Tag: Scottish nature Page 1 of 3

The wild aura of the Insh Marshes

On November 27, 2024

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.

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.

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.

Glorious chatter of redwings in the gloaming

By keithbroomfield

On November 17, 2023

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

As the diminishing light of dusk gathered over the hill pasture in the strath, redwings swept up from the green-spiked rushes ahead of me, dancing and bobbing in the air before alighting on the top of a beech that stood proud in a nearby shelterbelt.

The air hung heavy with the redolence of autumn, and because the claggy soil was frost-free and yielding, the redwings had been foraging in among the rushes for worms and other invertebrates. These delightful winter-visiting thrushes were lively birds, perennially wary of my presence, and constantly uttering high-pitch ‘chook’ calls to keep in contact with one another.

When hard frosts descend, redwings switch from invertebrate food to avidly seek out the berries of hawthorns and hollies, quickly stripping them bare of their rich bounty. It is at this time they will often come into gardens. If the weather remains bitter and prolonged, redwings may move further south and west to seek respite in milder climes.

Redwings breed in Scandinavia and adjacent areas of northern Europe, descending upon our shores every autumn. A small number also breed in northern Scotland and I recall once finding a nesting pair near Lochinver in Sutherland.

The proximity of this sloping pasture to my home makes it one of my favoured haunts at dusk – a compelling environs where roe deer graze and buzzards soar in search of field voles and small rabbits. Indeed, as I continued my circuit of the field under the background chatter of the redwings, rabbits abounded everywhere, their white-fluffed tails glowing like beacons in the blur of the gloaming.

Despite their abundance, the future of this rabbit colony hung in the balance because myxomatosis or the highly contagious rabbit viral haemorrhagic disease could wreak devastating havoc at any time. However, rabbits numbers have been high here for several years and so far they have avoided disease.

The previous week I had glimpsed a stoat on the hunt for rabbits, its sleek, sinuous body undulating in harmony with every contour of the ground. I lost it in among a thick flush of rushes, but I imagine it would find plenty of rich pickings on this hill pasture.

Frances Pitt, the early 20^th century naturalist, reflected upon the fear that stoats instil in rabbits. She wrote: “A rabbit that knows a stoat is on its tail becomes so silly with terror that it sits down and waits its doom” … although she countered this by continuing …. “yet I have seen rabbits feeding unperturbed with a stoat romping near”.

My stoat sighting was unusual, for it was the only one I had encountered over many years of walking these fields. This made me ponder – why so few stoats when there is much easy prey in the form of rabbits about?

I don’t know the answer, underlining that there are many insidious forces at work in our environment – many human induced – which we comprehend little about, and that is something I find deeply worrying.

A close encounter with a marine leviathan

By keithbroomfield

On October 12, 2023

In Wildlife

By Keith Broomfield

A large, mushroom-shaped creature pulsed into view through the briny underwater haze like a mysterious alien from another world. I slowed my breathing through my snorkel tube and watched it glide past, awed by its size and intricate frilled tentacles that trailed behind the bulbous main body.

It was a barrel jellyfish and the first time I had encountered one under water, although I had glimpsed them several times before in Scottish seas from piers and when aboard boats. These cream-coloured monsters really can grow to the size of a barrel, but they are gentle giants, feeding on plankton and their sting is mild and not generally harmful to humans. The biggest specimens can exceed 1.5m in length and 35kg in weight.

I was snorkelling at Ardmair Bay, a sheltered backwater of Loch Broom that lies close to Ullapool in Wester Ross. It is one of my favourite snorkel haunts because of the clarity of the water and the abundance of marine life. As well as the barrel jellyfish, there were scores of lion’s mane jellyfish drifting about, which I carefully steered around because their multitude of long trailing tentacles do give a nasty sting.

