Upstream from East Linton

A rouge gust? or a malevolent Roe?

The other day, I pitched my bird hide (basically a small camouflaged tent) on the right-bank of the Tyne, just upstream of East Linton. Although the Tyne river between East Linton and Hailes gets lots of traffic, its all on the left-bank. The other side of the river never sees people, the gorse is too thick and impenetrable in places, the going to rough, so that all those wanting to do the circular walk stick to the narrow unclassified road that wends its way along the top of the slope. The previous Sunday, Hil and I had walked up the river path (on the left-bank) still slippy with winter rains and mud-churned with weekend walker traffic, when I’d conceived the idea of doing a wee photo project on the Tyne, following the seasons. I’d lugged the monster 800mm lens, tucked under the arm and fortuitously managed to get a couple of snaps of the Dippers that can usually be found on the section of river at the wooden footbridge at Hailes.

https://flic.kr/p/2qMmfpi

My idea was to make a wee video of the Dippers bowing up and down on their shit-stained launch-pads before diving into the fast-running stream. The day before I’d seen the Dippers on this exact spot, one being attacked by a Goosander attempting to steal its catch, or maybe just territorial bossing, so I’d positioned the hide with the main viewing flap pointing down the river towards the rocks favoured by the Dippers - those with the tell-tale white stripes and a stretch of not-too-deep gravel riverbed - ideal sub-aqua hunting terrain for Dippers. I spent the best part of the afternoon in the hide in-between heavy gust-laden rain showers funnelling down steep-sloped glen occasionally strong enough to rip apart the velcro strip patches on the door. I’d seen the usual heron and pair of Goosanders, a mewing buzzard high overhead and that was it, no Dippers.

https://flic.kr/p/2qMTvjU

I’d left the hide up overnight, its well-guyed down I thought, safe enough to leave up. The winds were forecast to drop, so I thought I’d chance it. Lying in bed past midnight, listening to the wind snagging around the house, I was beginning to regret my decision. So I was back early the next morning, not long after dawn, grey skies and forceful scouring winds humming through the black swaying HT electric cables that span the Tyne just upstream from East Linton. Snatches of the tyre hiss from heavy goods tyres on wet tarmac rolling across the 21st century A1 River Tyne bridge carried downwind. A walk up the Tyne from East Linton is also a journey of 500 years in civil engineering bridge design.Back in the early 2000’s the new bridge was built on a scaffold structure, on a curving bend, concrete pored in-situ and post-tensioned, allowing the use of a thinner deck. https://www.icevirtuallibrary.com/doi/10.1680/bren.2005.158.2.45?mobileUi=0. Its definitely the most elegant.

That day, my hide, stretched on its thin bendy poles was definitely a less robust, temporary structure, up-ended, partially collapsed - on its side and hanging tenuously above the river by its green paracord threads and fortunately entangled in the heavy tripod I’d left in the hide overnight. Probably a rogue gust, or maybe a malevolent Roe? It took no time at all to put right, no damage apart from an aluminium tent peg forever lost in the deep rushes. Two Song Thrushes were in highly vocal mode somewhere in the deep gorse that girds the north facing slope, an assortment of tits and finches also made their presence known. I sat there in the hide, all morning - I think I saw two solitary walkers braving the weather. Never saw a single bird on the river, not even the normally abundant Mallard. Def. no dippers!

https://flic.kr/p/2qNb5wP Female Mallard - where does she end and the bank begin?

I like my hideaway. Dipping in and out of a book, Substack (or podcast on a low peep with my bone conducting headphones meaning I can still hear the world outside) sheltered from the wind. The visual isolation heightens the soundscape, the river quietly flowing past in steady-state whitebackground noise with just the occasional rock eddy blooop and gurgle. My 800mm prime lens is mounted, focus set 6m to infinity, auto ISO, f5.6, 1000th of a second, ready for anything. I did briefly see a Grey Wagtail and a Dipper did briefly perch on one of the farther rocks, but they were brief flashes and were gone before I got the lens on them. That was early on, I should perhaps have taken the hint and packed up early. But I am sometimes susceptible to the allure of the sunk-cost fallacy - just another hour, something will surely turn up. As it turned out something did turn up, but not a bird, and it wasn’t any use for my camera setup. Like the Brits against the Japs in Singapore, my long lens was useless, pointing the wrong way and besides, the damned thing was too close. A sudden atypical gurgle betrayal made me tentatively peer out, opening the small eye-level side flap, looking out and down, there was an adult otter resting in the pool directly below about 1m away. It twisted sinuously, dived in clear water to the rocks below, clawing up a stour in its quest for the invertebrates lurcking in the muds. It resurfaced, slowly turned around a one more time, dived and was gone. In retrospect I must have decided that a low-quality phone camera shot wasn’t worth the risk of disturbing it. The creature was oblivious to my presence. It must be the closest I have ever been to a living wild creature. I think of myself as a rational pragmatist, but i did have a hair on the back of the neck sensation, I was briefly moved in that moment.

There will be other days on the river, early or late, when I’ll catch that dog otter doing its simple magic of survival.

I was back again on the river on Saturday, out for a good four hours on the quest for Dippers. It didn’t yield many worthwhile shots, but I found their nest, which surely will offer great photo ops for the USFEL project.