Scottish Wildlife and Nature Blog

Enchanted by the frog chorus

On April 16, 2025

I heard the frogs before seeing them – a pulsating, rhythmic hum that ebbed and flowed across the afternoon air. This frog chorus was hypnotic and alluring, and accompanying their gentle croaks were the rougher ‘qwark-qwark’ calls of mating toads.

I was on the approach to a remote hill pond near my home, which I had only discovered a few months previously during deepest winter. At the time, I reckoned the pond looked the perfect place for spawning amphibians and now it transpired that my hunch had proved correct.

Not wanting to spook the frogs and toads, I crawled slowly towards the pond edge, a few short pulls of the arms and legs, then a short pause, followed by a few more. When close to the pond, some of the frogs and toads cavorting on the water surface spotted me and in a sudden swirl were gone. Non-plussed, I bided my time and soon their heads popped up and the air filled once more with their resonant calls.

This was heavenly paradise, nature in the act of procreation and the water continually rippled as the males vied for females, sometimes clambering on top of their backs and gripping tightly in the mating embrace known as amplexus.

Strangely, I had never previously seen frogs and toads together at the same time when mating. Normally, frogs spawn in early March with toads following a few weeks later. However, this was the earliest in the year I had ever seen toads active on a breeding pond, which in turn had resulted in the overlap with the frog spawning and was possibly a worrying sign of climate change.

In another bizarre twist, on some occasions male toads crawled onto the backs of female frogs as if to mate with them. A case of mistaken identity no doubt, but I did briefly ponder the seemingly implausible notion that frogs and toads might have the potential to interbreed and hybridise. It is an occurrence I have never heard of before and quickly dismissed it from my mind.

As I watched the amorous amphibians, a pair of grey wagtails alighted on the far side of the pond, and darted around snapping up tiny flies, before spiralling away again in an undulating flight.

After an hour or so, it was time to go, but on slowly turning my body, I came face to face with a writhing ball of toads on the grass behind. A poor female toad had attracted the attention of two males, both of whom gripped tightly onto her back. She slowly crawled along the ground with her unwelcome cargo – a ponderous and energy-sapping process. Would she be able to shed one of the males by the time she reached the pond, or would she have to endure both for several days to come?

With such pressures, it is hardly surprising that many toads succumb at this time of year – it may be the season of renewal, but the dark cloud of death is forever present.

Why cities are rich places for wildlife

By keithbroomfield

On February 20, 2025

In Wildlife

A male blackbird busily turns over fallen leaves in search of worms and a flock of goldfinches twitters in a tree above – but I am not out in the wilds of the countryside, but instead near the centre of Aberdeen at the start of the Deeside Way by Duthie Park.

The route follows the line of the Old Royal Deeside Railway from Aberdeen to Banchory, through woodland and farmland to Kincardine O’Neil and then rejoins the old line from Aboyne to Ballater, a total distance of over 40 miles. The railway line opened in 1853 and closed in 1966. It ran originally from Aberdeen to Banchory, but was extended to Ballater in 1866.

My focus was on the first stretch from Duthie Park to Holborn Street and immediately I was drawn into its green surroundings and the tranquillity from the bustle of city life. I watched the male blackbird for a while as it busily foraged in among the leaves. A couple of other blackbirds on a wall nearby squared-up to one another in a territorial dispute, with the nesting season ahead very much on their minds.

Surprisingly, perhaps, blackbird densities and those of many other songbirds are typically higher in cities than in the surrounding countryside. Cities and towns are often natural havens and true wild sanctuaries. Aberdeen is especially so – think of the numerous green spaces – parks and golf courses, cemeteries and playing fields. There are the rivers Dee and Don, and the wild corridors of the railway embankments. And, of course, there is the beach where terns dive for fish in the summer and exquisite goldeneye ducks bob in the water during winter.

Then, there are the multitude of gardens where nectar-rich flowers attract insects, while ornamental bushes and trees provide places for songbirds to nest in spring and summer, and a rich harvest of berries to feast upon in autumn and winter. Garden bird feeders provide ready sustenance during the dark days of winter, and well-kept lawns are perfect places for song thrushes and starlings to eagerly probe for worms and grubs. Buildings provide safe places for house martins, swifts, house sparrows and even peregrine falcons to nest. The sheltered aspect of the built environment of Aberdeen creates a warmer, more benign micro-climate compared to the surrounding countryside, making it a welcoming sanctuary for wildlife.