I was snorkelling in a sheltered part of the bay, which was home to a host of specialised creatures that prefer a more benign marine environment, including fluted sea squirts, dahlia anemones and burrowing anemones. The white coloured sea squirts were especially abundant, growing in clusters upon seaweeds. Sea squirts have sac-like bodies with two siphons on the top (one inhalant and the other exhalant) through which they draw water and carefully filter out food particles.

A glowing nugget of orange caught my eye on the seabed about 15ft down. I took three deep breaths and dived under to investigate and was rewarded with the remarkable sight of a type of sponge known as a sea orange. It was a fascinating organism – about the size of a cricket ball and with several large pores on the body. Sponges are the simplest of all marine animals, and like the sea squirts, gain nourishment by filtering water through their bodies.

After surfacing and regaining my breath, I drifted over a forest of kelp, and was immediately drawn into the embrace of another bizarre lifeform known as sea mat, which coated fronds of kelp in a dazzling, white crystalline veneer. While sea mats are superficially similar to the encrusting lichens found on rocks on land, they instead belong to a mystical group of colonial animals known as bryozoans. I lifted gently a frond of kelp to examine the coating of sea mats in more detail, enthralled by their intricate, embroidered shawl patterning.

I ventured back into deeper water and in a truly special moment, a harbour seal swirled past me, before taking a wide circle to inspect this strange humanoid that had encroached upon its watery world. Unsure whether I was friend or foe, the seal flashed away into the blue depths, sparking a tingling wave of exhilaration to course through my body.

Fritillaries and fascinating fungi at Glenshee

By keithbroomfield

On August 21, 2023

In Wildlife

The oystercatcher was agitated by my presence, and its piercing ‘kleep, kleep’ call rang around the grounds of Glenshee Parish Church by the Spittal of Glenshee. This bird was a concerned parent with young hidden in among thick grass nearby and was keen to see me off the premises.

The boundary wall of the church made the perfect look-out post for the oystercatcher to remonstrate against my presence, so I conceded to its will and left the bird in peace, hoping the concealed youngsters will survive the gauntlet of predators and reach adulthood.

Oystercatchers are good parents, and this bird reminded me of an instance several years previously on driving slowly along a small road near Braemar when an oystercatcher suddenly appeared right in front of the car and madly flapped and dragged its wings as if injured. The oystercatcher was not hurt, but had chicks hiding in the grassy verge and was feigning injury to try and draw the intruder – in this case two tonnes of trundling metal – away from it youngsters.

The basic urge of parental protection is a trait found in most adult birds, and as I headed up towards nearby Gleann Taitneach, a diminutive meadow pipit fluttered close above my head as it, too, made its displeasure known at my wandering too close to its nest hidden somewhere nearby.

A heavy rain squall swept across the glen, soaking me through before I had the chance to don waterproofs, but the grey clouds quickly parted and sunshine danced across the landscape once more. The warming rays of the sun brought out a dark green fritillary butterfly, which skipped across the heather and grass in an energetic flight.

Despite the confusing name, they are beautifully patterned orange butterflies, forever on the move and hard to approach close because of their innate wariness. This one spiralled down to the ground and came to rest in among a tangle of grass. I was keen to take a photograph but knew the only possible approach was to carefully crawl along the ground so as not to disturb it.

This presented a dilemma, for the ground was a minefield of cow pats, but throwing caution to the wind, I eased myself gradually along the grass, trying to avoid the dung in the process. The ploy worked and I was able to crawl within a few inches of this tangerine dream to capture it with my camera.

As I lay on the ground, I noticed the cow pats around me were adorned with clusters of glistening toadstools, which I think were a species known as Deconica coprophila. Many types of fungi prosper in dung as it makes an excellent growing medium, rich in nutrients. The fungal spores are eaten by the cows when grazing, which are then excreted, enabling them to germinate and spread. It is a marvellous example of nature at its most ingenious, evolving clever strategies to ensure the optimal conditions for survival and the means to colonise new areas.

An extravaganza of wildflowers in the Trossachs

By keithbroomfield

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

By keithbroomfield

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.