Keith Broomfield

A passion for nature

An extravaganza of wildflowers in the Trossachs

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On July 3, 2023

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

A wonderful artistic palette of blue, pink, yellow and white unfolded before my eyes in this corner of the Trossachs where the sun shone down bright and the gentlest of breezes riffled the bee-buzzed air.

As I made my way up the track from Callander to the serene waters of Loch Lubnaig, a cornucopia of different flowers beamed out from the verges, and it was hard to get any regular rhythm into my footfall because every so often I felt compelled to hunker down to examine some new beauty.

Wood cranes-bill was especially prolific, and thick drifts of their blousy violet-blue flowers adorned the track edges in a dreamy haze of colour. The flower of wood cranes-bill is a true show-stopper that features five intricately crafted lilac petals set upon a paler centre where the rich, life-enhancing nectar lies. Subtle radiating lines inscribed upon the petals act likes guides to draw bees and other pollinators in towards the plant’s sweet treasure chest.  

A member of the geranium family, cranes-bill is a wonderfully descriptive name and refers to the elongated seedhead of the plant which for those with an imaginative disposition bears some resemblance to the beak and head of a crane.

Another flower that caught the eye was germander speedwell. Sporting small sky-blue flowers, they were like aquamarine gems scattered in among the thick tangles of grass. This low-sprawling plant is also known as ‘bird’s eye’ or ‘cat’s eye’ due to the white central orb of the flower. I have heard it postulated that the origin of the name ‘speedwell’ may stem from the supposed medicinal properties of the plant. In the eighteenth-century speedwell had acquired to the reputation for being good at curing gout, with the dried leaves being used to make a herbal tea.

More likely, speedwell is so-called because it was considered a good luck charm for travellers with the vibrant blue blooms helping to speed one on your way. In Ireland, they were sometimes sewn into the clothes of travellers for good luck.

Bramble was also in bloom and on some of the tangled clusters, the white flowers appeared larger than normal and belonged to a variety I was unfamiliar with – the five petals spaced further apart and less bunched than usual. The bramble is one of our most diverse plants, there being hundreds of different varieties in Britain with subtle differences, including the taste, size and fruiting time of the berries.

As I pondered brambles, a handsome roe buck materialised in a nearby golden-speckled buttercup meadow. He looked magnificent with his foxy summer coat and two small upright pronged antlers. The roe deer rut begins in mid-July and lasts until the end of August – a time when the testosterone fuelled buck will closely follow a doe for several days, waiting for the opportunity to mate.

Once mating has occurred, egg implantation is delayed until early January and the two fawns are born the following summer, completing the circle of life for another year.

Bewitched by the natural treasures of the sea

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On April 13, 2023

In Wildlife

After having forsaken snorkelling during winter, a strong hankering engulfed my soul to get back into the water and become immersed once more in the wild riches of the sea.

I had also become consumed with the wish to snorkel by a pier because such places provide shelter for an abundance of marine life. Thus, it was against this background that I found myself bobbing in the chilly waters of the Firth of Clyde by Portencross Pier in North Ayrshire. 

I chose a low spring tide, which would make it easier to dive down and witness creatures that would otherwise be hard to reach in deeper water. The visibility was reasonable and on flicking my flippers I soon reached the first of the steel piles that supported the T-shaped pier end.

Mussels and barnacles clung tenaciously to the upper parts of the stanchions. They are resilient creatures, enabling to withstand the rigours of storms, fierce currents and crashing waves without becoming dislodged from their holdfasts. Barnacles could easily be mistaken for molluscs, but curiously they are crustaceans and relatives of crab and lobsters.

While the barnacles and mussels on the upper pier supports were fascinating, my main interest lay in the deeper water below, and as my body rode the undulating waves, I peered down into the murky green depths. Just within the range of visibility, an orange glimmer shone out. I dived down and steadied myself by holding onto the pier support. Before me lay the most exquisite creation, a cluster of orange-tinged fleshy lobes. Surrounding each lobe was a soft, opaque furred fuzz that on closer inspection comprised of miniscule stalks tipped with white.

This was a soft coral known as dead-man’s fingers, so called because it is said to resemble the swollen, decomposing hand of a dead person. Each ‘finger’ consists of a colony of tiny organisms, called polyps, set upon a shared gelatinous skeleton to form a greater whole. Each polyp has a mouth surrounded by tiny tentacles, which trap tiny food items in the water column. I imagine the name ‘dead-man’s fingers’ arose from times past when people searching for survivors from shipwrecks became overwhelmed by the stress of the occasion, sending their minds spinning into overdrive and suspecting the worse.

