With very strong winds forecast, we set off along the east coast to look for seaducks, mainly eiders. The sea was running wild, with huge breakers rolling in from the vastness of the Moray Firth, and, as always, it had a unique sound of its own. The white spray from the tops started way out before the waves eventually spent themselves on the rocks exposed by the ebbing tide.
Few birds were on the sea, apart from the occasional common scoter, and it took some time for us to find the seaducks we were after. They were in a small sheltered bay and we found a vantage point we could observe without being seen, and sat, almost in awe, gazing at well over one hundred eiders.
Where the open sea met the quieter parts of the bay, the water was turbulent and the eiders were being tossed around as though they were dancing. A mystery was why they were predominantly adult males – perhaps the females and juveniles were on their own somewhere?
Floating on the inner edge of the flock there was a dead female, being voraciously attacked by a great black-backed gull. The gull's strength was apparent as it tore great chunks of dark feathers out to get at the flesh beneath.
However, the bird of the trip was still to come, and in a small field near the coast. We seldom see magpies, as they are rare in the Highlands, and the last had been more than a year ago. In the field were some oystercatchers feeding and then there was a different bird hopping along, looking large, black and white, and almost comical. A magpie, then another and then another, and I could not believe my eyes as there were seven of these crows.
I tried to recall the old nursery rhyme but only managed four; books later told me it was "seven for a secret, never to be told".