I wandered further down the walkway until my attention was caught by a pair of dunnocks flitting in among a bramble tangle. A silver birch nearby hung heavy with bird-nest like structures known as witches’ brooms. They are abnormal tree growths caused by fungal, viral or bacterial activity that results in the growth of the buds spiralling out of control, producing a multitude of tangled, side stems.

This little corridor of nature through the heart of Aberdeen abounded with all forms of magical life and I had become completely smitten by its wild charms. Nature and humanity can prosper together and this beautiful walkway was the perfect example of such mutual co-existence.

The wild aura of the Insh Marshes

By keithbroomfield

On November 27, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

The flat expanse of the Insh Marshes swept away in the distance, glowing ochre under the soft autumnal light.

From my vantage point on a slope in Lynachlaggan wood, my mind visualised the intricate mosaic of pools scattered across this rich, natural bogland that covers 10 square kilometres of the River Spey floodplain between Kingussie and Kincraig. This swampy paradise is home to breeding curlew, lapwing, redshank and snipe, and the whole area acts as a giant natural sponge, holding water and allowing it to slowly drain back into the River Spey.

At this time of year, it is an important haunt for wintering whooper swans, wigeon and tufted duck, while hen harriers can sometimes be glimpsed quartering over the ground in search of prey. Dusk was settling, and I scanned my binoculars across the landscape in the hope of spotting a harrier coming in to roost, but this vast marshland lay tantalisingly empty.

No matter, for only a short while before in the wood at Lynachlaggan I had watched a great-spotted woodpecker on a lichen covered alder probe eagerly for invertebrates, moving up the trunk in short, jerky bounds. This bird was meticulous in its search for creatures hiding under the bark, examining each section of the trunk closely with scrutinising eyes, before moving up to the next. Once it had reached the top of the alder, it took to the air in an undulating flight to alight on a nearby birch to begin the process all over again.

The autumnal dankness of the air had an earthy aroma, a natural perfume of moss, decaying wood and peaty soil that aroused the senses in a way that only nature can. Normally we perceive nature by sight, sound and touch, but its redolence is equally compelling and is deliciously addictive.

The walk at Lynachlaggan is a delightful relatively short circular trail, and my course was frequently interrupted as I stopped to examine the profusion of fungi scattered on the ground. There were brown birch boletes and red-capped fly agarics, and on a decomposing tumbled tree trunk a cluster of sulphur tuft toadstools glimmered like a beckoning beam of light. Fungi are one of the bedrocks of the natural world – they are recyclers, nutrient providers for plants and underpin every type of habitat there is. Many have developed mutually beneficial relationships with trees and without fungi our woodlands would be much impoverished.

Then, another burning incandescence shone from the edge of the trail. It was a small huddle of scarlet waxcaps, their umbrella caps burnished and beautifully polished. The gills on the undersides where soft and yielding to the touch, the scarlet colour of each toadstool complementing the dark-green of the mosses all around.

The hen harriers out on the marsh may have proved elusive, but the woodpecker and the fungi had provided ample compensation – and the lack of harriers provided the perfect excuse to return to Lynachlaggan on another day in the hope of spotting one settling in to roost in the dwindling gloaming light.

In search of the ptarmigan

By keithbroomfield

On September 26, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

It was like searching for a needle in a haystack – instinct told me that ptarmigan were watching my every move on this 3,000ft high boulder field in the mountains by Glenshee, but their cryptic plumage had merged these subarctic grouse seamlessly into the stark lunar landscape.

Their droppings lay scattered around the summit of Carn Bhinnein and it almost seemed as if the birds were taunting me by their near presence. Camouflage is their means of survival and despite my frustration at being unable to find any ptarmigan, a begrudging admiration swept my mind at their ability to maintain perennial concealment.

After much fruitless searching, I abandoned the quest and instead focused on a cushion-like ball of hairy fluff nestled in among the rocks. It was woolly fringe-moss, a high mountain specialist with the most appropriate demeanour of appearing to have fleece-like insulation to protect itself from the cold mountain air.

