Without wishing to sound like your grandad, it strikes me that time has been passing by rather rapidly of late. One minute you’re raising a dram to welcome in the new year, and the next minute it’s February. For whatever reason, it felt like January rattled past at 100mph this year, and now we find ourselves in the last month of meteorological winter. Around the Reserve, and in the wider countryside, there are already plenty of indications that spring isn’t far away.

Snowdrops are perhaps the most obvious heralds of the approaching spring. Although strictly speaking non-native, they have long been naturalised in Scotland, and in common with other introduced species of long-standing such as the Rabbit and the Brown Hare, they have found themselves a niche and are very much part of the landscape now. They are perhaps the most eagerly-awaited of all flowers, emerging at the darkest time of the year, with the promise that warmth and daylight are on their way back to the northlands.
Other plants won’t be far behind them, and the diligent observer may also spot the glossy, dark-green, heart-shaped leaves of Lesser Celandines in the same areas. Like the Snowdrops, these also favour wooded and scrubby areas, hedge banks and rough grassland. Before long, their shiny yellow flowers will also begin to appear – easy to recognise, and a sure sign of the seasons turning.


Certain songbirds are quick to pick up on the lengthening hours of daylight. One of the earliest to act upon this, and to start singing in earnest, is the Mistle Thrush. This is our largest species of thrush, somewhat resembling a giant Song Thrush but with colder tones to the plumage; it also has a distinctive call which sounds rather like an old-fashioned wooden rattle, of the type that used to be favoured by football supporters before the invention of the vuvuzela.

The Mistle Thrush’s song is something of a paradox. On the face of it, it sounds rather sad and melancholy, almost like a subdued Blackbird, singing in the minor key rather than the major. Yet it also conveys a vibrant optimism. As well as being one of the earliest harbingers of spring, Mistle Thrushes are renowned for singing not just on the fine days, but also through the grimmest of winter weather, the likes of which would put off any other early songsters. This gives the species its old, evocative, alternative name of Stormcock.

Meanwhile, the regular Grey Heron at Sand Loch has started to assume his spring finery. His bill has already begun to change from dull yellow to bright pinky-orange, and his plumage from the subdues greys of winter to the more striking black-and-white contrasts of the breeding season. Right enough, the herons at Waterside Wood are likely to be on eggs later this month, barring any major storms or severe cold snaps in the meantime.

The wildlife may be getting geared up for spring, but the Reserve staff have a few more winter tasks to plough through yet. One of these was some drainage work to repair a flooded and very muddy section of path at Hackley Bay. Regular readers will already know how much we love being up to our eyebrows in mud and ditchwater, so it’ll come as no surprise that we undertook this particular task with great relish.




Of course, this wasn’t done purely for the enjoyment of the staff, and we hope that once it’s had time to dry out and re-vegetate, it will help make the footpath more resilient in readiness for the high levels of footfall we will expect in the forthcoming summer season.
Having completed the drainage work on a very fine evening, the walk back to the office and workshop yielded some fabulously clear views across the landscape towards Bennachie, our nearest hill of any note.

With spades, boots, hands and faces having been thoroughly scrubbed, rinsed and oiled (delete as appropriate), the walk home in the last of the daylight produced a wonderfully colourful sky over Sand Loch as we passed it by.


Then, after sundown, we were treated to the rare spectacle of nacreous clouds high above the south-western horizon. These clouds are a natural phenomenon found only in the polar regions. They are composed of fine ice crystals in the stratosphere, and require a temperature of around -80oC or below to form – and this means they only do so at high latitude, high altitude, and during the winter months. Because they occur at such great altitude, they reflect light from the sun even though it has already set below our horizon; this makes them stand out remarkably brightly in the darkening evening sky, as if artificially lit from behind.
Nacreous clouds make for a beautiful sight, yet this is oddly difficult to capture in photographs such as these below. They possess a stunning iridescence, comprised of every colour you can think of; indeed, the term ‘nacreous’ is derived from the old English word nacre, meaning mother-of-pearl – and it’s not difficult to see why.


Sundown is a great time to enjoy a quiet moment in the outdoors (nacreous clouds an optional extra, of course). While it’s a great deal of fun to live life in fast forward, it’s also fine to press the pause button every once in a while.