My planned lunch stop looking out over the sea to distant St Kilda had proved just a little too chilly for comfort, but on the other side of the headland, out of the breeze, it’s positively balmy.
In one of the small coves a line of sun-warmed rocks makes an inviting place to sit, and the view across the summer-bright waters of the bay to the scatter of white houses opposite is tranquil. It’s pure pleasure just to lean back and soak up the sunshine while enjoying a drink and a sandwich and at the same time keeping half an eye on the wildlife.
A herring gull, raucous behaviour abandoned for a while, is dozing atop a rock of its own. A seal is making its leisurely way out towards deeper water, while an eider duck accompanied by two large chicks drifts idly by in the opposite direction.
It is strangely quiet, for it is slack water and the sea in this sheltered place is as much at rest as it ever is, lying silent and almost unmoving on the white beach. An oystercatcher is feeding there, steadily yet unhurriedly probing the wet sand and withdrawing its prey with a wriggle of its long orange-red bill. Unbothered by my presence it gradually comes closer until, when only a few feet away, it turns and begins to work its way back the way it has come, seeking out any morsels missed previously.
The arrival of two little terns breaks the contemplative quiet. White against the blue sky, they are all straight lines and sharp angles and noisy chatter. I turn to watch them as they fly past, but rather than continuing on their way they come to a hover a few feet above the water. With heads down, tails spread and wings beating rapidly, they are intensely focused on whatever it is that has caught their attention.
In a series of swift swooping dives the terns begin to fish, their bright yellow bills just dipping beneath the surface with each plunge. But it seems their efforts are less successful than those of the oystercatcher and they stay only a few moments before flying off as noisily as they arrived, to try their luck elsewhere.