It is a common moss of uplands, especially open, stony, windswept ridges and plateaux, and features intricate wispy twists and curls. Nearby lay another high montane specialist – fir clubmoss – which is more closely related to ferns than mosses. The rocks around me were encrusted with colourful lichens, and it felt like I had been drawn into a mysterious primeval world, surrounded by nature’s earliest creations.

I hunkered down in a gully out of the cool wind to ponder ptarmigan. They are mountain chameleons, their plumage changing with the seasons, merging and matching in sympathy with the surroundings. In winter, ptarmigan turn almost completely white, but the spring and summer plumage is more of a mottled grey and brown, with flashes of white. The feet are completely feathered, which not only prevents heat loss, but acts as a useful pair of snowshoes in winter.

Ptarmigan eat the leaves and shoots of arctic-alpine plants, as well as insects in the summer. The crowberry is important and ptarmigan feast upon their glossy black fruits in late summer.

Rising to my feet, I wandered further over the boulder field – five more minutes looking for ptarmigan, then I would call it a day. The five minutes stretched to 10, and then to 15, but the ptarmigan remained elusive, so I descended back down into a nearby glen. Late-season meadow pipits and skylarks bounded up in the air before me and a kestrel hovered above on quivering wings.

By a craggy knoll where a lone sentinel rowan stood, the mewing calls of a family of buzzards whirled across the breeze. It was a somewhat monotonous call, more akin to a seagull than a bird of prey. Soon, I spotted two of the buzzards, tumbling upwards on widespread wings before they swept away over a shallow-curved ridge.

I looked back up the glen towards the distant conical top of Carn Bhinnein from which I just descended, and wondered whether the ptarmigan were still watching me from their lofty vantage points in among the high boulder fields – invisible and inscrutable to the very last.

Grasses – delivering the air we breathe and the food we eat

By keithbroomfield

On September 2, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

The names roll deliciously off the tongue – fescues, bents, and Yorkshire fog – and which represent among our most ecologically important organisms of them all – the grasses.

Grass is so ubiquitous that we tend to take it for granted as an integral part of the landscape. And there is a truism there, for grasses are the environment, found in abundance from the equator to the poles and prospering everywhere we look. They are the core foodstuff for a huge variety of creatures – and, of course, the foundation stone of our agriculture, whether to provide grazing for livestock or grain for our daily bread. Without grasses, nature and humanity are nothing, an empty vassal devoid of hope or meaning.

Bizarrely, perhaps, grasses are seldom remarked upon in nature writing, probably because they lack the powerful and impactful blooms of wildflowers. But grasses are as beautiful as any flower, and as I wandered recently through an ungrazed hill pasture near my home, huge sweeps of the delightfully named Yorkshire fog grass swayed in the breeze like a rippling sea.

Although not always immediately obvious to the eye, grasses do have simplified, wind-pollinated flowers that turn into seed heads as the season progresses. In Yorkshire fog, the flowers are tinged with pink and which often deepen into a deeper pinkish-purple before fading, and when they do so, will transform a pasture into a wonderful pallid hue.

On walking across the pasture, I endeavoured to identify as many species of grass as I could, and it became completely addictive, for the more I looked, the more was revealed, and it was impossible not to become smitten by their sublime beauty. One particularly eye-catching species was wavy hairgrass, with incredibly delicate, shimmering and almost translucent spikes. Other engaging species were red fescue, sweet vernal grass, common bent and silver hairgrass, each type exhibiting finesse and elegance in their shape and form.

I sat on a small, mossy mound surrounded by various grasses to reflect and immerse myself in their green and wonderful world of proliferate abundance. A small cricket crawled over one grass blade before disappearing into the thick and green tangled microworld where beetles scurried and lacewings rested. A ringlet butterfly on dark-flashed wings twirled up into the air before quickly settling again.

Field voles would abound in this grassy area, and in the sky above, kestrels and buzzards often soar in anticipation of pouncing upon one. Grass is a fundamental building block of nature, underpinning so much other life.

Grasslands and have been described as Britain’s largest solar panel, absorbing sunlight and in the process taking-in carbon dioxide and converting it to oxygen. They deliver the air we breathe and the food we eat, and provide habitats that support a diverse array of life. I sat for a while longer in this grassy margin, transfixed by a polka-dotted ladybird that had magically appeared, and which slowly climbed a frond of grass, before unfurling its wings and spiriting itself away into the warm summer updraft.

