A conversation with a colleague turned to what kind of bird we would like to be; birds we associated with flying away and gaining a certain freedom. Of all my wildlife experiences, one by a loch on the Arran emerges as the most evocative.
In 2006, at the age of six, my niece Jessie joined us to walk up to my favourite secret loch for the first time. Loch Coire an Lochan, at 1,080 feet between Meall nan Daimh and Meall Biorachis, is arguably the most picturesque of Arran's lochs.
A
lthough the climb to it is relatively short, it is steep; recent improvements to the path include the creation of granite steps holding back the bleeding boggy holes opened by the millions of boots that have visited this little loch over the years.
On this visit, the humble majesty of the place did not disappoint but a pale feathered visitor enhanced even further this dark cauldron that looks out over Kilbrannan Sound to the Mull of Kintyre.
A red-throated diver gave a plaintive cry from the glass-like surface of Coire Fionne Lochan. After a few moments my father and I looked at each other and shook our heads. We were taken across the dark waters by the sorrowful notes from that beautiful bird. Often we had seen them silently cutting the loch's surface but never had we heard the call.
My heart wept at the solitude of that late afternoon surrounded by dark hills. The temperature of the corrie was notably cooler than near the shore. The sun had broken through briefly like a jewel on the edge of the loch.
Jessie's wee voice and laughter had given way to an impromptu stilling of the day. Four adults and a child stood dotted around the loch's shore in awe of this creature that held us tantalised.
Red eyes are set into a smooth grey head and neck. The throat is marked with a deep red that flows down into startling white feathers. The bird is so elegantly shaped that it appears more like a sculpture than a wild creature.
Normally I associate a cool, long silence with watching this bird. Five years ago I watched a pair glide across the loch, their wake sparkling in the sun. The memory of that sight brings calm tinted with the ecstasy of wild aesthetics.
On this day, though, the picture of the single diver left some energy of the great solitude of our wild places embedded in my soul. The scene is inscribed in my memory – it is a place where I become smooth, a non-human form cutting the water with an effortless movement.
Although present around Britain's coastline in winter, the bird is less distinguishable during this season, losing its distinctive red throat and pale grey head and neck. All these feathers turn white. The combination call of grinding almost bark-like sounds and the haunting notes, like the black-throated diver, are silent in winter.
There is no doubt that this high lochan on Arran serves as a breeding ground for at least one pair each year. Their breeding areas include northern and western Scotland and much of Scandinavia. While they are listed as Britain's most common diver, there is nothing common about experiencing them.
The red-throated diver (Gavia stellata) has an almost ethereal quality in its plumage.
