Still

I spent last weekend in Perthshire, with a lovely group of friends. I thoroughly enjoyed their company; there were lively conversations, with discussions on topics ranging from the independence referendum, the definition of tesselation, some recipe swapping and reminders on how to stay safe when hill-walking.  

Some of the weekend was spent alone, walking along the old railway line from Killin to the end of Loch Tay. It was a grey day, and it drizzled on and off, but there was still much to see.  I sat under an old oak tree, nearly into full leaf, wondering if the beech further along might provide shelter if the rain became heavier.  I sat still and looked.  the light on the loch changed as I watched. My awareness of this was heightened by the fact that I was doing some watercolour sketching, and had to adjust the dark and light areas of the loch quite regularly. A heron flew past, from my left to my right - low and slow and graceful above the water.  It landed further along the loch bank, behind some shrubs.  A couple of pairs of mallard ducks were very busy in the reeds about twenty feet away, dabbling and diving in the shallow water.  A birdwatcher came past - we chatted for a while.  He had been watching a redstart, and trying to get a good photograph of it.  I quizzed him about another bird I had seen flying to and fro above the water, wings beating very fast, calling shrilly and tilting from side to side very quickly.  He thought it might be a redshank.  I shall consult my bird book.

I would have seen none of this, had I marched along the lochside. There is merit, sometimes, in being still.