An inspiring encounter with a beaver and her kit

By keithbroomfield

On August 23, 2024

In Wildlife

An evening stroll along my local river – nightfall was approaching and I could sense a stirring in the air, as if the creatures of the gloaming were about to emerge.

I scanned the opposite bank in hope of spotting an otter or a kingfisher, but it was a dark, furry rotund form at the bottom of a steep section of bank that caught my eye – a beaver! It was grabbing overhanging leaves and other luxuriant vegetation with its front paws and munching with such enthusiasm that the chewing noise was clearing audible.

Then, another movement, this time in the water – a small brown head swimming with a V-shaped wake across the river towards the sandy shelf where the other, much larger, beaver was feeding. This was a beaver kit – young and full of the zest of life, and a standard bearer to the integral beauty of nature and the hope of a new beginning. The kit emerged onto the bankside to greet its mother, rising on its hind-legs as if in celebration of their reunion.

They both fed together for several minutes, before sliding back in the water, their long paddle tails slithering along the sand bank as they did so. Beavers are remarkable creatures – unusually for a rodent, the parents are faithful and pair for life, and the young are born fully-furred with open eyes, and can swim from the moment of birth.

Watching the mother and kit was an emotional experience, and it was like spiralling back into the depths of time when wolves and bears once roamed Scotland and it was a truly wild place. As such, the return of beavers to Scotland after centuries of extinction is something we should all celebrate, for they belong here and are as much part of our rivers as are trout and salmon.

Beavers do sometimes come into conflict with farming and other landowning interests – I fully understand that – but the environmental benefits they bring are immense and in the 21^st century it should not beyond the wit of humanity to live with nature, rather than continually seek to destroy it.

Research has consistently shown that where beavers are present, biodiversity is significantly enhanced by their activities, making them animals to cherish. In areas where beavers dam small burns, the large ponds created above abound with invertebrates, amphibians and water plants. Many trees felled are coppiced rather than killed and will spawn new green shoots of recovery. The clearings created enables sunshine to filter to the ground below, enabling, wildflowers and their pollinators to prosper. Tumbled trees slowly rot, providing refuge and places to reproduce for a host of other invertebrates and fungi. A tree felled into a river acts like an ocean reef, providing shelter for fish and many micro-creatures.

The activity of beavers has been engrained in the natural order since the dawn of time, ensuring a diverse environment that supports more life than would otherwise be possible, which in turn brings vitality to our environment that benefits us all.

On the trail of the white-pawed fox

By keithbroomfield

On July 10, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

As far as accessibility was concerned, this was the fox den from hell, which to reach involved wading knee-deep across a tumbling river followed by a scramble up a steep, nettle-infested bank.

I had first noticed the site on the far bank of the river earlier in the spring when the leaf cover was still sparse, and where through gaps in the trees it was possible to glimpse a sandy mound of excavated soil at the top of a wooded slope. A badger sett, I presumed, but its inaccessibility and need to wade across the river was a discouragement for me to monitor it with my trail cameras.

But after having no luck in filming badger cubs at a more easily reached sett nearby, I decided to relocate the trail cameras to this new site. The water swirled around my legs as I forded the river, and the climb up the far slope left me puffing, but as soon as I reached the first entrance hole, the remains of a rabbit and the distinctive musky aroma made me realise this was an occupied fox den.

Badgers never leave prey remains outside their setts, whilst vixens are not so fastidious, and if prey is abundant all kinds of bits and pieces are left lying about, including birds’ wings, feathers, and rabbits’ feet.

Examining the trail camera recordings a week later confirmed that there was a fox family in residence, and it was wonderful to watch the cubs at play, tumbling and clambering over one another with the zeal that is the hallmark of young life. Curiously, my first badger sett inclination also proved correct, for adult badgers occasionally emerged from the same hole as the fox cubs.

There were several holes on the site, which was obviously quite a large sett complex, and presumably the fox family and the badgers occupied different parts, although occasionally shared the same exit holes. Foxes are not terribly good at digging and it is much easier for a pregnant vixen to set up residence in a pre-made home, rather than going to the effort of making her own den.