Then, I snorkelled under the pier where on several of the supports lay a bewitching cornucopia of colour comprising large colonies of plumose anemones. Their beauty and form were breath-taking, elegant orange-brown anemones featuring long, slender tubular body columns with flickering tentacles that brimmed out over their tops like large, intricately frilled umbrellas. As a biological comparison, these anemones were single polyps, while those that form dead-man’s fingers are integrated polyp colonies that act like one organism.

I snorkelled for a while longer, but the wind was picking up and the sea rising, so I swam back to the shore. On pulling myself out onto a flat rock shelf, I barely noticed the cold such was my excitement at having glimpsed these wondrous marine creatures.

Revealing the secret life of a Scottish river

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On February 1, 2023

In Wildlife

Using a pair of trail cameras, I have been monitoring a shallow offshoot creek of my local river where a diverse array of wildlife was captured on film.

Teal were the principal stars that appeared daily. They adore this little creek because the calm, shallow confines act like an oasis where they can feed safely on the rich muddy bottom by up-ending continuously. Teal are delightful little ducks that are active both by day and night. A small group of female goldeneye ducks also appeared on the camera one day. They are scarce winter visitors to this river, but when the weather gets cold and nearby lochs freeze over, a few always materialise to take advantage of the fast-flowing and ice-free water.

Herons regularly showed up, stalking in the shallow margins with slow and cautious movements as they carefully scrutinised the water for fish.

An otter briefly materialised on one of the videos, quickly skirting the edge of a pool, its back undulating in a sinuous and weasel-like movement. Otters are doing well on the river but are seldom seen because of their mainly nocturnal and secretive habits.  However, when walking river banksides, it is easy to see their scent marking sites where they have deposited their tarry-like spraints (droppings) on top of prominent locations such as rocks, tree stumps or small hummocks.

A water rail – one of our most elusive water birds – made a cameo appearance. Like the otter, water rails are commoner than one might imagine and lurk in reed-beds or among thick tangles of waterside vegetation making them very difficult to spot.

I was also thrilled to have secured several clips of snipe feeding in the shallows. The snipe, which is a small and long-billed wading bird, is a master of concealment and it was wonderful to get a glimpse into their secretive lives. In one instance, the camera filmed a pair where one bird tried to mount the other as if mating. It is far too early in the season for mating to occur, but the clip did reveal that spring is maybe not as far away as one might imagine.

The most fascinating piece of film, however, was a snipe catching a brook lamprey. At this time of year, slowly maturing brook lampreys live under the sediment of rivers and have the size and appearance of small eel, only about 10 cm to 14 cm long. This feeding snipe hit the jackpot and pulled the wriggling lamprey out from its muddy lair with its long and probing bill. The snipe wrestled with the lamprey for several seconds before swallowing it with a satisfied gulp.

I knew brook lampreys lived in this pool and had previously glimpsed them emerging as adults in early spring after having spent a few years under the mud as filter-feeding larvae. Brook lampreys are fascinating fish that encapsulate the very beating heart of our rivers – mysterious and alluring, and with a never-ending capacity to surprise.

Salmon

The miracle of salmon

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On October 31, 2022

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

The salmon launched itself from the churn at the bottom of the falls like a guided missile, tail flapping, and flanks glinting under the late autumnal sun. It was a powerful leap, but the angle was terribly askew, and the hen salmon landed awkwardly half-way up on a rock ledge by the margin of the powerful torrent.

She lay stranded for a moment, and then, with powerful undulations of the body, managed to wriggle her way down the ledge so as to drop back down into the foaming pool below. A surge of emotion swept my inner being after witnessing the trauma and effort this salmon had just endured.

Over the last few months, she had migrated from her feeding grounds in the cold northern seas off the Faroes, Iceland or Greenland, and by some miracle of nature had navigated back to her place of birth – the River Almond in Perthshire. Over the period, she had survived the gauntlet of seals and other predators, but now the ultimate challenge lay ahead – the tumbling falls and rapids at Buchanty Spout, several miles north-east of Crieff.

Spout is a most apt name for this narrow fissure in the rocks, where a torrent of water spumes down a drop of several feet into a cauldron pool. Above and below lie tumbling rapids, making this a truly formidable obstacle. Yet despite this, over the course of an hour I witnessed several salmon succeed this most impressive of athletic feats. The key to success was a faultless launch, with a trajectory that was true and perfect right up the middle of the spout.

From my observations, it was the larger salmon that were most likely to ascend the falls, using their powerful muscles to propel themselves upwards and over the rocky top lip. The pool they launch from has minimal underwater visibility due to the swirling churn, thus, achieving the perfect launch often relies upon luck, and inevitably many fish get their angle of attack wrong. One salmon flew straight into the rockface by the edge of the spout with an audible slap that made me wince in sympathy.

