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competing for what was then a plentiful resource, they are now, in leaner times, seen as an asset, when fishing has been replaced by eco-tourism and visitors will pay to catch a glimpse the local fauna in its natural habitat.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