Days Like This by Alan Grieve
On the 28th December, 2007 we parked the car off the A9 at Calvine. It was a bitterly cold morning, I was excited and dense mist enveloped the diminutive Highland village. A stiff ascent from the roadside, crunchy snow underfoot on the track known as the Minigaig pass. Soon we emerged from the fog. Squinty face bright sunshine. Breathing hard. Our destination, Creag na h-blair Mhor - Crag of the Eagles...
Roger Hayward was my partner for our trip. A chance meeting a year ago inspired today's outing.
We met in a field near Dunfermline (my home town) on New Year's Day 2007. I had my dog Alex with me. He had his Pocket Swarovski binoculars. Vibram soled Hunter wellies and a Buffalo jacket (as used by the Scottish Mountain Rescue) told me this man was serious about his twitching. We wished each other a Happy New Year with a firm handshake. We spoke a bit. Turned out Roger works monitoring birds of prey in the Grampian Hills for The Scottish Raptor study Group. A mutual love of the outdoors was established. I asked if I could accompany him sometime on one of his trips. He said no problem. We exchanged phone numbers.
After the initial sweaty climb up the pockmarked landrover track, our route began to undulate over high moorland. All around us were snow covered peaks and big skies. Braw. Looking back over the landscape, I recognised the plateau of Ben Alder. Bonnie Prince Charlie hid in a cave over there, I said. The cave's near a haunted bothy, I said. Lonely shepherd hung himself, I said. Roger nodded and spoke of his work over here on the Atholl Estate. Peregrine Falcons were his speciality, he said. 25 years he'd studied their movements and numbers in these hills. Fought against their persecution. Written a book about it he said. I'd love to see it, I said. I had never met someone with such an infectious passion for his work. As we walked, Roger talked and I smiled into the bracing North wind and nodded a lot. Better than ordnance survey maps, I thought Roger was like Mister Talking Topography. He knew every grassy knoll in this vast expanse, every crag and even every lone Rowan tree atop those big lichen covered boulders.
Like the ones in a Cohn Pryor photo.
Conversation turned to the reason for our walk. A visit to a Golden Eagle's nest. Roger's job was to check the recently fitted webcams at the nest site. This entailed climbing up to the nest to see the technology was in place. I was going up with him! I'd never seen an Eagles nest before! As the breeding season was about to get underway, Roger said we may not be luck enough to see any eagles. He said eagles always monitored activity around their nest, although their presence was not always obvious. Big Bird Big Brother, I thought. Eagles on the Web was a brand new initiative, Roger said. Encouraging tourism in the area and furthering scientific research into Eagles' feeding habits, he said.
The river bubbling alongside the track as we walked was that well known brown colour. Peat. No doubt after another spell of torrential rain, I thought. Welcome to Scotland, I thought. The last few cold miles up the glen to the nest were punctuated with stops at a couple of bothies for a breather and Scooby snacks. Cuilltemhuc and Allt Sheicheachan providing rustic shelter for our pit stops. Memories of many an egalitarian evening spent in Scotland's mountain shelters...
We made one more stop before reaching our destination. Light was beginning to fail with a promise of a rock hard frost when we called in at the shooting lodge at the head of the Glen. Roger knew the Gamekeeper, Dominic, from back in the day. Just a quick hello and then on to set up camp at the foot of the crags, he said.
I was introduced to Dominic, his wife Jill and their three girls, Holly, Rosie and Rowan. The Christmas cheer and warmth of their kitchen quickly reminded me of the austerity of an imminent night under canvas. Then Dominic uttered the memorable words. Listen guys, you're welcome to spend the night here. Then even more memorable words. Dinner's served in an hour. Join us if you wish.
With renewed vigour we skipped over frozen bog and tussock to the foot of the Eagles Crag. An incongruous solar panel on the floor of the glen was our marker. Following the wires, we made a hasty, dusky scramble over scree and crag up to the nest.
I kid you not, the nest was the size of my three year olds bed! ‘Without the Mister Men covers, of course. A mass of moss, twigs and sticks. Evidence of recent activity round the nest, Roger said. I nodded and smiled for the hundredth time today and looked back to the wee lights of the lodge and the inky vastness of the glen. For that moment, I was the eagle. Surveying the panorama and thinking about dinner..
Roger was satisfied with the camera work, so we descended gingerly by the light of our head torches.
Excitedly, we unfurled our sleeping bags from their stuffsacs in one of the seldom used dorms of the Victorian Lodge. The room was full of paintings and trophies. Images of the Highlands frozen in time. Stags and tartan. Like a dishcloth at your grans.
Dinner! Dominic shouted from up the hail.
PARMA HAM AND MELON
ORGANIC ROAST LEG OF LAMB
with
HOMEGROWN ROAST VEGETABLES and HOMEMADE MINT JELLY
(Hugh Fearnley VVhittingstall heaven!)
LEMON SPONGE
COFFEE AND WHISKY
Dominic and Jill were perfect hosts. Conversation was lively. Dominic spoke of life on the Estate and being a member of Europe's only private army. Whisky flowed. Jill spoke of her mis-spent youth in Glenrothes. We laughed a lot. It was soon midnight. Time flies like knives, they say. Fruit flies like bananas, they also say.
