The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
St Cyrus screams serenity
My morning started around half-past four with the dawn chorus tuning up. The rising sun lit up the eastern sky and pink and dove-grey clouds like a pigeon’s breast evanesced into each other. I got up and went into the garden where there was not so much as a whisper of wind.
The rooks and jackdaws in the woods across the field were chattering among themselves. Nearer home, blackbirds were in full song and were joined by a couple of song thrushes and a robin. Woodpigeons kept up a mellow accompaniment with their familiar five note call – coooo-coo, coo-coo, coo. And a black cat was slinking its way home after a night out hunting.
It was turning into one of those clear, sunny mornings that lift the spirits, so Inka and I took ourselves down to the SNH National Nature Reserve at St Cyrus. We took the familiar road over the Wide Open, one of the network of little roads crisscrossing the spine of hills separating the Howe of the Mearns from the coastal plain.
Breasting the summit, St Cyrus Bay and Montrose Bay were laid out before me. The blue sky lost itself in the distant horizon and the sun was reflecting off a calm sea. The pencil-thin shape of Scurdie Ness lighthouse, which has blinked out its message of comfort to mariners since 1870, stood out conspicuously on the rocky headland at the mouth of the River South Esk, opposite Montrose.
A narrow, unclassified road runs from the old main gates of Kirkside House, surmounted by stone eagles with outspread wings, down to the reserve car park. White and pink dog roses were in full bloom in the verges and I stopped to admire them.
I set out with Inka along the track running behind the former salmon fishers’ bothy, harking back to the days when salmon fishing was such a feature of St Cyrus Bay.
Unrequited love
Not far along the track is the historic Nether (Lower) Kirkyard. Violet Jacob in her novel The Interloper called it Garviekirk and I’ve known it all my life as Beattie’s Grave. It’s good to see that the council maintains it because it’s a tremendous source of local social history which could so easily be lost beneath creeping bracken and weeds.
George Beattie was a Montrose writer, or solicitor, who came from a humble background and had the misfortune to fall in love with the daughter of a wealthy local laird. Ability and success counted for nothing, as did the young lady’s preference, for her hand was denied him in marriage in favour of a more socially advantaged suitor. In his despair, he killed himself in the old Nether Kirkyard and a memorial, erected by his mourning friends, stands on the spot where it is said his body fell.
Lichen-covered headstones dating back to 1771, 1776, 1801 and difficult to read now, are carved with skulls, crossed bones and winged angels. One carved with an hourglass has the epitaph: “As runs the glass, man’s life doth pass.” The sands of time, like life, run out. Wheatsheafs, scissors, square and dividers identify the occupations of farmer, tailor and wright.
Nature’s abundance
Above the high volcanic cliffs that protect the reserve from the prevailing westerly wind, a buzzard was being mobbed by three jackdaws. It was just an irritation for the big bird and if it wanted it could easily see off its tormentors. I hoped I might see peregrine falcons but I watched a kestrel hunting along the cliff face.
We crossed the ridge of sand dunes which give protection from the ravages of the weather from the east.
The reserve is a botanist’s dream and at this time of year there is an abundance of wild flowers – red and white campion, deep purple bellflowers and pink yarrow which is quite uncommon.
The beach was deserted, not another walker to be seen. The tide had turned and was starting to come in. The sea was calm, little lazy waves gently soughing in over the great expanse of sand.
The sun beat down and I could hardly believe I had it all to myself.
“The tide had turned and was starting to come in. The sea was calm, little lazy waves soughing in. I could hardly believe I had it all to myself