quaintly rolling fields of the British countryside.

But few birds are as acrobatic and pugnacious; their displays during the nesting season are jaw dropping – to the extent where applause almost seems necessary. When living in Abernethy, my chalet overlooked a marshy field. Here, the lapwings were engaged in a constant battle against a pair of dastardly crows (who had designs of a gastronomic nature on their chicks). The lapwings would tirelessly mob the intruders, diving at them and tumbling through the air to drive them away. The crows were sneaky and often worked together to distract the adults.  Sadly, the lapwing is now suffering a significant decline in the UK – primarily due to changes in farming methods and intensification. The sight of their tiny chicks trundling gamely through rough grass is one that fewer people can enjoy.

My advice? Google them. They’re just so showbiz.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward