Gilmerton Cove

 Gilmerton is a small village south of Edinburgh.  Once a mining area, it is now a suburb of Scotland's capital.
 Drum Street is a busy thoroughfare with take-aways and hairdressers, mums with buggies and folk buying filled rolls and a newspaper from the shop on the corner for their lunch break.

A simple door in an unassuming cottage attached to a bookies didn’t seem worthy of a second glance.  The door was locked and  the only information was a poster in the blank window with a phone number for the “ Gilmerton Cove".    A quick call on the mobile and a cheery voice said,

 “ I’ll just be a minute, we’re just coming up from the underground “

A minute later a smiling young woman appeared and welcomed us in.  The entrance room was small and hung with information panels  about the Cove.

Despite the fanciful interpretations and puns on covens and covenanters, it would seem that “cove” is just and old Scots word for cave.

A cave indeed as we discovered when, hard-hatted for health and safety reasons, we were led down in the depths below the pavement level.

 The Tunnels are low!

  The hard hats proved that, for once, health’n’safety rulings can be useful as the tunnels are quite low and the sandstone though soft and easily worked, is not so soft as allow head butting with impunity.

 Used by a local blacksmith, George Paterson as a store, home and illegal drinking bothy in the eighteenth century,  the Cove has been connected fancifully with Freemasonry ( there are a couple of Masonic symbols carved as graffiti), Covenanters,  witches, Robert the Bruce, he of the cave and the spider, and, of course, the Knights Templar.

The blacksmith claimed he had hewn the multi-chambered construction himself in five years which was manifestly nonsense. He may have rediscovered it and even worked some of the sandstone into which it has been cut but this is not the work of a single eighteenth century blacksmith.

 Archaeological opinion is that it is much older, the pock marked walls of the tunnels being evidence of older tools than iron chisels.

  The marks of simple tools on the walls

 Some of the features have attracted simplified explanations and names to fit with the preconceived and probably erroneous notions of the functions of the"cove". 

 The misnamed “forge” and “well” are not what they seem at first sight.  The “punchbowl” is obviously not that either.   Why bother to carve a bowl into solid stone when it is an easily portable piece of table ware and what use is a forge in a chamber with no chimney?

 The table room wth carved "punchbowl"

Despite all the romantic stories and tales of tunnels extending for miles to Craigmillar Castle and Roslin Chapel, I got the distinct impression that whatever use it had been put in the recent past, this place was much, much older.
It must have taken a great deal of social organisation and possibly coercion to dig out all this solid sandstone and to fashion  the features within the chambers.   Only  a group with a powerful grip on a community could command such obedience and effort, especially in times when providing the day to day neccessities of life was hard enough.   In return for all this effort what did the people get?  Solace, the allaying of fears, comfort in bereavement, the promise of good harvests, predictions and prophesies - all the trappings of  a religion of some kind. 

The Hypogeum in Malta is over 4000 years old dating from the time when the Chalcolithic, the copper age, was at its height and fertility  rites and Earth Mother religion seemed to have predominated among the early agriculturalist peoples.

 An oracle window?

 Though much more sophisticated and complex than Gilmerton Cove, there are many striking similarities.  Niches for cult objects, windows cut in to chambers that may have been where oracles were consulted, altars, votive pits -  all have echoes at Gilmerton. 

The mis-named forge, possibly place for a cult object

Both at the Hypogeum and at the associated megalithic temples at Tarxien,  “fat lady” statues and votive offerings  suggestive of  mother goddess have been found.  Where better to worship such a goddess then in the body of the goddess herself , under the ground.

A model of the fat lady statue from the megalithic site im Malta

 The Hypogeum is a World Heritage Site and, while Gilmerton Cove isn’t in that league, it deserves a visit, a fascinating place that hopefully will be preserved, explored and subjected to academic scrutiny in the years to come. 

http://www.gilmertoncove.org.uk

http://www.heritagemalta.org/hypogeum.html

Island in the sun

The Clisham without boots

A trip to the Western Isles gave LotH a chance to recharge her Gaelic batteries and me a chance to climb the Clisham, the largest peak in the long island acting as a barrier between the moors of Lewis and the hills of Harris.  At 2,621 feet, it is a wee bit short of Munro status but still a good climb.

The impertinent calls of the cuckoos and the wheet of their erstwhile foster parents, the meadow pipits, echoed up Glen Scaradale as I parked the car near the start of the old post track now designated the North Harris Walkway.  It was then I discovered that I’d left my boots back at base. Oh, the trials of age and memory!

  From Gormul Maraig

Nothing for it, having come this far, I set off up the track in a pair of slip-on driving shoes…well, the track looked fairly dry…well, sort of.

The Clisham

Skirting the wettest bits, I made my way up the old path to a stony outcrop, Gormul Maraig, and climbed up over this to the shoulder of Tomnabhal where the Clisham came into view, then came a long slog up the boulder-strewn slopes to the break in the rocky summit ridge.

 The summit approach 

 The views were great down to Harris and up to Lewis but the feet were beginning to feel the strain and there was still the descent to come.  The trek was livened up by sights of greenshanks, the sudden burst from heathery hiding places of red grouse and the wary stares of red deer. 

 View to Harris

 Glacier grooved

As I scrambled back over the large boulders with their glacier grooved surfaces, I pondered on what a pensioner with hypertension and a tin hip was doing stravaging about alone on a mountain.   At that point, a bird flew over and, clear and concise, came the call “coo-coo, coo-coo”.  All the way from Africa to voice an opinion and maybe not far wrong either.  
 It took a day or two for the muscles to recover, the shoes never will. 

 Boating for Eagles

The trip to the Flannans was off, so I settled for a trip round Loch Roag in a RIB, hoping to catch sight of a sea-eagle, it being a bit too early for basking sharks to be seen.

Approaching a sea cave

 Spectacular interiors

Exploring the natural lagoons of Pabaigh Mor and Bhacasaigh with their turquoise waters and white sands was pleasant enough and the arches Pabaigh Beag and the sea caves of Fuaighh Mor were spectacular but no sign of the erne, even as we passed below Creag- na- Iolaire – the crag of the eagle - on Fuaigh Mor.  Not a glimpse.

Venturing out into darker water was a bit stimulating, the bouncy RIB and the spray making it a bit of fun and shaking up the old bones.  The island of Fuaigh Beag is now considered as the source of the uprights for the famed Callanish stones.  Apparently at a very low tide, workings were discovered where the stones may have been cut.  It would only have been a short trip for the slabs through by Bernera where the “bridge over the Atlantic” spans the narrow strait, to their destination at Callanais.

The Bridge over the Atlantic

As we made our way back to our starting point, I glanced up into the cloudless sky and there was a circling dot.   Could it be a sea eagle?   I swept up the binoculars and found that the dot didn’t get any bigger. 
 A floater in the vitreous humour… another penalty of age.

Home, to relax and watch the wonderful sunsets.  We had been hoping to see the fabled “green flash”. Apparently, this occurs just as the sun sets below the horizon – a momentary green flash in the sky. 

 Needless to say, no green flash was seen.

So, no sea eagle, no green flash but a great day out and a wonderful end with a sunset like a Rothko painting.

Birdsong

 The rigs run down to the cliff edge

Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending was recently voted the most popular piece of classical music in the country.    It was chosen as one of the pieces played at the commemoration of the 9/11 tragedy so its appeal extends far beyond our shores.

Vaughan Williams himself did not, apparently, regard it as one of his greatest works.

Its popularity maybe partly due to the image of this tiny bird rising into the blue, wings beating frantically while it pours out its song.  The human equivalent might be to sprint a hundred metres in ten seconds while singing “Che gelida manina" at full register.

The skylarks were in good voice as I skirted the long rigs that run down to the tops of the cliffs along our local coastline but they were in competition with another songster perched inconspicuously atop a stunted hawthorn.   A song that gives rise to that old Scots expression of joy – “singing like lintie” – it was a linnet.  Once so numerous, that our Victorian forefathers, perpetrators of so much wildlife crime, kept them as cage-birds, they are now on the “Red” list of endangered breeds.

 Coastline walk

Birdsong has and probably will always be an inspiration for composers.  The cuckoo features famously in Beethoven, Britten, Mahler and Mozart. The nightingale makes several appearances and there have been parts for robins, wagtails and even siskins.  Vivaldi had his “Goldfinch ” concerto but I can’t find a reference to the linnet.  There must be one somewhere.

Probably the most famous bird in music is the little bird, Peter’s friend in Peter and the Wolf  though I don’t think Prokofiev said what sort of bird it was.  I think it sounds like a wren but I am definitely no musician.

A  recent trip to the Hebrides was enlivened by the daily calling of the gowk whose name, to Anglophones, embodies its call…the cuckoo, and by that sound, now so rare on the mainland, that of the corn crake.

The corn crake’s onomatopoeic Latin name, crex crex, like a thumbnail running down a comb, exactly describes the call that seems to come from about six different birds or from six different locations in the reeds.  No wonder it has a reputation as a ventriloquist.

Watching people going about, walking, jogging, cycling, even waiting at bus stops, with their ears plugged into their i-pods, I fear that a generation will never know the song of a blackbird or the “wise thrush; he sings each song twice over” let alone the linnet or the skylark.

Trees

A visit to Perthshire to the big hills and big trees made a pleasant break from the sodden byways of the Scottish Borders.

The Falls

The Birks

The Birks of Aberfeldy, immortalised in verse by Burns, provided a pleasant evening stroll.  The air was charged with negative ions from the cascading Falls of Moness, its purity vouched for by the lichens clinging to every ancient tree.   Wood anemones and red squirrels added to the enjoyment.

Being among such splendid trees, there had to be a visit to the Fortingall yew, reputed to be up to five thousand years old.   For years it suffered depredation by souvenir hunters and local children and is now protected in a walled enclosure.  There is a local legend that Pontius Pilate was born here as the offspring of a Roman ambassador and a Pictish woman but it seems a highly unlikely tale.

The Yew

 If its age is a great as recorded, the yew has stood from a time before the Neolithic settlers raised the stone circles that still abound in the surrounding fields.  It was once circled by wolf and bear.  Wild boar would have rooted about in its shade.

It’s a thought.   A living organism that goes on and on, regardless of human existence, oblivious to us except when we come and cut chunks from it or set fire to it as has happened to the yew.   Five thousand years,  hmmm!

I have this little yew in a pot.  I found it growing under one of the apple trees.  It was probably seeded by a thrush having dined on the berries of a mature specimen that grows by the nearby burn.  Thrushes seem to be only birds that eat yew berries - and laburnum seeds - without any harm coming to them.  

  Now, if I can just grow it up a bit, then find a safe spot to plant it out …….and in  7012…..will there be any one here to see it?

On the subject of trees, I’ve been keeping an eye on the oak and the ash coming into leaf.

Oak before the ash, in for a splash

Ash before the oak, in for a soak

At the moment they seem to be neck and neck but I have a feeling the ash is going to draw away in the leafy stakes and we are in for a wet summer.    Experts say it is temperature that controls the sequence with cooler weather favouring the ash and doesn’t predict rainfall.  I hope they are right

Spring Prologue

Whanne that Aprille with his shoures sote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote

Not much has changed since Chaucer’s day; April still brings the rain though whether it will be enough to pierce the current drought is debatable.  In the  fourteenth century, it was more about the crops failing than not being able to wash the car at the week-end.

A break in the downpour allowed a visit to Pease Dean, a deep ravine that defeated invading armies for centuries until it was crossed in 1786 by what was, in the eighteenth century, the highest bridge in Europe.   It still stands as a tribute to its builders carrying massive articulated lorries, unforeseen in the time of drays and coaches.

The dean is home to a huge variety of  woodland plants including the  bluebell, the English variety, with its coy, drooping  flower, said to hang thus to protect the pollen from the rain, unlike it  more upright Spanish cousin who didn’t need to develop this trait.

Unfortunately, the Spaniard is so widespread that hybrids are common and neither has the fragrance of the native species.  The bluebell like wood sorrel and ransomes or wild garlic is an indicator species showing the age of a wood.

 The rare Northern brown Argus butterfly can be found here but it is too early yet to see them so I settled for a commoner but still beautiful Peacock

And smalle fowles maken melodye

The dean was full of the song of warblers and tits as well as the harsh cackle of magpies and the omnipresent coo-cooing of wood pigeons. Trying to get a shot of a dipper, I made the mistake of crossing the burn by way of some stones.  Wet and slippery with the rains, they proved treacherous underfoot and I ended up in the burn.   As I returned home soaked through, LotH pointed out that it is more than half a century since I had licence to play in burns and I must learn, even at this late stage, to act my age and not my shoe size.

The terns are back in the bay, having completed their epic journey to Antarctica and back.   I watched them fishing like children ducking for apples.  Graceful and fast they are the “swallows of the sea”    Their terrestrial counterparts, the swallows, should be appearing within the next week.   Year upon year,theycome winging in, usually within twenty four hours of the last arrival date.   
They amaze me.   I can never take their sight for granted. 

 I hope the weather improves for them.

