One early February evening last year, G came to the house. Driving along the back road, he`d just seen an otter by the Stell burn. He saw it somewhere along the burn`s ditch-like meander from hill to river; near the Great Beech Tree where the mountain-bikers` steep descent ends.
A few weeks later, after a cold and wet drive home, following a fractious day at work, I was anticipating a cold, wet, forest run. Crossing the redbull carpark I stooped down where the Stell burn passed by and looked out for glimpses of otter. I only bothered a heron. As it cantankerously settled itself further upriver I climbed the push-up track. Up and up.
Finally, I levelled out at the logging road named Upper Plora Craig Road (on the map), or Top Campshiel Road (according to a sign). Or: Red Squirrel Road (according to me).
At this cold height the larch, pine and spruce were white with snow. Stopping I stretched, listening to ticking raindrops. Then the sun came out: a bright rainbow, and birdsong switched on ahead where warm light illuminated treetops. I searched along the canopy and studied russet cone-clusters but saw no squirrels.
Running on, northeast towards open, oddly radiant space, I came out above a white fog, filling the Tweed valley. Across from me, hills and trees shone greenly, dusted with fresh snowfall. Scots pine glowed translucent browns.
Turning back I cut down right, (shortcut through a firebreak), and came out on the lower road. I searched in vain, as I loped, for squirrel drays and pine cones gnawed to the core.
No comments:
Post a Comment