The damage these salmon suffer from – both in terms of physical injury and loss of energy – is immense, and with each passing second that I spent by Buchanty Spout, my respect for these miraculous fish grew ever stronger. Once the spout has been ascended, the salmon will seek out gravel beds further upstream, where the hen fish will dig a furrow with her tail and body to lay her eggs, which are then fertilised by the male. The eggs are covered with gravel and the following spring tiny fry (alevins) will emerge.

Of course, natural river obstacles are not the only difficulties facing salmon, and in recent decades climate change has materialised as a new foe, affecting the ocean ecosystem on their north Atlantic feeding grounds. For the salmon, life is an eternal struggle, but now it could be facing the ultimate challenge, and one from which there is potentially no return.

Spiny squat lobster

Marine heaven in Fife

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On September 16, 2022

In Wildlife

With mounting anticipation, I kicked my flippers and glided towards a cluster of rocks by the low tide mark. The excitement was fuelled by the knowledge that this section of the shore by Elie in the East Neuk of Fife had previously delivered wondrous marine life encounters – but would it do so this time?

The rocks came into view, the water was thick with soup-like plankton, which impaired visibility, but it was good enough to enable a thorough investigation of the area. A mysid shrimp flickered into view, a small crustacean about a centimetre long, with a distinctive hump-back profile. These shrimps are the bread and butter for many of the larger creatures here, a vital part of the food chain.

I tried to photograph the shrimp, but the camera auto-focus had difficulty in honing onto such a small beast, so I gave up and resumed my scrabbling around by the rocks. A movement – and then a pair of long claws materialised by a rock cleft – a spiny squat lobster! I’ve snorkelled this section of coast many times previously, yet this was a creature I had never seen before. The sea is an Aladdin’s Cave of natural treasures and now it was revealing another one of its magical secrets.

With rhythmic movements of my hands, I steadied my body against the gentle surge of the sea and watched spellbound as this fascinating crustacean crawled onto a patch of sand, where it began to feed. Using its long pincers, it scooped sand into its mouth where it gleaned algae, detritus, and other food items before spitting-out the remaining sand grains.

The spiny squat lobster is a most attractive creature, with a flattened body about 3cm long, and claws that are the same length again. The abdomen was intricately patterned with kingfisher-blue stripes, whilst the tips of the legs and claws were tinged with red. Despite the vibrant colouration, the creature blended superbly with the environment, and it seemed that the blue stripes mimicked the patterns of light that rippled across the seabed.

Another similar animal appeared, which was greener in colour, and which I identified as a common squat lobster, a different species.  Witnessing two types of squat lobster over a short period was a real nature jackpot, and I watched enthralled as the animals went about their business.

I moved on towards another group of rocks where I glimpsed a pair of red antennae poking out from a shallow crevice. It was a lobster, a much larger creature altogether, and which is such an important quarry for creel fishermen.  It was spooked by my approach, so it emerged from its shelter and scuttled over the seabed to find a deeper hole to seek refuge.

In this marine heaven, pearly coloured sea squirts adorned rocks and hermit crabs side-stepped comically over the seabed. My mind buzzed with happiness at the vibrancy of life that unfurled before me, and which acted as a telling reminder of the importance of protecting our precious oceans.

Five-star review for ‘A Scottish Wildlife Odyssey’

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On June 7, 2022

In Wildlife

I was thrilled when my new book – A Scottish Wildlife Odyssey – recently gained a five-star review from Scottish Field magazine.

The review said: “I dare you to open this book up to any page, read the text with fresh new eyes and not fall in love with the way Keith Broomfield has painted the Scottish landscape with words.

“He has thoughtfully captured his rambles across Scotland, from the bottom all the way to the very top in Shetland, recounting the diverse and exciting wildlife he spotted along the way. From the urban fox to the minke whale, Keith Broomfield tells all their stories with equal enthusiasm.

“A Scottish Wildlife Odyssey is among my most cherished styles of book; filled with bewitching ecological descriptions, supplemented with knowledge and facts about local wildlife that is shown rather than told and complemented by sketches of the flora and fauna. This is one of my favourite non-fiction books of the year.”

New life arises from storm damage

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On March 9, 2022

In Wildlife

Whilst it has been an unusually mild winter, it was also an extremely windy one, and the full impact of the havoc wreaked by a succession of storms was brought home to me the other week when driving through the Howe o’ the Mearns.

