Just beyond the garden a croissant-shaped lochan lies half-hidden in a fold of the land. Though only a narrow sliver of one curving half is visible from the house, the other being lost to sight between steep banks, even this is worth keeping a regular eye on, for despite its diminutive size the lochan is popular with waterfowl.
Maybe its sheltered position has something to do with it, for while the surfaces of the larger lochs nearby are covered in whitecaps on this blustery, sun-filled morning, the lochan remains tranquil.
A pair of greylag geese are drifting along, upending now and again, as they make their way to the far bank.
The nature of this side of the lochan with its marshy border dotted with stands of grass and rush makes it attractive to the duck that come to call, and as the geese clamber awkwardly on to the land, a male teal pops up from the vegetation where he has been completely hidden.
He stands quite motionless for a moment and then slips quietly into the water where, out in the open, the sunlight picks out the bright chestnut and green of the head and the yellow patch of the speculum.
I never spot the female rising from wherever she had been concealed, but suddenly she is there too, hugging the line of the bank, her muted colouring making her far less conspicuous than her partner.
Every year a pair of mallard raise a brood at the lochan, the female, trailed by a procession of impossibly small ducklings, appearing from an unseen nest amid the vegetation.
Possibly this is the year the teal will follow suit. And just maybe there could be a third species of duck, for, cruising round from the hidden end of the lochan, a male shoveller heaves into view. He’s been around for a week or so now, just as one was this time last year. Shovellers are rare breeders in South Uist, and what a coup it would be for the little lochan if he could find a partner here.
