Ben Damh means “hill of the stag” in Gaelic. You can see why. In the season of the rut the hill is alive with the sight, sound and smell of red deer. Even before we reach the ridge we can hear roaring, like the sound of a distant lawnmower. As we stalk down onto the western slopes above Loch Damh, past musky puddles of peat where the stags will wallow, we are entering the centre of an unfolding drama with enough sex and violence to rival Game of Thrones.
Each stag is ready to fight to the death for his chance to mate – and he only has only a short window to take his opportunity. On such poor ground as this, the hinds are in oestrus for just four short weeks around the beginning of October. They gather on the high greens to graze while the feeding is good, and the males soon follow.
The first stag we come across is a “traveller” moving over the hill looking for a group of hinds to take over. He has been rolling in peat to blacken his fur and accentuate his barrel chest and shaggy mane. He has a fine set of wide antlers with 11 points and, standing on a ledge against the blue hills beyond, he looks a little like Landseer’s portrait of The Monarch of the Glen.
Further down, another young stag is grunting and bawling, having lost any pretence of the rather Victorian notion of “nobility”. He roots in the heather with his antlers and paws the ground. I inch forward until I can see the source of his frustration. Below, there is a group of hinds, but a royal stag (with 12 points) is keeping a close eye on them. The eight-pointer pretender may pant and gurn but for now, he doesn’t dare go on the offensive.
The bigger stag is fed up of this uninvited guest, as, I suspect, are the hinds, who move around the corner taking their protector with them, the young male following, his tongue lolling out. Out of sight, the drama continues.
