An Easter morning in Dundreggan
Volunteer Dora Clouttick shares her colourful experiences of exploring Dundreggan Conservation Estate, just as new life awakens from Winter’s slumber…
The colours of Dundreggan are spectacular at the beginning of Spring. The purple of the bud-swollen branch tips of the birches perfectly showing off the grey of the rocks. Upon those craggy solid stone shapes are shocking white patches of lichen, as if a careless decorator has spilt emulsion paint all over them. Clean, post-rain colours seep through the landscape as the sun shines off the newly white tipped peaks. The graceful wind turbines are silhouetted against a fast changing sky. Blue and bright with light clouds as fluffy as scrambled eggs, alternating with heavy brooding grey blues pregnant purples. The orange brown bracken from last summer’s season lies tangled on the floor, uniquely beautiful and off set by the particular greens of miniature moss fields on rocks. Patches of heather still wear last summers flower heads, like a stop out who hasn’t had a chance to change from last night’s party. A veritable explosion of nature’s vibrant hues to say the least!
The burn (a seemingly juxtaposing name for a stream up here) is swollen from last night’s downpours and whickers as it tumbles past, shooting up bubbles in its rush to join the river valley. The whole hill is one gurgling wet sponge underfoot with life’s lush waters permeating everywhere. Black twiglets of birch crunch underfoot like crisps. Nothing is in leaf yet except the juniper, whose prudish conservative character keeps it clothed in all seasons. Old bracken is resplendent in a state of decay, as orange as a chunk of Red Leicester cheese interspersed with the deep rust red colour I imagine Dragons blood to be. Appropriate for Dundreggan as it reportedly means Dragon’s field. And, just as a dragon hoards its treasure, so the bracken reveals hidden gems in the form of primroses, peaking through in glimpses of pale yellow and green, offering the first sweet drink for early foragers and causing me the childlike delight of discovered Easter eggs when I come across them.
From afar the lichen, like woolen socks, snuggles every branch, but when you are close each filament is intricate, conjuring images of underground networks of mycelium or our similarly complex neurological pathways.
Sun warms my face whilst the clouds muster up the glen and the wind has the smell of snow on its tail. The black, leafless silhouettes of trees stretch up into the landscape so covered in green that it is easy to be fooled into thinking they are in leaf. It is just their winter coats of lichen however, a distinct and precious grey green that appears inflorescent with an other worldly light, bringing to mind faery realms, alien forests and that scene in Avatar when everything glows. From afar the lichen, like woolen socks, snuggles every branch, but when you are close each filament is intricate, conjuring images of underground networks of mycelium or our similarly complex neurological pathways. Shining in the sunlight, glowing in the moonlight, turning the barren winter trees into ball gowned dancers, mimicking and encouraging the arrival of spring. The green from the tree lichen, the purple of the naked twigs and the white of the bark, make each birch a suffragette mascot, standing witness to the winter and holding the hope of the new cycle of seasons.
And behind it all, the occasional Scotts pine rises ancient and imposing with its distinct character and shape. Swaths of plantation spruce make up a patchwork of dark green, but the islands of these highland natives are distinct with a different hard to pinpoint quality. Is it because they are not uniformly planted in lines? Is it because of my newly developing knowledge of their heritage and history? Or do they just have a different energy and, the same way different people give off a different ‘vibe’, they induce a different feeling and reaction in me?
The birds bring me back from my musings, tweeting a warning of a weather change, so I give thanks, pack up and wander on.