Post script 
The first swallow has indeed arrived and the cuckoo flowers have bloomed ...and still...
... the rain it raineth every day
... as in the fourteenth, so in the sixteenth and the twenty first centuries
... the uncertain glory of an April day

Doing the rounds

A couple of days ago, I met Toad making his way up the garden path. Rescued from a dustbin a few years back, he has since lived in the garden and only appears in the spring when he seems to want to migrate somewhere. To avoid him getting flattened of the road, a fate common to many of his kind, I took him to a neighbouring pond to see if that would satisfy his wanderlust.

Today, I came across one of his erstwhile companions, Mole, busy snuffling about in the grass beside a local walk presumably looking to set up home

.

Unfortunately, the third member of the trio is now not so common. Ratty, the water vole, is on the endangered list. I have caught the occasional glimpse by the burn but the only time I ever got close was to a corpse, neatly dissected by, perhaps, a heron. It looked like a big hamster.

Odd how things get the wrong name, Ratty wasn’t a rat; hedge sparrows aren’t sparrows and the dames violets, that are coming into flower, aren’t violets. They may not even be violet coloured, at least the ones by the beach path weren’t. They were white but they smell like violets…or, at least their scent is what people think violets smell like …like those little purple sweets that you used to get…cachous, I think they were called.

I went for a stroll to a little water meadow surrounded by whins with their own, wonderful coconut scent to see if I could find any traces of the trio’s big chum, Badger, but the sett seem to be deserted, however, another older one, close to the village seems to be getting a remake… or a fox has taken it over. Certainly, there seems to be active digging going on.

The whirligig beetles on the pond in the meadow were spinning round in shiny arabesques. Why? I wondered, but then much of what we do seems, and probably is, as pointless and time-consuming as the beetles’ endless circling. Their activities must confer some advantage, though, making it more difficult for predators, perhaps, for Nature and evolution do not allow pointless expenditure of energy. Only humans are permitted that self indulgence as anyone who has followed Scotland at rugby for the past few seasons will know.

Changing Attitudes

One of my favourite spots is a mysterious ruin perched high above the North Sea. Once a place of intrigue and secrecy, it is now the haunt of the peregrine and the kittiwake. Many years ago, I watched puffins from its vantage point but they too have gone.

On the approach road, I saw a shifting huddle of grey shapes beside a wee loch

Pink footed geese

Pink-footed geese, resting on their northerly migration, they were wary of my presence and ready to take to flight at a close approach. Scores of them, with others flying in to join the flock, pecked and grazed the rough pasture.

The path to the castle is steep and the entrance is not for those with vertigo but, once across the rocky bridge, it is a pleasant place to relax in the sunshine and keep an eye on the coastal shipping.

Stretched out on the grass, I heard a low crooning sound over the lap and splash of the sea. Edging to the remains of the ramparts, I saw the source of the sounds, a small colony of grey seals and pups on the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. Safe, below two hundred feet of sheer cliff and guarded from the sea by boulders and reefs, they were sleeping and resting and singing to each other in a gentle lowing.

Once seen, unreasonably, as a pest by fishermen for competing for what was then a plentiful resource, they are now, in leaner times, seen as an asset, when fishing has been replaced by eco-tourism and visitors will pay to catch a glimpse the local fauna in its natural habitat.

Tempora mutantur et nos mutamtur in illis

Bridging the gap

Cliff-top view

There has been a gap in my ancestry, indeed, in everyone’s, of which I’ve been totally unaware. Fortunately, it’s now being filled and right on my doorstep.

It seems that 360 to 345 million years ago some of our ancestors, those that survived one the extinction events that seem to occur from time to time, dragged themselves out of the sea and took up residence on land but nobody had much idea about them as there was a gap in the fossil record, the so-called Romer’s gap. I only know this from the local newspaper because it appears that the gap has been filled by fossils found right here in the cliffs and river beds. A paleontological breakthrough.

Descent

There was nothing for it but to go and have a look for myself. Beautiful day, beautiful views and a charming little fishing village but after scrambling precariously about on the shale slopes then almost getting marooned by the incoming tide, I drew a blank. A couple of rocks that looked like sea plant fossils …maybe… but nothing exciting, but then I’m not an expert and even they haven’t been able to find any until recently, hence the “gap”.

Fossils?

Coming home was more productive. Skeins of geese were honking their way north along the coast, a flock of goldeneye, several females with a male in attendance, rested just offshore. Presumably they were heading in the same direction.

Goldeneye

Primrose and celandine on the braes and speedwell in the field edges were opening to the sun.

The local cormorants are getting their white breeding plumage on. They are the masters of air and water but as clumsy on land as those first tetrapods must have been when they first waddled ashore in “gap” years of the Tournasian era.

I must go back and have another look though LotH has reminded me to take my mobile phone…..just in case.