Brambles, geese and a classic novel all stretch out from an old narrow bridge

Inearly left it too late to pick brambles. I’m usually better organised but I went out with Inka last Sunday and managed to find enough for the Doyenne’s bramble and apple pies. They are delicious at any time, and very moreish, and have been an established part of the Whitson family Christmas festivities for a long time.

Most years I pick enough to make bramble brandy or bramble gin or vodka as well. It needs to ferment for three months and it disappears like sna’ aff a dyke when the family gannets descend on us at New Year.

Nowadays you can get commercially grown brambles grown on bushes without thorns – but these aren’t ‘real’ brambles. You need to be still pulling the jags and prickles out of your fingers a week after you’ve picked the berries to get the full benefit of bramble brandy.

A year ago I made damson gin which ended up at the back of the cupboard – I don’t usually make mistakes like that – and forgotten until a day or two ago. Having had a year to mature it proved a lifesaver when the Doyenne came home chilled from her office, but a couple of glasses revived her spirits. My father would have called these infusions hedgerow cordials. He was a keen homemade wine maker and I can remember some of his brews having a kick that would lift your bunnet.

Memorable morning

Three miles out of Montrose on the A92 coast road to Aberdeen the eight spans of the Lower Northwater Bridge cross the River North Esk. Built nearly 250 years ago for horse and carriage, it is still doing the job it was built for, but its traffic now is horseless carriages.

Angus writer Violet Jacob, one of my literary heroes who stands on a par with RL Stevenson and Grassic Gibbon, wrote in the opening paragraphs of her novel The Interloper about the selfsame eight arches spanning the river, which she calls the North Lour – “A bridge of eight arches spans the water before it runs out to sea…”

Violet Jacob grew up at House of Dun, on the family estate. She wrote affectionately of her home county in her novels and poems and, while names are changed, places are frequently recognisable.

At the Montrose end of the bridge a tall carved stone panel assures travellers they may “pass safe and free”. However, a toll house – the ruined octagonal building on the Kincardineshire side – was built, travellers were charged a bawbee or two to cross and free passage ceased.

I don’t know when the tolls ceased but it’s no longer relevant as in today’s Scotland bridge tolls are a thing of the past. The imposing Montrose to Bervie railway viaduct strides across the river just a hundred yards downriver from the road bridge.

The line closed to passenger traffic in 1951 (closing finally to goods traffic in 1966). The disused track has been developed as part of the National Cycle Network, an off-road route for cyclists and walkers.

I was parked below the viaduct picking my brambles, and as the only time I had ever crossed it was as a nine-year-old laddie on the second last passenger train to run, I took the opportunity to walk up on to the track.

What a marvellous view you get up there, upriver and down.

The estuary of the river was looking its best in the sunshine, winding the last mile to the coast and a line of white waves breaking on the beach.

Below me I could make out the spot where son James caught two salmon about 40 years ago.

I don’t know that he has fished for salmon since but, if asked, he can say that the last time he was on the water he caught two fish.

The bridges are on a flight line for geese which move between Montrose Basin where they roost, and grass and stubble fields where they fly in to feed. The music of their calls as they flew over me put the seal on what turned out to be a memorable morning.

A blue coo?

Seeing a blue coo resting by the side of the road near Fettercairn gave me a wee turn.

Readers familiar with Glenesk have probably got used to seeing the green coo that wanders about a farm up there – after all it may just have eaten too much grass. But a blue coo…

Regular as clockwork

I must break off now – it’s six o’clock. How do I know the time when I don’t wear a watch? Inka is telling me it’s his supper time. He is such an animal of habit and his internal time clock is so accurate you could set GMT by it. He materialises at my side, giving my elbow a peremptory nudge. It’s no good telling him I’ll feed him later – he lies behind my chair uttering deep, aggrieved sighs that are impossible to ignore.

What a marvellous view you get up there, upriver and down

TIME TRAVEL: Cars cross single file over the Lower Northwater Bridge, which was built nearly 250 years ago for horse and carriage.