July the 28th.

The past week brought a mixed bag of weather. On Monday we woke to a mackerel sky, a display of high altocumulus cloud, backlit by the early morning sun. Such a sky is said to be a harbinger of change and the following few days were indeed much warmer than previous weeks. With barely a breeze and with clear blue skies there was a mugginess to the air, as if the weather was holding its breath. T-shirt and sunscreen days. The bigger change came on Friday, stair rod downpours with growling thunder and grey skies lit with lightning.

There’s also change afoot in the garden. As mentioned last week, as we move into August hotter colours will start to take over. There’s no Autumn of lingering reds and golds here, when Septembers salt laden gales swing in, trees will quickly turn from green to brown. The Sycamores suffer first, in the space of a day they’ll be crisped and scorched, as if a giant has passed by and set about them with a blow lamp. Next come the Alders and finally the Larch. In a good year the Larches will glow yellow for a while but needles are soon shed. A brief dusting of gold beneath shelter belt trunks, marking the end of our gardening year.

What the trees can’t give the garden does, our reds and golds will come from perennials, it’s early days yet but buds are swelling. A favourite hot red, aptly named crocosmia lucifer, is on the cusp of flowering, a matter of days now before the buds unfurl. Lucifer was created by Alan Bloom in the 1960’s, the name, it is said, taken from the brand of a box of matches.

In the wider landscape, on a walk that takes you close to the shore, Ringed Plovers were seen with youngsters in tow. They’re around the size of a Thrush and nest amongst the shingle at the side of a track that leads to Cantick Head lighthouse. When the chicks are very young the adults will feign injury to draw you away, fluttering along a few feet in front of you, holding a broken wing at an awkward angle. When it is deemed that there’s enough distance between you and the nest, the wing will suddenly heal and the bird will take off, skimming the sea in a low arc and returning to the nest. More often than not, if watched through binoculars, when the bird lands back where the pretence started, two or three pieces of shingle will grow legs and spring to life. Perfectly camouflaged fluff ball chicks on hairpin legs, each not much bigger than a Bumblebee.

The lighthouse itself, from the landward side, is well hidden. The best view comes from the ferry that runs between St Margarets Hope on the linked island of South Ronaldsay and the Scottish port of Gills Bay. On rare trips South, the lighthouse and its surrounding cottages, are the thing we seek out by eye on the trip home. Once seen we’re still a few hours away, there’s a drive across the linked isles to Mainland and then another ferry to Hoy, but when the lighthouse comes into view, it feels like home. From inland though the lighthouse is barely visible, only the very top is on show, the cupola and the lantern pane and a short length of tower.

Inland from the track are areas of coastal heath and grassland, rich with wildflowers. Grasses sway in the breeze, red clovers and pink spires of marsh woundwort are abuzz with bees. There are empty houses here and there. As farming practices changed smaller crofts were swallowed by larger concerns, in days past the value was in the land. The houses, remote from power and piped water, were left to their own devices. The roofs were often stripped of their stone slates, sometimes the walls were taken too. In one field there’s just a gable end, its hearth still intact. The rest of the house carted away, for use elsewhere.

Just offshore from the track, at around a mile distant, there’s the island of Switha. At less than a fifth of a square mile in size, from a wildlife point of view, it’s a small island that punches well above its weight. Designated both a sssi, a site of special scientific interest, and a special protection area. In Summer the island is home to many species of breeding seabirds and in Winter it’s the roost for around 1200 Greenland Barnacle Geese, who, each evening, rise yapping from the grasslands of South Walls and cross the narrow strip of water to the island. A spectacular sight on a Winters afternoon. Although the island has been grazed in the past there’s no evidence that it has ever been inhabited. Along with a cairn, there are two Neolithic standing stones, but so far, no indications of a permanent settlement have been discovered.

Between the shore and the island there’s the Ruff. Ruff by name and rough by nature, it’s a spot where two tides meet. In Winter a boiling cauldron and in Summer, more often than not, a spot where the breakers from the two opposing tides slap relentlessly against each other. At the point where the tides meet there’s a low reef that stretches out from the shore, at the end of it a light tower, that like the nearby lighthouse, warns of impending danger. Occasionally though all can be calm, on such days, at low tide a narrow concrete service path, that in places is made slippery with bladderwrack and in others is worn away by the sea, can, with care, be taken out to the light.