It was no doubt an uneasy co-existence, with the badgers regarding the foxes a threat to their cubs and vice versa. The vixen when she appeared on camera did not look in the best of health, thin and scrawny and with a slight limp. But the cubs looked robust and the mother was obviously fit enough to catch plentiful prey.

The other big surprise about this fox family was that one of the cubs had white forepaws, which looked like neat little pale socks set against the dark legs. I had never seen such a genetic aberration before and the wee cub was cuteness personified as it cavorted around the den. On my early morning walks in the months to come, I will be keeping a keen look-out for this white-pawed beauty as it pads along field edges and hones its hunting skills for voles and rabbits.

Paradise in a nutshell at Knoydart

By keithbroomfield

On May 21, 2024

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

They were flowers of the sea breeze, a sweeping carpet of yellow-dazzled colt’s-foot that swept along the wild Knoydart foreshore in a shimmering celebration of the beauty of a west highland spring.

Often described as Scotland’s last wilderness, Knoydart is completely addictive, comprising an eclectic mix of wild rugged mountains offset by tranquil meadows in the glens, and beautifully benign woodlands where wildflowers shine from every corner.

It was the woodland wildflowers by the small settlement of Inverie that really caught the eye as my wife, Lynda, and I wandered along a waymarked trail signposted as ‘Knoydart in a Knutshell’. The bright, limey-green freshness of tree leaves unfurled gloriously from overhanging branches, set against the backdrop of the sweet cascading music of willow warblers and the abrupt nightingale like song-bursts of blackcaps. On the ground, the gold-spangled blooms of lesser celandine glowed, primroses flickered in jaune splendour, and the first bluebells were tentatively unveiling themselves.

Perhaps the walk should be renamed as paradise in a nutshell, for this was a place where one could linger for eternity to revel in the soothing balm of nature. One of the plants on the woodland floor that drew my interest was wood sorrel, which has the habit of growing on moss-covered tree stumps and fallen branches. It has an under-stated, subtle beauty and it really is worth examining this flower closely, for what at first glance appear as white petals are in fact gently inscribed with lilac.

Soon, we reached the Inverie River, with its unusually crystal-clear water where trout and salmon thrive. A pair of sandpipers flew by the bank edges on quivering wings, the male trilling his love song as he doughtily pursued his mate in an elaborate courtship display. Sandpipers are all too brief breeding migrants to our shores, arriving in mid-April and most having departed by early August.

A short distance further on and we reached the shore at Inverie Bay where the swathes of colt’s-foot became the star attraction. Colt’s-foot, which look a bit like dandelions, thrive on shallow, well-drained soils such as here on the Knoydart foreshore, and are often found by gravelly track edges throughout the highlands. It is one of our earliest emerging spring flowers, and the plant is so-called because of their large horseshoe shaped leaves that develop after the flowers have wilted. The trait of flowering before the leaves emerge has given rise to the folk-name ‘son-before-father’.

The tide had receded, and out on the muddy pools of the bay a whimbrel probed its long, curved bill into the sediment for worms. Similar in appearance to a small curlew, this whimbrel was passing through, heading north to breeding grounds in Shetland or beyond. An oystercatcher ‘kleeped’ in the distance and the flute-like hypnotic resonance of a calling cuckoo floated across the air. Superlatives hardly give justice to the true magic of spring in Knoydart, for this is a place that fills the heart with an overwhelming contentment spirited from the portals of heaven.

The marvel of evolution

By keithbroomfield

On February 27, 2024

In Wildlife

Adaptive radiation is a fascinating aspect of evolutionary biology where a common ancestral species develops into a wide variety of different others, each one adapted to the niche parameters of their specific environment.

The famous Darwin’s finches in the Galapagos Islands are a classic example, with the individuals in each island having evolved their own unique features. It happens in Scotland, too – for example, on St Kilda where the wrens and field mice have formed their own separate sub-species, featuring slightly different morphological traits from their mainland cousins. The freshwater sticklebacks in North Uist show differences depending on which body of water they inhabit, and there are numerous other examples of such diversity.