It was in the aftermath of Storm Corrie, which itself had been preceded by Storms Malik and Arwen, and as I drove from Cairn o’ Mount, past Fettercairn and down towards Luthermuir, there were tumbled trees everywhere, some of them mighty oaks and beeches. Huge branches had been torn asunder and trunks split, leaving gaping wounds and cavernous cracks, while woody debris lay scattered across fields and hedgerows like tidal flotsam.

On passing the forestry plantation at Inglismaldie woods, the damage was particularly severe. It was both shocking and humbling, a stark reminder of the power of nature.

Colin Gibson, The Courier’s renowned nature diarist, recounted the turmoil caused by a storm in January 1953. He wrote: “The north wind came down like a wolf on the fold, and was at its most ferocious at noon, raging through Tayside and the whole north-east of Scotland.

“In Perth it ‘yowled up frae the vennel’d toun’, in Dundee it roared over Balgay and the Law, and hurtled debris from the rooftops into the city streets.”

For commercial foresters the damage cause by such storms is devastating, but for nature it is often a different story, for storm-felled trees bring new opportunity.

Wild storms have been felling trees since the dawn of time and it is all part of the natural cycle of regeneration. The clearings created deliver dappled sunlight to the woodland floor that encourages wildflowers, which in turn attracts butterflies and numerous other invertebrates that themselves are preyed-upon by shrews, insect-eating birds, and bats. The fallen seeds of trees can now germinate and grow in these sunny open places, completing the continuous circle of natural regeneration and delivering new vitality to the woodland.

Inside a decaying tree trunk there is a wonderful diversity of life. Peel apart the soft and crumbling bark, and a myriad of tunnels are revealed, which have been created by thriving populations of specialised invertebrates.  On the surface of the trunk are intricate tiny cup-shaped lichens, fungi and many mosses, along with the bullet-mark indentations caused by foraging woodpeckers.

It is not all positive, and severe storms in early spring and summer cause immense problems to tree-nesting birds, such as ospreys. And, of course, there are wildlife communities that depend upon living trees, such as caterpillars and the songbirds that feed upon them. However, seldom is a whole woodland felled by a storm, and it is this mosaic of tumbled and living trees, which creates such wonderful diversity.

Near my home lies a long-tumbled, wood-rotted oak, which in autumn becomes adorned with colourful fungi, including lemon disco and velvet shank. Exploring every nook and cranny is a special experience, for the death of this oak has created a plethora of new life that is a sheer joy to behold.

 

TheTay reveals its natural riches

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On February 17, 2022

In Wildlife

I adore rivers – serene slivers of tranquillity that wind their way across the landscape, and which are always brimming with natural wonders. And when it comes to magnificent rivers, the Tay is right there at the top, with a majesty and power that excites me on each visit.

I hadn’t explored the stretch between Stanley and Dunkeld before, thus it was with great anticipation that a couple of weeks ago I struck upriver from Stanley Mills. This former textile mill is a reminder of the power of our rivers and how they helped drive the industrial revolution. It also highlights how humanity has long depended upon rivers, whether for drinking water or energy, or as providers of fish as food, or as is the case in some parts of the world, as conduits for transport. The fact that we depend upon rivers means we are more likely to look after them – a concept I find appealing.

Rivers are also places for relaxation and as I made my way up the west bank, a group of canoeists whizzed past on fast-beating paddles. My eyes were soon drawn back to the riverbank, where at the foot of a hazel tree, a cluster of snowdrops glowed like early heralds to the approach of spring. Not to be outdone, the hazel was adorned with dangly lime-green catkins, which are so appropriately known as lambs’ tails.

Out on the river, a dipper swam on the surface like a little duck, twirling around and frequently diving under in its quest for invertebrates and tiny fish. Dippers are songbirds that have embarked upon a remarkable evolutionary twist, which enables them to forage underwater. It is an adaptation that underlines the genius of Mother Nature. In deepest winter when the ground is frosted hard, songbirds such as blackbirds and thrushes struggle to find worms and other invertebrates. Such cold periods are a breeze for dippers because fast-flowing rivers never ice-over, providing round-the-clock access to rich feeding areas.

And believe me, riverbeds abound with life. Only the week before, I was invertebrate sampling on my home river, the Devon, as part of an initiative to monitor the health of our waterways. On emptying the sweep net into an examination tray, a plethora of invertebrate larvae, or nymphs as they are known, materialised. They are the ‘engine room’ of the river, the powerhouse that supports so much other life such as trout and ultimately top predators like herons and otters.

Further on up the Tay, a beaver-gnawed willow stump shone out at me. The small willow had tumbled into the river, enabling the beaver to feed on its twigs and bark from the safety of the water. The willow had been coppiced and will regrow, while the trunk and branches lying in the river will provide shelter for invertebrates and fish, just as how a rocky reef might do at sea. By felling this willow, beavers had created a new habitat for river creatures to thrive and prosper.

