Rubbish weather, best day of Spring

Travelling away from Orkney during the pandemic has obviously been severely limited. Aside from attending my dad's funeral in England and a 'same tier' trip to Inverness, my only lockdown journeys have been to do with work. I realise how fortunate I am in being able to have a change of scene (even in the midst of sea-sickness somewhere in the North Sea), as these trips reduce the mental stress of cabin fever.

Last week was a case in point, with a visit to attend in Shetland. Twenty four hours outwith Orkney, thirteen of them at sea. With the Covid restrictions, this means that a bleary-eyed blogger was unleashed upon the empty streets of Lerwick at 7.30am, way too soon to be knocking on a customer's door or, perhaps even more importantly, before the shops open. Salvation was at hand in the form of the New Harbour Cafe, which opens its doors at 7am and is a haven until a more sociable hour (not to mention the possibilities for breakfast).

On this trip, there was only one visit and, fortuitously, it did not take long (some visits are for hours depending upon the complexity of the fault), so there was an amount of free time to kill before catching the ferry back to Orkney.

Through social media, I was aware that there was a rare visitor to the UK on a loch in the west of mainland Shetland, so after checking there were no more jobs for me, I drove on ever-narrowing roads to Stanevatstoe, near Sandness. Despite the cold northerly wind, its cutting edge finely honed by every wave crest en route from the Arctic, and frequent rain squalls, it did not take long to find the odd one out amongst several Tufted Ducks. This is a Hooded Merganser, which should be on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, but which looked absolutely stunning despite the dreich weather.

Following this success, a lifer for me, a mug of hot chocolate and a cake were needed for the necessary celebrations. Fortunately, the village shop in Walls came to the rescue but, as these were being contentedly consumed, my attention was drawn to something splashing in the nearby bay. The immediate thought was "Otter!" so drinks were put to one side and a vantage point sought on a low roadside wall.

After watching the Otter gently splashing around in circles for five minutes, the feeling grew that something wasn't quite right. It just didn't look like normal Otter behaviour. Was the animal entangled in a rope or a net?

A few more minutes of observation made us think that, although we could only see one head and one tail, there might be two animals here. Was it a mum with a cub on her back? By this time, a Harbour Seal was beginning to take an interest too, moving ever closer to the circling Otter(s). Would a seal make an opportunistic lunge for an otter?! Despite several close passes, and with no visible reaction from otter(s), the seal eventually swam off.

So just what were we watching? After a while, it dawned on us that this was a mating pair and, amazed, we continued to watch for a bit longer, before leaving the Otters to it. As Chris Packham might say whilst vigorously rubbing his thighs, "Copulating Otters! This is what you pay your licence fee for!" So I had better supply some footage...

And I didn't care that my hot chocolate was now cold.

Driving south to Burra, we had lunch by Meal Beach (no pun intended), then took a wander down to the water's edge. Even on an overcast day, this is a wonderful location, and at this time of year, the air was full of the sounds of Oystercatchers, Curlews, Common Terns, a Blackbird and a Wheatear.

A movement by the banks of a burn resolved itself into a female Pied Flycatcher, likely migrating northwards for the Summer.

Amongst the Primroses, Common Scurvygrass and Lesser Celandines were a few clumps of something else. The flowers had the look of Campion, though were much smaller, whilst the foliage was almost moss-like. My uneducated and ambitious guess of "Moss Campion?" proved to be correct.

Though well out of camera range, the area also offered up an Iceland Gull, which had not yet returned north to breed, and another new species for me for the year.

I read a line recently, in Matthew Oates' "In Pursuit of Butterflies", which offered the thought that "Some of the most wonderful, memorable days of one's life occur in mid-May, when Spring is at its best." I couldn't argue with that one iota.