A recent visit to the Canary Islands brought home to me this wondrous facet of nature. On the island of Gran Canaria, I was lucky enough to stumble upon a giant lizard, a magnificent reptile that is unique to the island, and which can grow up to 80cm long (including the tail), although most specimens are smaller. The one I found was about 50cm long, and was taking things easy by basking in the morning sun on a steep embankment close to the shore.

The neighbouring islands of La Gomera, Tenerife and Hierro also have their own endemic giant lizard species, the isolation brought by the islands spurring distinct differences in form. Tenerife and Gran Canaria also host the globally unique blue chaffinch, which have diverged further, so that each island has its own species.

The Canary Islands are a wonderful holiday destination for those with an interest in nature, with the flora being especially fascinating. Around 40 per cent of the islands’ plants are endemic, many of which are endangered.

The mountains of Gran Canaria are truly spectacular, and my wife Lynda and I spent much of our time hiking the high trails, whilst at sunrise I would slip into the sea with snorkel and mask to explore the underwater life. Dawn is my favourite time to go snorkelling – the rising sun delivers a magical soft-lit aura and many nocturnal marine creatures are still out and about.

One early morning snorkel brought my first ever encounter with a flaming reef lobster, a stunning bright orange crustacean with white spirals and other intricate patterning on its shell. Another intriguing discovery was a cylindrical shaped gelatinous and pink-flecked object that drifted just below the water surface, which transpired to be the egg mass of a diamondback squid.

As well as birds, reptiles and plants, the uniqueness of life in the Canaries extends to fish, and one type I encountered was the island grouper. Classified as vulnerable on the ‘red list’ of endangered species, it is only found around the Canary Islands, Madeira, the Azores and Cape Verde.

This was a charismatic fish with striking blotches and stripes on the body, and a confiding demeanour that allowed a close approach. Its beauty and brashness perfectly encapsulated the compelling nature of the Canary Islands and its boundless capacity to create new life from within.

A magical otter encounter

By keithbroomfield

On December 8, 2023

In Wildlife

A piercing whistle whirls across the damp air from the far bank of the River Devon. I know it is an otter but as I peer through a tangle of alder and willow branches, I see no movement. Another whistle, even louder this time, and then I spot the otter running along a carpet of golden, tumbled leaves by the bank edge.

The otter slips into the water and swims upriver leaving a V-trail in its wake, continually calling all the while – a whistle with a pitch of such intensity that there was an air of desperation to its tone. This might have been a mother looking for a lost cub, or perhaps a male seeking out a mate, but whatever the case, the animal did not seem unduly perturbed by my near presence, despite eyeballing me several times.

Indeed, after swimming a hundred yards upriver, the otter then turned around and swam straight back down again, passing close by me before disappearing in among a twisted mass of alder roots by the bankside. The whistling had stopped, the otter was gone, and the only sound permeating the air was the gurgle of rushing water – beautiful and hypnotic music drawn from the very depths of the river.

Normally, dawn and dusk are the best times to see river otters, but this encounter was in the early afternoon, which underlines that when it comes to wildlife spotting, always expect the unexpected.

I wandered on, disturbing a diminutive wren that churred its annoyance as it swept up on brown-blurred wings from a thick stand of twisted bramble stems. Wrens are one of our most ubiquitous birds, equally at home by a riverbank or on high windswept moors, or in thick gorse by the coast. The name ‘wren’ derives from the middle English ‘wrenne’, meaning ‘little tail’.

Another whistle permeated from across the water, but rather than an otter, it was a kingfisher streaking just above the river’s surface in a bolt of electric-blue. It has been a good year for kingfishers on the river, the low rainfall in the early part of the breeding season suiting their requirements perfectly for seeking out minnows in the languid pools.

Down by my feet, a scrap of black velvet caught my eye. It was a dead water shrew, the black upperparts contrasting starkly with the white belly and chest. It is the largest of our shrews, a capable swimmer that can dive to depths of two metres in search of aquatic invertebrates.

Finding the corpse reminded me when as a boy I had found a dead water shrew by a burn that tumbled into Loch Earn, and as I cradled its velvety body in my hands, I wished it were possible one day to glimpse a live one. Since then, I have seen a living water shrew on only two occasions – but that is enough for my dream to have come true, providing a fleeting insight into their mysterious and secretive lives.