Stefan Durkacz re-explores a green enclave
THE TURN of the year, and recent history seemed to be repeating itself in a disconcerting way. Just as the first lockdown coincided with a dazzling spring and early summer, now another lockdown was getting under way as the elements conspired to remind us of Scottish winters past – icy hard nights, crystal days and unreachable white hills on the horizon.
Edinburgh isn’t a bad place to be stuck, though. As cities go we are blessed with open spaces, and even our own beach and miniature mountain. However, these are all very much part of the city. It’s perhaps less well known that Edinburgh’s council boundaries encompass a tract of
genuinely open countryside to the west, towards Queensferry and the Forth bridges. Much of this lies within Dalmeny Estate, a surprisingly bucolic landscape of rolling farmland and woods of beech, birch, oak. Before the pandemic I’d never explored this green enclave, wedged between the city and the main route north. The walk described here was my third visit in as many weeks. The lockdown has forced many of us stranded outdoors fans to concentrate on and explore our own patch, to dig for inspiration where we stand. The same local routes, walked over and over, become like moving mantras, our own little pilgrimages, if we’re lucky revealing more and more each time, like fractal patterns.
My own Edinburgh roots lent an element of rediscovery to these Dalmeny wanders too, along the shore where by dad and grandfather once fished for mackerel, and through the woods where my aunt handfed a tame robin with crumbs from her pocket. Those were quieter days when the ferries still plied the narrows between Queensferry and Fife, and only the rail bridge spanned the waters. The pandemic, in its bittersweet way, has made it easier to imagine what that relative quietness was like.
Nowadays you’ll still see plenty of wildlife. You may spot an inquisitive seal from the nearby colony on Inchcolm popping its head out of the water to take a look at you.
The tide retreats almost two kilometres across Drum Sands; in winter, listen for the bubbling calls of curlews flying in to feed.
The bare woods also make it easier to spy a multitude of small birds. I’ve seen bullfinches and nuthatches here, amongst many others.
On a crisp, short day, round off the walk with a climb through the woods to Mons
Hill in time for sunset – a lowly 119m, but enough elevation to set the Forth bridges firmly in the context of a much greater landscape. If it’s clear enough you’ll see beyond the snowy Ochils to the pale, distant Highlands, waiting for you with the patience of ages. Any regrets you might have as you gaze north across the diamond-sharp miles will be stilled by the calling of geese overhead, the crunch of frosty oakleaf and beechmast underfoot, and the deep stillness amongst the trees where new life holds its breath and waits. [Captions clockwise from top] The view across Drum Sands to Arthur’s Seat; The Firth of Forth from Mons Hill; On the frosty beach with Arthur’s Seat on the horizon