Shellfish Firth of Forth

The fabulous marine riches of the Firth of Forth

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On January 31, 2022

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

There was a perceptible crackling noise as the pressure of my footfall crunched into storm-scattered seashells on the strandline at Largo Bay in the East Neuk. This was a graveyard of marine life – cockles, surf clams and razor shells, scoured from their homes beneath the sand by the tumultuous power of the ocean.

I wondered whether these shellfish were victims of Storm Arwen, which had hit the east coast at the end of November. I hunkered down and scooped-up a handful of these half-shells, and then let them gently slip through my fingers. Each shell was intricately crafted, the elongated razor shells still gleaming with iridescence, and the surf clams exhibiting intricate concentric patterning.

This abundance of molluscs underlined the vast reservoir of marine life held within the sediment of the Firth of Forth. Although inshore mud and sand can appear barren at first glance, it is often hugely productive and an environmental powerhouse that supports so much else.

Coastal sand and mud habitats may lack the diversity of species found on rocky shores, but this is more than compensated by the sheer abundance of those that live within this hidden, secret environment. These sand creatures, such as cockles, abound in one of the toughest places imaginable, continually pounded by wild storms and surging tidal currents. They are true survivors and a testimony to the endurance of nature.

As well as the razor shells, surf clams and prickly cockles, there were also the empty shells of whelks, limpets, otter shells and queen scallops on the strandline. It was a wonderful cornucopia of the sea’s riches.

I wandered further along the beach, inadvertently putting to flight a mixed flock of ringed plovers and dunlins. Out on the sea, eider and scoter ducks bobbed in the undulating surf, frequently diving in search of crabs, mussels and other food.

I scanned the water further offshore with my binoculars, hopeful I might spot the humpback whale that has been residing in the Forth in recent weeks. A fortnight previously, I was thrilled to spot this humpback from a vantage point by Kinghorn as it cruised offshore in the shadow of Inchkeith island.

It was a truly magnificent creature, and although some distance away, I could clearly discern the spouting sprays of water being emitted from its blowhole after exhaling from each dive. The humpback population is slowly recovering in the north-east Atlantic following the decimation wreaked by whaling. In recent years, individuals have been regularly turning up in the Forth for short periods.

The presence of this whale was an encouraging sign because humpbacks feed on sprats, sand eels and small herring, and its prolonged presence in the Forth presumably meant it was finding an abundance of these nutritious fish.  The Forth is an important nursery ground for young herring, which along with sprats, thrive within the estuary’s protective embrace.  Hopefully, in the years to come, humpbacks will become an even more regular sight in the Forth, acting like leviathan flag bearers of the crucial need to protect our precious seas.

 

 

My book is shortlisted for award

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On November 18, 2021

In Wildlife

My book on a wildlife year on the River Devon has been shortlisted for a prestigious award in the Scotland’s National Book Awards 2021, the premier literary prize for writing in Scotland.

‘If Rivers Could be Sing’ has been selected as a finalist in the ‘First Book’ category of the awards.

Published by Tippermuir Books, ‘If Rivers Could Sing’ is a personal Scottish river journey, where I delve deeper into my own local river to explore its abundant wildlife and to get closer to its wild beating heart. Among the creatures featured are beavers, otters, kingfishers, and salmon.

‘If Rivers Could Sing’ also focuses on the Devon’s historical past, where its tributary burns helped to power the mills along the Hillfoots villages. This, along with coal mining and other industrialisation put huge pollution pressure on the river and its wildlife in the 19th and 20th centuries.

If Rivers Could Sing is all about getting close to nature and connecting with our precious environment. I am thrilled it has been shortlisted for such a prestigious award, which I hope will provide encouragement to other first-time book writers to pick-up a pen and get writing.

Paul Philippou from publisher Tippermuir Books said: “We were delighted when Scotland’s National Book Awards returned after a year’s absence. They are a vital part of Scotland’s literary fabric. To have If Rivers Could Sing shortlisted for one of the awards is wonderful – we are delighted for Keith. It is also great for Tippermuir to be in this position – it is an achievement upon which we will build.”

My latest book, ‘A Scottish Wildlife Odyssey’, which is a travel journey in search of Scotland’s wild secrets, will be published in February 2022.

The Scotland’s National Book Awards 2021 is organised by the Saltire Society of Scotland and the winners of the awards will be announced on 27 November.

  • ‘If Rivers Could Sing’ can be purchased at tippermuirbooks.co.uk and other online sellers and good book shops (£9.99).

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